Eat, eat, sleep, write
Still alive and eating. I even wrote something! Hurray for writing!

I miss friends in Hobart. I miss family. But I like it here, too.

I wish I had a teleporter.

Yay, Christmas love
You all can stay. You're all good. Except for you there -- you better quit that, I'm warning you...

Been ringing up the rellies and friends, saying hello, hearing their patent surprise down all the millions of fibre optic cable between us.

'Are you in Hobart?
'No, I'm in Dublin.'
'Oh. (pause as the munificent, shining light of comprehension dawns in their eyes...) Oh!'

Ah, bless... They're lovely, really they are.

So, presents were good, chocolate was good, even my tiramisu was good! Mm, yum. Mark had a weird craving for it and insisted that I make it, and what else could I do but graciously acquiesce?

Gourmet Magazine's Tiramisu
Serves 8-10

Ingredients
Espresso Syrup
WATER, 1/3 cup
SUGAR, 1/2 cup
ESPRESSO, 2/3 cup strong brewed
ITALIAN OR DOMESTIC BRANDY, 1/4 cup, optional

Mascarpone Filling
HEAVY WHIPPING CREAM, 1-1/2 cups
SUGAR, 1/3 cup
VANILLA EXTRACT, 2 teaspoons
MASCARPONE CHEESE, 1 pound, softened to room temperature
SAVOYARDI, 1/2 pound, imported or domestic ladyfingers, or sliced sponge cake
COCOA POWDER

Directions for Syrup
Combine water and sugar in a small saucepan.
Bring to a simmer, stirring occasionally to dissolve sugar.
Remove from heat, cool.
Add coffee and optional brandy.

Directions for Filling
Whip cream with sugar and vanilla until soft peaks form.
Fold cream into softened mascarpone.

Directions for Assembly
Place a layer of the savoyardi, ladyfingers or sponge cake slices in the bottom of a shallow medium-sized baking dish or gratin dish.
Sprinkle with half the syrup.
Spread with half the filling.
Repeat with remaining savoiardi, syrup and filling, spreading the top smooth, using a metal spatula.
Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for up to 24 hours before serving.
Immediately before serving place cocoa in a fine strainer and shake a light coating on surface.

For afternoon lunch, we settled into a cheese platter extravaganza of four different cheeses (including lovely, smelly blue cheese), two patés, two boxes of water crackers and a bottle of champagne. All the rich food for which there's no reason to eat at any other time of the year suddenly seems so apropos now.

Feliz Navidad y Prospero Año Felicidad!

Ticking lists
I think the best way to feel any sort of forward momentum is to tick off tasks completed on one's to-do list. Helps with raising the optimism levels.

Went to a friend's Christmas party last night. A very groovy time, I had. There was lovely mulled wine in her lovely apartment full of lovely, friendly people. Consumption on two occasions of the red, syrupy liquid has led me to conclude that the alcohol hit arrives soon after you tip back your head from licking down the last squirrelly drop. I'm not complaining...

Time, time, time
See what's become of me
Urgh, I think I have a lot, but really there's not enough. And still I am magnetised by the screen; its flatness binds me to it.

Vile, evil devil, begone!

Sorry, I don't think I'm making sense. Shall I show you my to-do list?

• Finish writing co-authored bit of prose.
  
• Select poems to send back to literary journal in Australia.
  
• Have a shower.
  
• Buy egg-beater, mascarpone cheese, brandy and heavy cream to make the tiramisu that Mark's had a sudden craving for.
  
• Get ready for another party tonight.
  
• Write more poems.
  
• Edit more reviews.
  
• Read all the .pdfs I have stored in the 'puter.
  
• Get s'more sleep.

*gasp*

Party here, party there, everywhere a party
Drink, drink, guzzle, eat, indulge, bleary-eyed staggering to the mirror, too bright lights, eat milky crunchy breakfast, gulp squirmy grapefruit juice, type type type, click click click

Wash, dress, type type type, click click click, out the window the weather passes by, hunger pangs and bangs against stomach walls, growl

Time to go, party waits, drink Bailey's Galliano with orange juice Southern Comfort and lemonade, talk laugh think, icecubes shiver and clink

Time to go catch the bus, food splatters on grass and ground, someone's bleary head dizzy with sleep leaning into stranger's shoulders, laugh and point and laugh, they get off, we get off

Walk walk walk home bed laugh sleep

Hmm, off to Justice I go
Practising before meeting with authority-type people who are in a position to play keepsies-away between me and Ireland.

Well, let's see how this works now, okay? I'm a writer. No, that's not right (write?). Let's start again.

I write.

Scribo ergo sum.

Yo no soy marinero. I am not a captain.

Oh, crap, what do I do now? Get a hold of yourself and get your story straight, woman!

Dammit.

My tree is bent
I bought a wee tree. It is a little bent from where it has been leaning towards the sun, straining for that vital photosynthetic process that keeps it alive. It is minimally decorated. There is a gold bow tied at the top, as if it were a spray of hair on a little green-tressed child. There is a green bauble tied to a twig with red ribbon. There is a bell with its red ribbon. It tinkled when I took it home on the bus, but not enough to be irksome. Everyone seemed to look at me in the crowded bus, but that may have been my imagination. They were probably all jealous of my little bent tree, because my little bent tree is an individual, one of a kind, the runt of a now long-gone litter. But they can't have my tree. My tree is here at home, with me.

Sentimentally yours
It was good to find out what's been going on in my absence. My brother's little boy sounds extremely winsome and cute. Only some months old and already a genius, apparently. Makes me smile to hear of it.

I also rang up a friend with another birthday and bundle of joy. Gushed to her all my news and I loved hearing her voice. Talking on the phone, you feel so near to each other.

Not so sentimental, but still exciting was going to the studio film set as an extra. Ended up not being used but I still got paid, which is just a bonus. An extremely interesting experience, and I'm quite keen to do it again.

Today, first thing on the agenda, is to send off a query submission to a poetry publisher. It must be done.

Oh my cod, it's early
I hope the phone call to go to the studio and be an extra was not a prank because this is mighty funky, and not entirely in a good way.

Trial run to Bray yesterday went off without a hitch, ably assisted as I was by the lovely Mark. We even detoured to a secondhand record/CD/DVD/video shop that also stocked some quirky zines. This gave me a fab idea and I will provide more detail in due course.

Hooray for fab ideas!

Wake up at 5.30am
So I have to be at this studio, which is about 40 minutes away (I think) by the Dart. And I have to wear white sneakers.

Curiouser and curiouser...

So I'm going to have to negotiate getting there. I will do a trial run this afternoon so I can calculate how long it will take. Hopefully, the traffic will be light on so that I can get there quickly.

Here's to imminent (ha!) stardom!

Little star?
Umm, I've not mentioned this, in case I come off sillier than usual, but I signed up for this casting database about two weeks ago, and now I think I might be called to be an extra for something on TV or a movie.

Gimme a little woohoo. Ain't that just perfect timing?

Another living end
Farewell drinks last night at The Duke. I'm not much of a drinker, but I have not drunk so much. I guess the occasion demanded it, really. My drinks of choice? Baileys neat (no ice, dudes), alternating with Galliano and orange juice. Very classy.

Do poets really need to be drunkards/drug addicts to be good? Ah, that's a silly little cliché that everyone should dispense with. I shared my vision of what poets should be like, and it sounded really bad at the end of it. Can't have everything... but I'm a dreamer. In a way, that's my job.

So drinks until very late, and I'm just having a quiet morning. They sent me off into the big bad world with a lovely card, some pocket money and a copy of the 2004 Writers and Artists' Yearbook. What more does a poet need?

Work berk
Bundled myself onto the bus and into work. This killer flu has laid everyone low, like a bowling ball with bowling pins.

Actually, I see this end-of-work thing as a mixed blessing. Sure, I won't have as much money, but really, is Christmas a good time to deal with cranky, stressed, impolite, even downright rude dudes? No, I didn't think so.

Mark emailed me this link about a library robot made in Japan. Yeah, but can it deal with psycho-customers from Hell? No, didn't think so.

Revamped
More writerly fun over my previous incarnation, re-named Ivy is here. Are you sure you can stand so much solipsism?

Okay, today
Feeling relatively normal. Writing, writing and editing.

I watch condensation drip down the glass as frost on the grass slowly retreats from the sun's heat.

Poke out my tongue
I hope I get well soon. I feel like I'm being led up the path to a state of funky ennui.

Been reading out loud the Rough Guide to Paris to Mark, who's getting quite hyped about seeing Versailles, riding on the canal-boats, and eating all the groovy street food. March/April/May would probably be the best times to go, but whether we'd have enough in our collective pockets is another thing.

If in doubt, watch a movie. DVDs to be precise. Bring on the Special Features. I love peeking inside the film, seeing what bits aren't obvious from an initial viewing. You know, insider information. This week:

Enemy of the State
Heartbreakers
Stir of Echoes
8mm
Family Man

Now see which two I chose, which two were Mark's and which one we both agreed on.

My confession
I've just been Googling my friend. Sorry, friend, but you never write.

In other news, I'm in my furry slippers and robe. Outside, the day is gray and I've crossed off one more item on my to-do list.

Tonight, I might not be well enough to go dancing. Dammit.

Stay
Okay, more dot-points.

• Still drinking green tea.
  
• Now have choc eggs on hand. Also mandarins, a grapefruit, and various medicines.
  
• Have sent off various bits and bobs for likely income-producing prospects.
  
• Cross fingers, knock wood... anything else for luck?
  
• Twin Peaks series on DVD, plus pilot episode for two nights' loan!
  
• Wondering whether I want to live in a place where they call their coins 'p'.
  
• Now have two writing projects, plus the editing thing.
  
• Thank Cod for computers.
  

Ah, frigate!
I'm home early from work. Will not get to schmooze and meet up with famous authors or likely publishers who will give me a new job.

Oh, and it's not Saturday week, it's Thursday week. Just to cap it all off.

Briefs
Not the underwear kind, but the point-form sort.

• I think I might be catching Mark's cold.
  
• I finish work Saturday week. This means I am imminently lacking funds unless I do something.
  
• I'm having yummy green tea.
  
• A Booker Prize winner is coming around the bookshop tonight for this book-launch.

Getting the hang of it
I don't think these days off by myself are very productive for me. Not really sure what to do!

'Get off the internet, girl!' my inner voice tells me.
'Shut up, this is fun,' the other one says.

*sigh*

French toast
Mark's sicky today, so I made him some french toast for brekkie, served with serious maple syrup yum. Then we had a walk around Terenure, just to see what was around our next-neighbourhood.

We wandered over to the boulangerie in Rathgar, bought some sticks of bread and cheese, and had that for lunch. And now, here I am, blogging about it.

Oh my goodness, oh my soul!
Umm, this is pretty huge. I just found out tonight.

One of my poems is going to be used for an exam in New South Wales.

It's going to be printed on 50,000 papers.

Oh. my. god.

Who?
According to this news item that Mark emailed to me (yeah, that's right. We don't talk, we email), some so-and-so's made an attempt to break David Boon's record for number of beers drunk on a plane, or some such thing.

Anyway, the record remains unbroken. Meanwhile, the rest of the world is going, Who? But all ye Tasmanians and cricket fans, we know who Boonie is.

Carn, Boonie!

I forgot
I've been meaning to post one item here. Don't know if it falls under gossip or odd trivia or what. Anyway...

You know Clive James, right? The writer? The guy who sometimes turns up on TV with a weird accent that's sorta Brit, sorta Aussie, sorta Yank? He was at the bookshop last week, signing books during a walkabout of the Dublin bookshops. Anyway...

He's got hairy ears.

That's all.

A bit of kulcha
What a groovy weekend I've just had.

Went to see Beckett's Waiting for Godot at the Gate Theatre, which was some kind of special. Although I didn't really get off on the titchiness it induced in me during the second act, I'm glad I went and saw it all the same. And just like I have a need to find the underlying meaning of Mulholland Drive, I think I have decoded Beckett's play.

I was reading a couple of pages from his work at the bookshop, and it is really quite compulsive. I'm tempted to buy a copy. Maybe I'll just flail around a couple of secondhand bookshops until I find one.

Anyway, Beckett was my Saturday night, while Tarantino was my Sunday. And I, like many others, liked Kill Bill.

Finished reading a proof copy of Garrison Keillor's Love Me, which had quite a good start, but seemed to flag a bit in the end. The use of poems in the novel was quite intriguing, though.

And so I am here today -- my day off. I've just polished off my muesli and grapefruit juice (sour face) and I'm ready to procrastinate.

Quick quick
Did some dancing tonight, and boy, my hips kinda hurt.

All the lights are up in the city, Christmas trees, street decorations, all blinking and colourful; the night seems bright and clear, people flowing around us as we walk to catch a bus home.

I'm looking forward to my dinner. Did I say it's now just after 10pm?

Stamps
I sold some of my chapbooks at work yesterday, which netted me some cash so that I can buy some stamps! Yay! At least, it's a healthy cycle, you know what I mean?

I'm so tired tonight, I can't think straight. But before I go to sleep, I must send off some poems.

No peeled grapes
But very happy, anyway. I've just received a response from an online journal (that actually pays for poems), though only after a little prodding from me, of course. Ahem. Waiting almost a year for a yea or nay is just cause for a prod, don't you think?

So, his response was quite encouraging: he 'nearly' took one. Cool cool cool.

I sent off a submission today, my first in a long while. I might even try the poetry publishers now. Maybe.

Still I am gripped by doubt. This must stop.

The wind
It whistles behind the board that covers the hole of the fireplace, up along the throat of the chimney, like the last exhalations from rattling lungs. It shakes the windows in their grooves, and flings raindrops against the glass, sends leaves skittering along the path, children let out from school at long last. The telephone lines sway and sway, and on the lawn, a shirt lies down like a dead body. Today, he rides to work, the wind's cold grasp snaking down his neck, presses on his cheeks, steals his breath away.

Oh, poop
Just lost an entry.

What'd I say? I said I was watching Mark eat a Galaxy chocolate. Now I'm eating a bit. Also, that I was tired. And that sometimes I don't know what I'm saying when I'm tired.

People here don't know what to make of the beautiful weather we've been having lately. The Irish are so fatalistic. They're funny. I love it, though. I say, Revel!

Chocolate cake
Mark's birthday yesterday, so I made him a cake! It was pretty good.

Umm, what else? We just pottered around, as you do on a lazy Sunday.

Now I'm waiting for my hot chips to come out of the oven. Mmm, chips.

Personal barometers
In Hobart, there is Mt Wellington by which one can tell what the weather might be like for that day. If it had snow, it was going to be cold. If not, it might be okay. Here in Dublin, I have the window-panes.

The past couple of days, there have been no fogging-up of the windows, and like a borne-out prediction, they have been mild, beautiful, unseasonal winter days:

I love these good days
when weather does not deserve
its reputation

Today, there is a little fog around the edges, and Mark had to come back to put on a heavier layer, after stepping out in just a t-shirt and jacket.

What's your barometer?

Dancing fools
I forgot how much dancing makes my hips hurt. I think I may be overcompensating for when Mark goes forward with his right foot and my own left foot goes back in response, because that is the leg which was aching the most yesterday.

But still it's fun. Good to be dancing again. And we were, by far, the most advanced couple on the floor. Aren't you impressed?

Belated pumpkin
Meet Edward. Well, actually, you probably will never ever get to meet Edward because the last time I saw him, he was in pieces after a successful suicide bid out of our bedroom window.

Don't ask.

Anyhoo... Shh! I have a secret. I'm not telling but it's writing-related. Don't worry, not getting published, but am writing. Very cool.

I wonder
Did I just say that?

Wasabi peas yum
Ah-huh, doesn't get much better than this.

Ooh-ooh, would it be terribly bad of me to exploit a contact if they know someone who can help me get my poetry manuscript published?

Maybe nothing will come out of it, but I got to try.

Sometimes I think I should resign myself to waiting till people are clamouring for my poetry to be in a book.

It could be a long wait. Tee-hee!

Listening to the 80s
As a leaving present from my previous place of employment here in Ireland, I was given a book of poems by Irish poets (of course) and a presentation case of eight CDs of 80s music.

Okay, I like 80s music. I do. There is no 'but' to this paragraph. I was just surprised that someone would give this to me. Maybe it was the way I'd sing along to it at work, or the fact that I'd put one 80s music at every opportunity that gave people this idea that I would enjoy it. Yeah, that might be it.

The thing is, I don't play it enough, you know? Gotta be in the mood for the ol' 80s, which was why it was perfect for work. It seemed to provide a certain escapism there. At home, it just feels like a nostalgia kick. Ah, well.

It's nearly time to leave this second bookshop. And I've got to hustle (as in 'work hard', not 'sell') my butt once more.

As Ned Kelly once said, 'I am an outlaw, and my orders must be obeyed. Make no noise. Raise no alarm. Keep your hands up and stand against the wall.'

Oh, hang on, that's not what I'd meant to write.

Nevermind, that'll do.

Last night, he said
"It's like a war zone out there." Although fireworks are illegal in Ireland, you wouldn't have thought so from the view outside our living-room window, where we had front row seats to our very own four-hour fireworks display.

When we stepped outside, the streets were littered with lolly wrappers and the air was smoky with the smell of cordite. Madness.

As I made my way home from a very tentative day at work (because I was still just getting back into the swing of things; still sick, you know, but getting better thank you very much), I was sitting at the top of this double-decker bus (trés cool), when I heard this splash behind me.

At first, I thought, 'Oh no, some poor dork's opened their water bottle and it's spilled everywhere.' But it was worse than that.

I looked over my shoulder, and in actuality, it was some poor girl who'd just whoopsied all down the stairwell, where smelly vom cascaded against the wall, down the steps and over this woolly-hatted dude's sleeve.

That sharp acidic smell followed me home.

But the upside is, I'm getting sausages and mash for dinner tonight. Just as soon as Mark gets home. Yay!

Happy Halloween!
We've got a pumpkin called Mr Edward E Pumpkinhead. Yay!

And Internet, too! I'm blogging from home and it feels so good. Been ill with a cold that feels suspiciously like the flu; this despite getting a flu injection.

Haiku seems to be the way I'm slipping back into the writing realm. Feels weird.

Internet soon
Mark and I bought a laptop recently, so we'll be able to surf and turf within the next two weeks. I have big plans.

Gearing up for Christmas already, and it's only, what, October? Crazy. And here's me, wanting chestnuts.

I want chestnuts.

Harry Potter's wand
A rude but funny link.

Galway
So, we're out of Dublin. Finally! Found a cosy attic space in a bed and breakfast (which, incidentally, does not serve breakfast, but such are the vagaries of travel), and now I'm setting down my impressions.

It's a very youth-centric city. Quite cool. And with a fair bit of Spanish influence here.

The train ride over was lulling. Threading our way past fields that mirrored Scotland, and Tasmania, and a lot of pastoral landscapes.

Now hopefully we'll find a place to eat. I'm starvin'!

Yes!
Among the many good things happening, I also wrote a haiku yesterday:

Silk threads wind-jostled
red leaf caught between the bars
soft saw-tooth ripples

Our home is lovely. I gloat when I think of it. Bought silver cutlery! No longer have to use plastic fork for breakfast.

Now all we need a music-maker. While one of the perks of my bookshop job is free CDs, sadly, I have nothing on which to play quite-defunct discs.

This coming weekend, Mark and I have finally pulled out our collective fingers to arrange a day off. We get three days in which to explore the rest of Ireland. Now that warrants a huzzah.

Huzzah!

It's ours!
We have it. Our very own place. So looking forward to moving in and stamping ourselves all over it.

So if any of you need a place to stay over (one at a time, ladies and gents!), there is a living-room floor in Rathgar that has your name on it. But be nice!

Now, excuse me while I take a sip of this nice French merlot.

Quiet glee
High: Day off!
Low: But I work tomorrow.
High: Day off on Sunday!
Low: _________ [No low at present that I can see.]

So, I've got two names of literary agencies to whom I can apply for work. I'm thinking something occasional might be good for me, so that I've got time to write.

House-hunting is also proceeding apace. Possible areas of habitation (or is that co-habitation?) are Harold's Cross [nice, kinda olde worlde swanky], Portobello [same, but near a groovy little canal], and Rathgar [don't know much about this suburb, but it would be close in to a supermarket—always a bonus].

I suggest we genuflect before the benign house-hunting gods (Lares and Penates?) to grant me safe asylum somewhere with a big kitchen, and no psycho neighbours.

Launch
All these people being launched. Their books. Makes me want to write. Out of envy, or inertia, or something not quite right.

It's pretty damn early, and I'm hungry, so I eat my bowl of muesli, hoping to placate the yowling beast that is my stomach, so catch me some zzz's.

The drums! The drums!
Mark's gone to a drumming session. He's pretty excited about it. So there's a birthday present idea, I guess: tom-toms!

In other news, we're thinking of relocating. Again.

What fun.

But hopefully, we'll be able to find our own place. And then, bliss!

Early to rise
Yay! Catching up on sleep-debt is trés cool. I feel so rested now.

Yesterday, I went to see Matchstick Men, starring Nicholas Cage. It was quite good. Had a bag of popcorn with me. Somehow, I've been inculcated to think that movies aren't the same without some consumables nearby.

Just finished reading The Devil Wears Prada: a scary insight into magazine publishing, but still fluffy for all that. Now I'm onto Umberto Eco's Baudolino, heavily touted as being equivalent to The Name of the Rose. I'll give you the verdict when I've finished.

I'm powering through my books. Have also finished Fast Food Nation. Now that's a scary read. No more McFries for me.

Sleep eludes me
I like sleep, but early starts have whacked up my routine, and now I'm at 4.30am, typing, obsessing, worrying, instead of sleeping in. On the other hand, I guess it's good that I've got enough to do. Rather that than be bored.

Yes, I know
But really, these bags under my eyes testify to everything. Too many Baileys? No, never. Nuh-uh!

Baileys is yummy, though.

Why is it that one can't ever sleep when one really needs to?

I have reviews to edit. Need more motivation! Can one find motivation at the bottom of a butterscotch schnapps bottle, I wonder?

Lack of sleep certainly helps tangential thinking. Though some people would probably call it loopy thinking.

So this is a glimpse of my state of mind today. Scary, huh?

Long time coming
I've neglected my poetry for the last few months. Now I smell the breath of autumn and it is as crisp as a freshly-bitten apple.

I love autumn. It is the season most conducive to writing. I wonder why that is.

Looking at the other poetry books on the shelves at work, I have to quash my squiggles of envy. Why do I want a book so much? Not for the money. Oh, no. Ho-ho-ho-ho. Money? I think not. What then?

The reason is inarticulable (just like that word). But I must send my work out. I must. Papers, ink, come to my aid.

First days back
I'm missing Spain already. Waah! I want cheap food, and cheap alcohol, and cheap food again, and warmer climes, and long drives up the coast looking at weird, burnt, hyper-terrestrial landscapes.

Yesterday, I went back to work. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. I wore my new boots and they didn't even make my feet that much. Probably not a detail that you needed to know, but there you go.

This morning, I made Mark some French toast.

"I wonder if they have French toast in France?" Mark asked.
"Dunno. Guess we're going to have to go there to find out," I replied.

They were yummy, actually, even if I do say so myself, slathered as they were with faux maple syrup and topped with banana slices. I think Mark might be missing his tostados, which are bigger versions of Melba toast, that he had for breakfasts in Alicante, spread with apricot jam on top.

I love breakfasts.

My sister called me this morning. She sounded happy. I think it's because of this boy. She thinks he's The One (no, not Neo from the Matrix, you silly). She asked me again when I was going back.

I don't know when I'm ever going back.

¡Hola, amigos y amigas!
Hey, this keyboard I´m using is weird. But I kinda like it.

Typing in an internet cafe here in Alicante, but am actually staying in Torrevieja. It´s actually a bit of a nothing town (Torrevieja, that is, not Alicant, which is muy bien). The Lucan of Alicante, if you know what I mean, full of development high-rises and bland, salty spaces.

I like the rest of Spain so far, though. Went northwards, past Culleras, where Mark and I stayed overnight, and I got to try my first Spanish transactions. Interestingly, a double bed is not dobles cama, but cama de matrimonia; literally, the matrimonial bed. Hmm.

We drove over 800 km in our first three days. To Salou and back again. Quite wish that we didn´t tie ourselves down to an apartment, but should have just done a road-trip instead. Ah, well, we´ll know next time.

A good word to know is quisiera, which means I would like, and he/she would like. And everyone says hola, which is all you really need, I think (not quite, but close enough).

Food is cheap. It would be good to live here. So warm. Everything shuts down in the afternoon, just as I´ve heard it said. Good to know Spain meets and exceeds expectations.

Sing it one more time

I'm leaving
on a jetplane
don't know when I'll be back again...

Well, I do know. Back again on Saturday, folks and blokes. Not really sure about Internet doo-dahs while in Alicante, but I'll be keeping track of what I've been up to, don't you worry.

Still got packing to do. All the necessary detritus.

Ah, life!

Tired
A co-worker, recently returned from her own one-year working holiday in Australia, said to me, "I like hearing your accent. It reminds me of my time there."

"Well, it's not really a strong Australian accent, though, is it? A bit muddied," I said.

"I still like it."

There you go. There's no accounting for it. I've had one lady on the phone also inform me how pleasant I sounded.

Must be something in the water here.

Obsolescence
Well, I guess that's what it means when you're not even given the staff training the other full-time employees get, because they figure you won't even be there in three months.

Bah! Humbug.

I guess I better start spreading my CV out like a virus.

Scrapes and abrasions
My mum sent me a text the other day. She'd been in a motorbike accident. Not serious, luckily. Just grazes on her elbows and knees, and a deep cut in her right palm.

I'm glad it was not worse. Though I'm annoyed she wasn't wearing gloves and other protective gear, I'm glad she was wearing a helmet.

Wine on my sleeve
There was a launch at the bookshop today, and I was a wine jockey for the evening. Quite interesting, I suppose.

The author was polite enough to come over and introduce himself, even excusing himself when he had to go away. He was also slightly nervous, judging from the clammy quality of his handshake.

Funny how nerves are quite catching, because I started to feel a bit shaky myself. But I got into the swing of things soon enough. Then I spilt some wine on my sleeve, and now I smell like an alky. Yuk.

Late and early
Earlier starts to the day this week, but tomorrow I can sleep in a little. Yay! Might do some op-shopping. Always fun.

Mark sent me this old article about Tim Tams. Sometimes I'm so suggestible. I could do with one now.

There's an Australia shop near where I work and I saw that they sold Twisties. I thought, Cool! Went back the following day with some money, and walked out in disgust when I saw they were priced at €3! Scandalous! That's about six Aussie dollars! This is just, you know, the normal-sized bag, not the bigger packets that you can get. So, goodbye Twisties! No way, José.

Am I the only one?
This is getting ridiculous. Almost an hour to download spam? I think spammers should be strung up by their heels.

Puh!

A one-day weekend is not good
But you know what? I'll live.

Mark bought tickets for our flight to Alicante. That should be fun. It'll be getting into autumn there, so it won't be as hellishly hot as it has been reported.

I've bought a Spanish phrasebook, but I'm having little hits of anxiety. What if I am totally clueless?

Poetry has made me the millionaire I am today
Not really. But I have, right now, in my hot little hand, a cheque for the queenly sum of €30.

That's right. Read 'em and weep.

I am still a professional poet. Ooh, yeh. Rockin'!

The things I do
I saw a movie: Buffalo Soldiers, quite good, in a noir-ish, cynical kinda way.

I'm reading a book: A Sweet Obscurity by Patrick Gale. 'Tis quite good, so far.

The weather's changing to an autumnal cool, daylight hours shrinking infinitesimally, the wind dancing on flesh raising little goosebumps.

But I'm looking forward to our upcoming week-long trip to Alicante. I think it will be fun.

Just like a weekend, only crunchy
Hey, I get the next two days off! Yay!

I might do something wild and crazy. Like read a book. Or go see a movie (I particularly want to see Swimming Pool with Charlotte Rampling). Or op-shop!

Hmm, I think I'm going to like working at this bookshop. They seem more reasonable to me.

Quickly now
Job's fine, but my hands hurt. Is that bad? I do this scanning and it's a big hurty object I carry. Maybe I'm going to get arthritis. Woe!

I went to a concert last night at The Point. I probably would have enjoyed it more had it been my sort of music. I hadn't even heard of Manu Chao prior to getting tickets to this event. I had heard of the Asian Dub Foundation though.

Me tired now. Must eat muesli and sleep.

Working girl
My feet hurt. And I'm wondering, do I still like working in a bookshop?

I think my sections are Fiction A-Z (yay!), Biography (ho-hum), and Sport (uh, wha?).

Now, I'm going to go for a lie-down.

Irishisms, Part... ummm... II? III?
Fillum: a movie, a film. No idea why there is an extra syllable, but there you go. Charming, innit?

Okay, my mind's a sieve. That's all I can remember for now. Never claimed to be a lexicographer or some such other clever-clogsy type person, have I?

Such a gorgeous summer Ireland's been having. It is just right, especially for showing off some of my summer tops. Yo-ho!

Went for a McFeed this morning and was not impressed by my stuffed-up order of pancakes. The first time, there was no butter or syrup (don't mind about the butter so much, though). Waited five minutes. Went up to the counter—still no syrup. 'It's got to be fetched from upstairs,' the teenaged boy shrugged apologetically at me. Sat down, got back up, taking my cold pancakes and said to him that I'll just got a fresh one when the syrup turns up.

Sat down again, ate a couple of bitefuls of Mark's snausage-and-egg-mcmuffs, disconsolate at my ruined breakfast. Got back up, waited some more. By that time, another customer was waiting for their pancake, too. The manager, after running around like a headless chook, asked what I was waiting for. 'My pancakes,' I bit out. 'I've been waiting ten minutes for my pancakes,' the guy behind me peeped.

My second batch was doled out to me, fresh from the microwave. I could feel from touching the base of the styrofoam packaging that this was not a hot pancake meal. I bitched at Mark, who took pity on me, went up to the counter and got me a tepid one.

At least I had syrup.

That'll teach me.

Bodies at rest
I'm not doing anything too strenuous before I start work on Monday.

Just finished reading Man and Boy by somebody Parsons. It's all right, but you know, I wish I can make myself skip from reading the blurbs, because a book can hardly keep pace with the hype, sometimes.

I wonder how I'll cope being back in a full-time capacity, after this one-month holiday?

Sedate
On the way home, I watched a dozen ducks sunning themselves on low-tide rocks in the river, every single one facing upstream. Some heads were tucked under a wing, others were grooming, still others were asleep on their feet.

It was very soporofic to watch them, as the water wound past, and the sun heating down overhead. I almost felt guilty for my sleepy thought: 'I wonder what wild river duck tastes like?'

By the way, I got the job. My second bookshop in Ireland! I'll get through all of them yet!

I'm in
I received a copy of Anon recently, and I'm in it! Yay! It's a beautiful little book, too.

I'm so proud.

Making a list
I've been so good, I think. Doing things to keep me busy during this jobsearch. Some are even jobsearch-related!

I don't want to be a journalist. I just want to be an editor. Is that so hard for peeps to understand?

My spore-scars are fading daily. I'll be left with nothing but weals where the annoying fungus has marked its path on me.

Hurray!

An interview
Tomowwow, tomowwow, I love ya, tomowwow!

I'm plumping for a part-time job, but you know, I feel a bit weird not working. Seems unfair to me. They're only offering full-time work at the moment.

Ah, well. What can you do? Mark's suggesting I negotiate, but I'm not that kinda girl.

I need girl-power.

What the heck am I doing?
I'm in denial. I've got this directory, full of contacts in the magazine publishing industry, and I'm afraid to use it.

I guess I'm scared about leaving my ass to hang out in the wind. Yeah, that's it.

My theory is, if I go for a job that doesn't matter so much, that it won't hurt if I don't get. You think? Maybe?

I'm such a wimp.

Grind
Oh, my nose! Darn this grindstone!

I wrote an application today. Hey, I gotta start slow, you know. T'ain't easy.

Here Comes the Hot Tepper
My interview by Interrobang?!’s Dave Tepper
[Ooh, these are all well thought-out questions, Dave.]

Fantastic! Here we go.

1. Most Americans don't even know what Canberra is, much less how to pronounce it. (My readers, of course, are much smarter than that!) Tell us Yanks three things about Australia we really ought to know.

• Australia has a really embarrassing Prime Minister at the moment. The most embarrassing thing John Howard has done, to my mind, was when he sucked-up to your President in the most obsequious, brown-nosing manner possible. Like, get a room, guys!
  
• Having moved around a bit (from Manila to Hobart, Melbourne, Aberdeen and now Dublin), I can say that the best thing about Australia is that it gets a lot of things right, but it’s still a long way off from places like Amsterdam or Hong Kong, both cities that I love for their energy, atmosphere and culture.
  
• Kangaroos don’t hop down the main street of most capital cities.
  

2. What happened on 15 August 2002 that made you start blogging?

That was my first day in Aberdeen, Scotland. I was to live there for six months, the longest stretch of time I would be away from Australia. I wanted to set down my thoughts, so that I could share my experience with family and friends back home. I also knew I needed to be occupied during that time, because I was only on a visitor’s visa to the UK, and was not allowed to work. That was some major suck.

3. "Neither a debtor nor a lender be." Here at Interrobang?!, though, death is not an option: would you rather be a debtor or a lender, and why?

I don’t like being in debt, so I’d rather be a lender. But I’m a poor lender, too! I would hound my little brother and sister when they’d borrow a dollar, nagging them, asking, ‘Can you pay it today? I’ll start charging interest soon, you know.’ I was, like, eight. Mind you, I’ve got a fairly hefty HECS (Higher Education Contribution Scheme) debt. [This is a debt accrued by students who can’t pay up-front fees on university courses, discharged by paying extra tax once the ex-student starts earning enough money]. Ahem.

4. What will your life be like ten years from now?

God! Who knows? This is a toughie. Okay…

I’d like to have my first and second book of poetry published by then. I’d want to have seen more of Europe and the US… Definitely want to go hang out in Canada. So, ten years from now, I’ll be more worldly-wise, I think. I’ll have cats. I’ll have a room for my books. That’s all I can see. So if I have those things that must mean I’ll be mostly happy.

5. Who was your first love, and whatever happened to him or her?

First love. Hmm. That would have to be Aaron. I actually wrote to him early this year, as I was terribly curious about that very same question. In summary, this was the answer.

He was in a motor vehicle accident. He required reconstructive surgery. He got better. He started managing bands and doing karaoke gigs. And he’s got a young son now, who seems to be the most important person in his life.

Whew! [Thanks, Dave!]

Okay, dudes and dudettes, here are the rules:

• If you want to participate, leave a comment saying "interview me." I will respond by asking you five questions.
• You will update your blog/site with the answers to the questions.
• You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
• When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Now, who’s up next?

Q&A
I've just put my name down for an interview. It's a meme going around that's caught my fancy.

I'm all a-tingle. I wonder what my questions will be. I'm tempted to say 'please be gentle', but that might come out all wimpy. Hmm. What about 'bring it to the par-tay'?

Too mid-90s, methinks.

Carry-on hand luggage
Did you know that, since it is both expensive and rare in Ireland, I brought back not one, but two kilos of Milo in my backpack?

Yep. I'm nothing but a donkey for drinking chocolate. Can you blame me? Didn't think so. Absolutely dirt-cheap in Manila. And how can one possibly live without it?

Belly
Ever since that French bint from Pulp Fiction lisped out that she thought pot bellies were sexy, I think a lot of girls/women (me! me!) have struggled with this concept.

"But! We're meant to be thin! Pot bellies are not shown on magazines in a glamourous light! How is a pot belly sexy?"

So it is when I get a little belly. I feel ambiguous towards it. I poke it, see if it shifts, melts, vanishes, jiggles like jelly concentrate.

I think I can see the woman's point. But you know, I'm still not sure.

Cured like ham
Well, I'm getting there. Bought some funky stuff to zap the spore-driven fungus into oblivion. Bye-bye itches, bye-bye highly infectious state.

Just hope I haven't given it to the cat.

Jeezum crow! All the way from Manila to here—ringworm. Un-cursing-believable.

Ringus wormius
Those insect-bites I mentioned in my previous post? They've mutated.

Dudes, I've got ringworm.

Oh yeah, it doesn't get any better than this.

Jobbie
Status: slack. The last two days I've slept, read and et, and not exactly in that order, either. Hmm, reminds me of when I was on the dole after doing Honours. So, still no job, yet.

My insect bites have turned into red-edged sores. Mark's bought me calamine lotion, but sometimes the urge to scratch is almost too much to bear.

What I Did in My Summer Vacation: Notable Highlights

1. Was in a jeepney accident.

[If you go here, you can find out what a jeepney looks like. Essentially, a jeep is a people-carrier, like a bus, except people are more squashed in than oily anchovies, and the jeeps try to outdo each other in the garishness and look-at-me stakes.]

Any other place in the world, and it would've been clear that the other driver was at fault. My poor mum banged her head. The funny thing was, not more than thirty minutes earlier, I had been speculating with Ma how an accident would be pretty awful in one of those. Bizarre.

2. Had gastro.
Yep, Ivy did throwy-up. Not nice. That'll teach me to

• lick my fingers after trying on shoes without washing my hands
• eat halo-halo
• undergo extreme body-temperature changes in the space of seconds [i.e. one minute outdoors in 35degC heat, then swanning around in cool, air-conditioned comfort the next]
• not be acclimatised to the country's food/weather/culture.

3. Was in a typhoon.
Lots of water. Lots of wind (no, I'm not still talking about my gastro experience). One papaya tree was nearly lost. It was very loud. I spent most of the time playing with a kitten called Zebra.

4. Was caught in the middle of a coup attempt/military mutiny.
Well, that last is not strictly true. But I was most anxious, because I thought I wouldn't be able to come home to Mark. Still, one good thing did come from it: I could get more Philippine pesos to the Euro. Yes, I'm a political animal at heart. Thrilling.

Googling myself
Help me. I can't stop.

Well, that's not exactly true. It's been about three weeks between the last time I googled myself and the previous time.

Interesting, innit, what the 'net has to say about you?

But the thing is, if I don't google moi, how would I know about this review?

Kahloo-kahlay!

I will survive
And so I'm back, from outer space. I just walked in to find you here with that sad look upon your face.

Well, not exactly outer space, but almost 24-hours of travelling time is enough to give one an out-of-body experience.

And I'm all loved-up (from Mark) and fashioned up from shopping! Yay! I love it when clothes fit.

On the taxi-ride home, I noticed that, hey, Dublin was actually having nice weather. Pity, I was a bit out of it with lag to take advantage. I was updating the driver on what I've been up to, and as he dropped me off, he wished me good luck on my job-hunting. Maybe taxi-drivers should charge more for their sideline as impromptu therapists or something.

It was good to show Mark all that I'd bought. He didn't do too badly out of it, either. We've been so thrifty (oh, alright, downright Scrooge-like) for so long, it was hard for me to just buy stuff for myself. Felt like I had to share some of the fun.

And it's been fun. Now, time to knuckle down, I think. Starting Monday. It's another long weekend holiday this Saturday. I like Ireland.

Bad tum
I may have over-indulged. Eaten too much, too soon. Or something. The upshot? Tummy trouble.

I hate throwing up. Am I the only one? I have an exceptional aversion to this helpless, involuntary, totally bodily thing that one has no control over. That being said, I felt better once I did vom.

Speaking of girly, I also had a pedicure and manicure. I also nearly fainted because of previously-mentioned tummy upset, which the poor manicurist misinterpreted to mean that, as I had just mentioned to her that this was my first nail-grooming experience, I was a fragile flower unable to handle it.

The best times so far are sitting under Ma's mango tree, feeling the breeze cooling down the hot day, as we gossip and reminisce.

Well
I'm here! And it's hotter than ever.

This time around, it seems more like a pilgrimage. My mother now has a house in Marikina, one of the places of my childhood, so I can go around and walk around the same rooms, walk the same path, things that are really not the same. Everything's shrunk down to a less scary size. Funny how age and travel does that.

It has also become more populous than in my memory of it. More houses, more life!

My mother's house has quite an Edenic garden. She grows mangoes (yum!), peanut plants, sweet potato, aratilis, coconuts, papaya, chilli, eggplant (aubergine to everyone else), and others I can't seem to remember now. I've been having such a great time, eating all the food I grew up with.

For lunch, I had barbecued fish with rice, pork with Chinese glass noodles and arroz caldo. Yah! And! A really super-duper mango, which I just slurped on down. Mmm. Heaven? Yes. My mum laughed to see me go back to the peelings to make sure I got every last morsel in my mouth.

At this rate, I'm going to get tubby.

So now I'm here to spend more of my hard-earned cash.

Ma and I are going to Zamboanga next week to visit her relatives for a few days. I'll be paying for the plane flight, which is a nice thing to be able to do for her (for us!). She wants to show my the family plot, on which she had spent a lot of time and effort, bringing all the bones and whatnot from various places into the one spot.

Should be an interesting time, anyway.

Want to know?
These movies are my in-flight entertainment.

Oh, poop.

Girlism to Overtake Feminism
Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!

Would you mind if I just went totally girly here? I so hope the flight shows Legally Blonde 2.

Please don't throw tomatoes at me. I'm serious. I love the first one, and I sincerely pray the next one is just as good.

Hey, my needs are simple.

Doorstep goodbyes
I've just said my doorstep goodbyes to Mark. I'm a bit sad, but I guess also quite excited. A strange mixture. This time, going away is different, more for the purpose of a holiday, of imposing a delineation between one stage and another. Between the end of one job, and the start of something hopefully better.

I hope everything goes okay.

Conclusions and Introductions
No more bookshop for me.

I met one of the new members of staff yesterday. She seemed nice and I wished her luck, in that banal, well-meaning way we all do. I was given my presents and a group of us toodled down to a bar for a drink. Was it just me, or was it mostly punctuated with uncomfortable silences, punctured only when one of us poked fun at our old managers?

So now begins the serious business of travel. I had an attack of nerves yesterday afternoon, just thinking about what I have to remember to do. But then it just faded away like a silly dream. It'll all work itself out.

The reason I'm willing to do this trip alone is because I'm familiar with all the airports I'll be passing through. Dublin Airport, Heathrow, Hong Kong, then Manila. Know them all. As long as there are decent in-flight movies, I'll be a happy lassie.

Oh! Do you think they'll be showing The Hulk during the flight? That'd be so cool!

Interview interlude
I'm looking for work at the mo. Today, I send off my curriculum vitae to any number of (dis)interested parties, and see who might bite the little bait.

Yesterday, I went to an interview. It was more like a chat, which is really the best way to go about it, I think.

I'm not sure I want to work in a bookshop anymore, though. So, I'll probably accept the job, if it was offered, but I'd be plumping for a position in publishing.

*sigh* Getting to where you want to be is one tough cookie.

A first
I've not travelled internationally by myself before.

I guess leapfrogging State by State in Australia is good practice for that, though, with the distance quite equivalent to crossing several countries, especially compared to here in Europe.

Maybe this is the start of a groovy jetsetting lifestyle.

Or maybe not.

Add this
Oh, the doona is wonderful.

Quiet, you
Man, I hate phones, and I hate dealing with strange people.

I wonder if anybody else shares the same phobia I do. I could never do a call-centre job. Weird people ringing me up. Me ringing up weird people. Too much!

That's why I got Mark to arrange all my bookings. Ah, bless... But today, I had to deal with a stranger. I had to ask questions. And sort things out. And organise. And all that.

It was easier than I thought it would be. I guess sometimes my mind makes oak trees out of acorns.

Speaking of weirdness, Mark just emailed me this weird article. You got it here first, folks! (Well, okay, secondhand. Maybe third-hand. Fourth-generation at the most.)

You say doona, I say duvet
Call me Australian, but I don't think I'll ever shake this particular quirk and start calling doonas duvets.

Where the heck did the word doona come from, anyway? Sounds like an Aboriginal word. After some vigourous (hmm, did I spell that word right?) search-engine worrying, I came up with this:

New Shorter Oxford English Dictionary

DOONA: (capitalised) noun, Australian. Also d-. Late 20th century [Perhaps from Swedish language ‘dun’ down.] (Proprietary name for) a quilted eiderdown [a quilt filled with the soft feathers from the breast of the eider (large northern sea duck) with which it lines its nest] or duvet [a thick soft quilt].

---

Macquarie Dictionary – Australia’s National Dictionary
DOONA (not capitalised) noun Australian; continental quilt [trademark]

---

Australian-American Dictionary
DOONA (not capitalised) noun: = comforter in US: Quilted eiderdown with a down or synthetic filling. ‘Doona’ is a Trade name, ‘Doona’ is apparently used in Australia only, and is unknown in New Zealand and Britain, let alone the US.
—[from this source]

So, what has brought this on? Mark and I are currently wrestling over the important dilemma of a couple sharing a single-sized doona. Problem is, one of us ends up getting cold feet over it.

So today, we're going to buy one. Huzzah!

My life is full of incredible minutae.

Goody
Another day off today. Wandering around a tiny part of Dublin, sorting out how to pay Cathay Pacific, a lot of finagling with a friend's credit card (because I don't own one), and so on.

I am eating apricot jam on toast for lunch. Plus, I have two videos (The Apartment with Jack Lemmon, and American Werewolf in London) and numerous books waiting upstairs. Cruisy days are cool.

Just lost a damn entry...

That is just such a major suck.

Leaving on a jet-plane
My job at the bookshop is finishing up soon, then I'll be off to Manila to see my mum. I must admit I'm looking forward to that, but this is tempered with the reality that I'll have to look for a new job when I get back.

Still, if I can find a job within three days of being in a new country, then I'm optimistic.

Yay!

Flatmate
Okay, maybe new flatmate is not so weird. But I do get quite defensive about unknown quantities. So.

This dude smokes. Not in the house, though, as that is strictly not allowed, but he brings his smoke in on his clothes, and I quite dislike that.

Hmm, maybe I'm just looking for things to be nutty about.

Not much happening at work. Am likely to go to Manila quite soon, though, which'll be nice, as I haven't seen my mum for almost a year now.

There's a sky-full of rain today. In the mornings, the snails crest the tops of the lawn around here, calm and slow, and crunchy underfoot for the unwary.

I get a bit icky about snails. Let's not go there.

Newness
Getting a new flatmate soon.

Expect more weirdness to ensue.

Coriander
Don't you just love the smell of coriander? I bought a bunch for tonight's sushi-making session. Yum.

More Irishishms: 'work away'. It means 'go ahead', as in 'go ahead with what you're doing, don't mind me'.

There's also 'fair play to you', equivalent to a British 'well done', or the Australianism 'good on ya'.

Wanting to add something more
Okay, I really want to leave my job. Last week just seemed to be the final straw.

Somebody unshackle me.

A sick-day
Don't fret. I'm not. Sick, that is. Maybe of work, but not physically ill.

I like just pottering around. It's a different quality to when I had nothing to do in Aberdeen, though. Maybe because it is am aimlessness intended to relax you and take your mind off things, rather than a pointless filling-in of time by wandering in and out of shops, looking for something meaningful to happen.

Or maybe not. What do I know, really?

I'm planning on going to the Philippines to see my mum soon. That'll be good. I might finally be able to buy clothes that fit me. As I am going via Hong Kong, Mark is already putting in his gadgetry orders. He does love his toys.

And yep, I'll pack a medical face-mask.

A poetry mag has just returned my submission, but without the actual poems themselves. The editor kindly notes that I write "good things". I wonder what he means by that, exactly.

New
I'm in my new place in Churchfields, Milltown. Wa-hey! I like it here. As the name suggests, it's very pastoral, and a much nicer, speedier commute than previously.

Theoretically, this should give me more time to write. Who knows whether this will in fact be the case.

Move
I am currently fortifying myself with a shot glass of Baileys before tackling the packing-up. Tomorrow, we move to Milltown.

It's not been that long ago that I packed up a shop full of books. Now I get to do that all over again. On a smaller scale, though. Still, I seem to have acquired a substantial number of books.

*sigh*

Poeted
The most enjoyable part of the Gala Event last night was Wendy Cope's love poem, with an unromantic element that ended up making the piece quite amusing. Pity she wasn't there to read it herself. But at least I got to see Julian Barnes, Sophie Hannah and Brendan Kennelly.

Spent most of the time looking at the writers on stage thinking, I could do that. I want to do that. I want to be up there. Alas, not yet, but someday.

David Foster was not all that. Maybe his novels are cool, but he himself could do with some work on his delivery. He sure made an impact on the Irish audience, though.

Maybe I'm too critical because of my acting background. I know that when you're on-stage you certainly have to earn it, audience-wise. Quite a few upped and left, because he was too soft-spoken, couldn't hear him over the noise of the fan. You strained to hear. But you got to admire the ballsiness of one who can recite the first chapter of their book (about twenty minutes' worth) with nary a prop but one's bottle of water to refresh the occasionally parched throat. Props to you, Mr Foster.

Another poet I liked was Liz McSkeane. She was a nervy one, like a balled-up skein of stretched cat-gut, ready to unravel. Her lines were clean and bare. I like that.

My one complaint is the trend to rhyme. Why is that? Please stop. Don't rhyme so much, people. Use it judiciously. As Mark observed, the audience will end up just waiting for the last words, and miss the ones in-between.

Rhyme-shmyme.

Morning
Also, Mark and I are leaving Lucan, and moving to Milltown. How pleasantly sylvan and rural, think you not?

So now it'll be a 20-minute bus ride, instead of an hour. Hmm. "I measure out my life in petrol fumes."

I went and saw a Poetry Slam last night. I'd expected something better, actually, but still, it was amusing. The featured poet, however, was incredible.

Lemn Sissay was so energetic. Even his soundcheck wasn't just a soundcheck. He has caused me to re-think the ways in which I perform my work. I'm sure this influence will start leaking into how I do this from now on. "It won't happen overnight..." Again, I say, Incredible!

Again!
Yay! A poem is to be published in Ireland, in The Stinging Fly sometime this year. And I get paid!

Whee!

No poetry headache
Have just been from a session of the Dublin Writers Festival. It was a freebie, which is very cool for someone like me, on a budget, but still wanting a taste of literature.

I guess my favourite of the day has got to be Knut Odegard. If anybody who reads this has any sway whatsoever with regards to getting writers on a festival program, I strongly urge you to invite this extremely charming gentleman. He has a sweet air about him, much like one's stereotyped image of an absent-minded professor, but his presence on stage, in front of an audience, is both solid and slightly mesmeric.

One of his best works that he read today was set in Macedonia, about war's effect on one deaf farmer, Boris. It is at times whimsical, wry, and detailed with the touches that bring the scene to life. Most of all, it was affecting. It is not very often that I sit listening to a poem, my eyes almost over-spilling with tears.

The first poem he read, about oxen, was also read very well. Such a deep, sonorous voice, almost incantatory, heavy with the hoof-beats of those animals.

I heard five poets in all. I think it ran a bit (or a lot) overtime. Poetry events never run on schedule (apart from the ones I organise, of course!). I have one (paid-for) session on Friday, a Poetry Slam event, which should be a treat.

Blank
I saw poppies the other day, red-paper lips on slim green stalks. It seemed like they just decided to turn up, one summer afternoon.

Blecchh!
It seems like only yesterday when I was complaining about being sick. Well, here I am again, sick with some sort of summer flu.

I haven't written in so long, I know. Partly because the landlady's moved back into the house and I feel a bit odd working in her office while she's at home. And the other reason is because my thoughts haven't really organised themselves sufficiently into blog-entries.

A weird thing about the landlady that Mark finds unsettling. According to him, she seems to be finding reasons to appear inappropriately dressed, i.e. walking around the house in a t-shirt (I think in just a t-shirt) and acting surprised when she happens upon him, say, in the living-room (when the TV is blaring on), or the office (when you can hear Mark typing away in the next room). Is that creepy or what? Needless to say, we're househunting in earnest at the moment.

Oh, my tooth is now A-OK. So here's my big grin for ya. *GRIN*

I've got tomorrow and the next day off, so I might be able to shake off this darn flu. The Dublin Writers Festival starts on Thursday and I'll be able to get in a bit of culture. Yay! I've already bought my tickets for the Poetry Slam on Friday night.

Rain is funny here. It rains in bursts, and then it disappears as suddenly as it came. The best rain is when you can see it coming down a street in waves, heading towards you, and you open that umbrella just in time before it hits.

Tooth
I'm going to the dentist tomorrow.

Not meaning to brag or anything, but I've been injected so many times by that dreaded needle that it almost has no power over me.

Still, I am looking forward to when it's finished and I can have my rice-cream. Yum.

The Boys
What was my first encounter of Janssen?

I'd always heard about him through the grapevine. That's how it is in Hobart, especially if you move in artistic/literary circles. The community is actually small enough that the circles twist inwards into spirals. That six-degrees-of-separation theory? You only need four in Hobart.

There is no memory of the actual day I'd met Janssen, but Mark really clicks with him, and so the two stick, drinking beer and making each other laugh. Artist he is, vague as fog, but talented as the f-word.

He also keeps trying to get me drunk. For some reason, he really wants to do this. I remember one year, him chasing me with a beer-jug, trying to top up my pint-glass. Out of spite, I tipped my lot on the lawn. Boy, was he aghast!

He's off to Sweden to see his girl in June (only a few days away, Janssen!).

Now Andrew is a good sort. But my first reaction to him (he'll laugh when he reads this): I was intimidated. Well, wouldn't you? He's a biggish guy, loud, and kinda boisterous, in a weird, dark way. Has a gothic feel about him.

So I thought, okay, don't have anything to do with this guy.

I've seen him around the traps. He does TheatreSports, acts (we've even been in a production together: A Gothic Night of Sex and Death), loves the limelight, but little did I know how we'd get to know each other.

It was in Tog where I was editor that I'd really got to know this guy's amazing capacity to tell a story. During this time, I edited his work, gave it a little polish, and sat back to view the reaction of the University campus as his words were released.

I don't think they quite knew what hit them. His voice is unique, and he's also a dear friend. We've had some crazy japes performing poetry together at the Republic, too. That's fun. I miss seeing him around (hi, Andrew!).

So those are two of my pals from Hobart.

i.m. Anthony Day
Farewell, Dancing Man.

Lax
Call me slack (Ivy, you're slack), but I swear, everything and nothing is happening. Just the usual work-home-work-home to and fro.

I guess I've always had this idea, and I'm probably not alone in this, that when one goes away to another country, somehow it changes one's outlook, perception and, for all I know, demeanor.

Disappointingly, this is not the case. I'm still the same me, just less bored.

I am working in another country. That's a good thing. Oh, I know, (heaven knows) I'm lucky to be working. Jobs are rather scarce here in Dublin, too. But the whole going-away-thing loses lustre when the other country becomes quotidian. The everyday.

That's why the trip to Amsterdam was something to savour. And why another European destination is looking very enticing, indeed. Take me away from the daily. Transport me to a place where I can just concentrate on something else other than the chore of keeping one's self (mind, body, soul) together.

Okay, let's flip a coin. Paris? Or Spain? Sometime in September, mind you.

If it's Spain, it'll be to Alicante, the place where, interestingly, Sylvia Plath spent her honeymoon.

Just a bit of poetry trivia for you.

Propriety
My goodness, it's wonderful to have some money saved up now.

Mark and I went and spent.

I'm sorry. I feel a bit bad about that. But also somewhat deserving. Isn't it funny how money can make one feel that way?

I did need new shoes, though. These are Hush Puppies. They look very swish. And I also have a new pair of dangly earrings.

I guess I feel bad about buying new things because I'd rather spend it on a new literary magazine. At least, that's what I've splurged on in the past. I think, you know, I'm helping the literary community somehow, by buying their work.

That's what I did with most of the grant money I received... spent it on subscriptions, so that it goes back to the writers in some fashion.

Money makes me feel funny. That's for sure.

A matter of time
Dammit, I have to travel for two hours each way to work and home! Doesn't it just bite the big one?

Because the shop is being re-fitted, all full-time staff get to work in Finglas where the books are currently stored in the warehouse (I nearly verbed the noun warehouse until I remembered, just in time, that doing that [i.e. use the word warehoused] is a bit of a booboo. But then again, didn't I just do that with 'verbed'? [And I think warehoused is actually part of common parlance now anyway.] Let's move right along, shall we? All these parenthetical asides is making me ill. You're probably feeling worse.)

So I now wake up at the intemperate hour of six in the morning (as if seven in the morning is that much more civilised). But one good thing about working somewhere else is seeing a different part of Dublin. On the drive there, I received a running commentary from the other people in the car.

'That's where Michael Collins is buried.'
'That's where I went to school.'
'What's that? Is that a prison over there?' asks I.
'No, that's a housing development.'

I actually managed, tonight, to scrounge up a meal so that Mark came home in time for it to be dished out. How switched on is that? Believe me, it's a rarity nowadays. He likes shepherd's pie, so he was very appreciative.

I've been working on a poem for the last few days. Normally, I don't take this long, preferring to do it in one hit over several hours, but with this one I wanted to give it time and space, which would result in a fruitful perspective with which to judge the work. At least, I hope so. It is done, and I know I've not skimped on it. Now it is free to go find its home somewhere.

Letter T for temper
Yesterday was a real howling hound-doggy dog-doo of a day.

I packed a lot of boxes. Full of books. Heavy books. I packed fifteen boxes in four hours. I was ordered around like a little soldier and you know, I thought, I'm getting really jack of this crap. Somebody played really bad (and I mean, woeful) music. I lost my temper and I'm still regretting it (but in my defense, I was hungry. You know what I'm like when I'm hungry. I get abominably cranky. Blame it on my Spanish blood).

There was book-dust everywhere. I woke up this morning with the dry throat usually associated with too much Baileys consumed the night before. I was in that hellfire-blasted shop from nine till nine. Today I am not doing a thing. Do you hear me? Not. One. Iota.

I'll be taking steps to find a new job. Yesterday made me realise that I need to do it now. So. Must revamp CV and send it out again into fair green Ireland.

Do you not?
That phrase has to be the cutest amongst all the Irish phrases I've heard so far. The Irish do not say, 'didn't you?' or 'doesn't she?', preferring instead to say, 'did you not?' and 'does she not?' Isn't it the coolest?

The commonest phrase I hear is 'Thanks a million.' This may be because I work at the cash-register.

The most complimentary stock-phrase I've received is, 'Ah, you're very good.' It needs that 'ah', and it is very run-on together. It's like a verbal pat on the head.

I'm trying to find out Irish curse-phrases. I'll be reporting on these soon, when I have a good number with which to scandalise the reading public.

Mark's downstairs cooking banana bread. We've returned from another book-launch. Can't beat those free canapés, champagne and wine!

It's rainy-wet outside again. If I may be allowed the audacity of quoting from one of my poems...

wet tires on macadam
make the sound of a million
zippers unzipping

What to tell
There was a stabbing here in Lucan a couple of nights ago. Bit strange, really. I heard the sirens outside and thought, What was that? An idea that just floated off until the following day when a workmate said, 'There was a killing near your place. Did you have anything to do with it?'

All the daffodils are shrivelling in their lawns. The evenings are warming up, and Mark might finally be able to get rid of the car we've had since Aberdeen. We are in the process of scoping out other places to live in Dublin that might prove closer in to work. The commute is just getting unbearable.

Still no word poetry-wise. No news must be good news, right?

Maybe.

Silence for a while
The days off I really like. It's the reality crash of work that's not so good.

Staff morale is ailing, and I really feel like making tracks for a town called Elsewhere.

I rang Australia and jawed a bit to my friends and family about how I am.

And I have nine poems that are currently in the limbo of Submission Land, where I await the 'aye' or 'nay'.

Why am I so elliptical? Today has not been the best of days. I swing between ennui and frustration. If the one intelligent person who works at the bookshop ever went, I don't know how I'd be able to keep my sense of humour.

Mark and I are thinking of buying a Vespa and commuting to work that way. I've always wanted a scooter (well, 'always' being about five years). They seem so cool. Much better than a bike—all that exertion!

We've also been going sick on jackfruit chips. It's our latest fad food. The things you find at an Asia Food Emporium. If ever there's a day you feel adventurous, I would thoroughly recommend spending time and money at one.

Postscript: I still want to get published.

Better
I'm getting a bit antsy with work. Not really too sure what to do. On the one hand, it's steady and comforting. On the other, I'm feeling dissatisfied. Ah, well...

I am so looking forward to my day off tomorrow. Have even got my outfit semi-planned out (one does these things, just to augment the feeling of perfection to the day). I need to wear something special and out-of-the-ordinary, something that's not suitable for work.

Furthermore, I am raring to go and find more poetry journals that might publish my work. First thing (or second thing tomorrow, depending on how I feel), I am heading to The Winding Stair Bookshop to grope among the dust-bunnies for lovely, lovely books.

Yesterday, Mark and I rented out The Piano, so that will also form part of Operation: Perfect Day Off. Things are looking better.

Another one
A Scotland-based journal that has just started up, Anon, has accepted a poem of mine. Yay! "Happy, happy, joy, joy!"

And the hour at the radio station also went well, I think. Who knows? Something might come out of it. Mark said I read my poems clearly, which is always a bonus.

Am I getting closer to publication? God, I hope so.

Days
Sometimes you bumble along and then other days it's like bam!

I worked at The Dubliner again today. Did I tell you that I'm giving up my days off? Because I work varied days at the bookshop, I can get a day off in the middle of the week. So, effectively, I work six-day weeks sometimes.

At the office, I was getting on with my tasks, when the pubisher asked if I wanted to be on the radio. I said, sure.

So I am spending Sunday, my only day off this week, reading my poems out on a community radio station, Anna Livia (103.2 FM, I think). Huzzah, and a little bit 'woe', at the same time (mainly because I feel a bit tired). But really, mostly 'huzzah'.

Eat Squid?
While researching for my Best Asian Food Market blurb, I came across this. Groove along to the snacks on the left-hand side. A bit New York-centric, but still cool, especially if you like weird Asian snacks.

Lads and ladies
Guess where this little entry is coming from? I feel like one of those elite group of bloggers who blog at work. I am at The Dubliner office, using my lunch hour to read magazines, so I thought I should let you peeps know.

Outside, the sun is shining, the street wet with recent rain, and I've just had my sushi fix, Mark's banana bread (which he cooked, after loving mine to bits), and about to start tucking into a piece of fruit.

Of course, you'll probably want to know what I've written. Well, why don't I just give you a taster? Here's one of my contributions to the mag's Best of Dublin list.

Best Hot Chocolate
Creamy. Complex. Smooth. But enough about my hot-beverage companion. Not much could be better than sitting down to a liquid treat such as this. I like my hot chocolates thick enough to choke on. At only 3 Euro a cup, with complimentary wrapped chocolates to heighten that sugar high, who wouldn't succumb? The only ingredient missing was the marshmallows. »

Aren't I just the queen of blurbs?

(Un)Pierced
Today is important. I removed my eyebrow ring and set it aside.

I've worn a piercing above my left eyebrow for three years (as you can see from this picture), since 2000, the year I started editing Togatus, my university magazine.

I never thought I'd be the sort of person who'd get any type of body modification done. I mean, I don't even drink (much) alcohol, don't do drugs (apart from sugar, i.e. chocolate), don't smoke, and am, generally, an all-around goofy square. So why did I get the piercing?

That's a question my mum asked after I did it. That's also a question Mark's mum gasped out in the middle of the walkway outside of Lazenby's at Uni when I met her by chance a day or two after. There are reasons, ones I didn't care to elaborate on at the time, reasons that I've never really articulated until I talked with Mark about it at the bus-stop as we waited to make our way into Dublin city.

I'd felt sad after I took out the latest and last piece of jewellery to be housed in my skin. 'Why don't you just get a new piece of jewellery? One that's silver? Maybe it won't get rejected.' 'No,' I said, 'my body had been rejecting them even before I got this coloured one. And that last one was silver. I think I'm taking this one out for good.' 'Well, you can always get another piercing.'

No, I don't think so. There wouldn't be the same reasons underpinning (hmm) the act.

'You see, getting my eyebrow pierced was kind of a marker. It was a very full-on time, editing Tog, and I wanted the piercing to mark that. And I guess it was also a way of telling people that when they look at me, they don't own the way I look, nor do they own their perception of me. I own my body. I own the way I look.

'It was also a reminder to me that I can deal with pain.' 'But you had anaesthetic.' 'Well, it was painful afterwards...' Mark laughs. 'And, I guess it was also a dare to myself, that I could actually do it, that I could handle it. I wanted to know if I would really go through with it.'

It also acted as a signifier to people. It said, 'Don't fuck with me. I can be tough if I need to be.' At least, that's what I wanted it to say.

Now what'll I do, now that it's gone, when nothing but scars remain? I'll just have to imagine, or pretend, that it's still there. Like a phantom limb, a memory of other times.

Though Mark is thinking of getting a piercing, too. Maybe that'll have to do for me.

Postscript: Sorry about the rude word, but I think today's entry merited it.

No skirt yet
But I'm working on it. That's not to say that I am not without substitutes. Jeans are good for keeping me warm. Like today, for instance. It was a coolish start, raining even, but the elements would have had the better of me, had I not been wearing jeans.

Isn't denim great?

I spent my lunch hour canoodling and tiddly-doodling around the shops, trying to find some place that sold clothes in my size range. I actually managed to find a couple. Now if I can only find some in my price range...

Mark might have had a job offer. That's good news. I can now get my once-white puffy coat dry-cleaned. Hurray!

I am reading two non-fiction books concurrently. Indulgence by Paul Richardson is about the convoluted history of chocolate (yum). I started reading it around the Easter break, too, which is très timely. And Editor by Max Hastings is all about his torrid and controversial editorialship at the Daily Telegraph. Verrry interrresting.

Now I'm off to eat some rice-cream.

Dollar signs in her eyes
I live in Lucan, County Dublin, a 20 minute bus-ride to the city (that is, on a good day. Peak hour is one hour. Yuk is the word you're looking for, I think.) Quite a suburban, cookie-cutter, no-brain one-template lifestyle. Estates rolling ever onward as far as the bus can drive.

Now that spring is deepening into summer, all the kids are out, throwing balls at each other—sometimes it's rocks at the bus.

Whereas in Australia, a family ticket denotes two adults and two children, Ireland must be the only country where such a ticket can include up to four children.

Excuse me while I guffaw into my cupped hand.

Tomorrow is late-night shopping, and I'm looking forward to nabbing me a skirt with my hard-earned moolah. Don't worry, this has been a budgeted purchase.

Windows
Tonight Mark cooked fish balls (ask me what these are, I dare you) in that packet noodle stuff that he likes so much (the brand's mi goreng if you want to seek it out at your local Asian emporium). Very spicy. So spicy that my lower lip is still stinging. And I also cooked banana bread, to use up the bananas that were lying around. I'm pretty pleased, because that means I can take some for lunch at work.

I spent my lunch-hour window-shopping today. But really, no windows were involved. I was actually able to pick up the merchandise (in this case, shoes).

Must be suffering from retail ennui, but at the cash-register side of the counter. Sometimes (like today), I get really... hmm, is disembowelled too strong a word? Maybe I mean a touch disembowelled from dealing with people all day. Sometimes I just want to hide away behind a door and just push pens and paper around.

Kick to kick
A small contingent of Hobartians in Dublin celebrated Easter Sunday with a traditional barbecue, braving the cool 8ºC (maximum) weather to have a friendly game of backyard soccer. One local Dublin representative even took part in the friendly sparring.

Intermittently, the sun shone, an event hailed by the cold-nosed antipodeans with raised glasses and much huzzah-ing.

Food consumed included cans of cider (v. good), beer, wine, three salads, burgers, sausages, chicken bits, steak, sweet potatoes, grilled vegetables and, for dessert, a trifle.

A good time was had by all.

Addendum: Yes, I got my choc eggs.

One poem UK-published!
Huzzah! Magma has accepted one of my poems!

I go on my way, rejoicing.

I am well-pleased. Can you see the grin on my face from where you are?

Eggs
I think we're doing something for Easter this year, but I'm a bit confused. There may be a bird roasted, but maybe not. There may be a barbecue, but maybe not. It's all up in the air at the moment, I think.

Thought it might be cool to ask someone from work to come along, but since I'm not sure what's happening, or when, for that matter (it might be this Saturday, or it might be Sunday), I haven't told them which day.

All I know is, I hope I get chocolate eggs. Because sometimes chocolate's all that really matters.

Many hats
Hmm, it doesn't look like a promising day out there in Dublin-land. Mark and I had planned to go out on the local train line, the DART, which runs north-south along the east coast. It's just a bit too clouded over to see anything picturesque, methinks. So, I predict a lazy day bleaching the bath, washing the shower curtains and mopping the floor of the kitchen. Whee!

Our Australian flatmate is heading to Amsterdam for a four-day stay. Lucky her! I told her to read my Aberdeen blog and go to the Amsterdam section. I think she must have liked what she read, because she asked whereabouts St Nicholaas Kerk was on the map.

One of the things that has surprised me about Ireland is just how littered it is. I'd envisioned a country more environmentally-conscious than Australia, and that's just not the case. Have I harped on this before? I probably have. Perhaps when I begin to see more of the country and not just staying in the city, I'll be able to see more of its beateous state. I guess growing up in Tasmania, I've been spoilt by seeing beautiful views everywhere I care to lay my gaze upon.

Oh hey, I haven't mentioned this yet, but I read my poems at an open mike section of a poetry reading. Hurray for me! I steeled myself, after much umm-ing and arrh-ing, and put my name down on the sheet, and read two poems. I got a pretty good reception, but I'm surprised at the quality of the readers for the open mike. Maybe it was a fluke, but I don't think so.

Could it be? Could it be that there is a higher concentration of good poets in Ireland? I think this may be the case. I felt like I was in a roomful of peers. Well, all I can say is, colour me impressed. Not to mention the audience, who were most appreciative and attentive. My goodness, I like it here.

A lot happens
Okay, I've just had the weirdest episode in a bookshop take place earlier this week.

I caught a man manipulating himself in the Sex section of the shop. He had to be escorted out of the centre by security. I think he's banned, now.

Not really sure why he couldn't just buy the book. Why the compulsion to do that in public? Just one of those things that makes you shake your head.

I'm currently reading The Rice Mother by Rani Manicka. Surprisingly quite good. Competent. Atmospheric.

Saw Johnny English starring Rowan Atkinson, on Sunday. I say, wait until it comes out on video.

I have a weekend off! Yay for me! Saturday, Sunday, here I come!

Two Irishisms today:
your man—the guy; that guy. 'Your man went to the shop.'
chancer—someone who takes advantage of a situation; what you'd call someone as a putdown.

A little anticlimax
I don't think it was the day today, starting off foggy and wet and muzzy like a geriatric dog. I think it was just that I'm not used to so much (brain) activity at once. Goodness, having to think! And write. And be witty (somewhat). And create something to order. But I did the task.

Guess there is a teensy bit of 'darn, I wish I had her job', once I met the editor.

But then look how the day turned out. Strolled down Wicklow Street, headed for my bank on Grafton Street, withdrew the rent-money (yay, I'm a little earner!), then beelined for a patch of grass on St Stephen's Green. I watched a kid, barely able to toddle, chase a mildly be-flustered pigeon with a slice of tomato.

Activate
Looks like things are swelling up to a roar of fun and frolic. Tomorrow, internship. Then a couple of freebies to attend in the next day and weeks (first, a screening of Johnny English, then a book launch involving drinks—whee!).

My sister's birthday is forthcoming. Gift purchased ... tick!
Email RSVP to invites ... tick!

Also—and this is one really cool thing—I can finally have something to edit! A newsletter! At the bookstore! 'All is swept by in exclamatory joy!' That's a (albeit imprecise) Sylvia Plath quote, from her Journal, I think.

There is money getting saved in the bank, too. Finally.

*breathe a sigh of relief*

The days are warming up. I am be-skirted lately, having shed the cocoon of my white puffy coat, and emerge into daylight's hours, disencumbered.

Irishisms, Part 1
Here are some phrases of note.

to give out—to scold; (Aus. coll.) to tell someone off.
"you're codding me"—"you're not serious"; "you must be joking".
"lookit"—"see here". Usually used at the start of an explanatory sentence.
"ehm"—"umm"; "er"; "uhh".

I went out for a drink after work with some of my workmates, and I learnt that, apparently, Guinness tastes differently, depending on the pub in which you partake of the ale.

Also, that there is no need to apply for a busking licence in Ireland (unlike in Hobart and, quite likely, in the whole of Australia), because there is a long tradition of busking here. Why did I want to know about a busking licence in Dublin? Because I was toying with the idea of performing my poems. But how serious am I?

I start an (unpaid) internship at The Dubliner (a locally-produced glossy mag with aspirations) this week, during my days off from the bookshop. It should prove edifying, but I am distinctly unimpressed by the lack of money to fund me. Hmm.

As one might expect from working in a bookshop, I am suddenly adrift with choice. Here are some books I've read recently:
• Cold Comfort Farm by Stella somebody-can't-remember-her-last-name—very amusing. Shades of Austen.
• Fingersmith by Sarah Waters—also quite good. Dickens atmosphere with a feminine twist.
• The Photograph by Penelope Lively—a skilled rendition of an character whom we never get to actually meet.
• Conditions of Faith by Alex Miller—something not quite satisfying about this novel, although it is evocative. Here's a passage from it. A supporting character, Antoine speaks on adultery:

'We don't recover... We get over the loss we've suffered. We learn to live with it. But we never recover our innocence. Our betrayal remains a sweet wound with us for the rest of our days. We did not know what we were doing. But the betrayal makes hypocrites of us all the same. we never believe again...not with that pure clarity of belief. After our first passion has failed us, there remains a shadow at the edge of all our desires.'

• Electricity by Victoria Glendinning—almost finished this book. Quite good, too, if quasi-feminist in tone.
• The Gift by David Flusfeder—just started this one. Looks good so far.

Another day off tomorrow. No plans apart from planning our meals and food-shopping for the week, as well as taking our second bite of the movie, Chicago (the first outing on Saturday being aborted by one of the patrons pitching an epileptic fit, thirty minutes in. The lights were turned on, an ambulance called and we all filed out. Mark and I had been enjoying it up until then).

Daylight saving today. An extra hour of sunshine is a just reward, methinks.

Ivy's Day Off
I don't have as much time, now that I'm a little money-earner and all, to blog about the sands that run through the hourglass. Although I am looking forward to tomorrow, as it's my day off.

Much missed at the moment is reading my poems out. That antsy feeling of actually needing to stand in front of an audience and speak out my poems is building and building. An outlet is needed and soon.

Baby-makers
At the bookshop I work in, I am assigned sections that I look after, which entails ordering or re-ordering stock. My sections are Health, Self-Help, Baby and Childcare, Humanities, Business and Biography. Needless to say, I know virtually nothing about these matters. In particular, Baby and Childcare.

Okay, I may have salvaged some knowledge during my bookshop time in Hobart, Tasmania, but not really, not enough to make me an expert. I guess now's as good a time to learn.

Anyway, Baby and Childcare. All I have to say is, what is it with these Irish folk? All my other sections are veritable turtles compared to the runaway rabbit that is Baby and Childcare. The books that talk about pregnancy, antenatal care, toddler-dom (imagine a kingdom of toddlers!) and what to name your baby—these fly out the door, seemingly as soon as they're put on the shelves.

I am astonished.

There must be a lot of baby-makers out there. Is it because there are not a few Catholics in the national mix, I wonder? Hmm. Well, one of the sub-sections is a Sex section, which deals with all manner of amatory delights. Maybe I should think about beefing it up. Though I don't think anybody around here needs any encouragement.

I had a really nice day off on Sunday. And the sun was out, too. So nice of it to oblige me. Mark and I chilled out in our backyard with a mini-picnic, eating cold chicken, cheeses, crackers, a sliced tomato, lettuce and strawberries, washed down with some cans of cider and glasses of sweet orange juice. We listened to the radio and absentmindedly waited for the washing to dry on the line. It felt like we were back in the backyard we had in West Hobart, in which we lived in a bijoux of a flat.

The sunsets have been something to see of late. Giant blurred-edge tangerines melting into the horizon.