I had a really lovely day today. I woke early (which I normally love on a Sunday because it means I can sigh contentedly roll over and kip for another few hours) but I was anxious to get on with proofing the reader's copy of 'The Heron's Flood' to check for final final final changes. So I read this WONDERFUL novel until about half ten when himself shouted up that the stirabout was ready. So up, washed and togged within twenty minutes (I'm low maintenance) and savoured the porridge with sultanas. I denied myself even so much as a glance at the Sunday papers because therein lies ruin - I lose at least two hours of my life every time I do that; then moan that there is nothing in them. The wonderful Colm Toibin was on the radio chatting about his upcoming play'Testament' in the Dublin Theatre Festival. It is about one of the much sung but strangely poorly depicted (in terms of theatre) historical characters - Mary, mother of Jesus. There is definitely 'something about Mary' and I am really looking forward to this play, particularly as both Garry Hynes and Marie Mullen are involved. A must-see of the Festival methinks. Plus Colm's mate Loughlinn Deegan chose one of my favourite tracks as a song he associated with Colm - Tom Waites 'I hope that I don't fall in love with you'
Then meself and son#2 hopped into the car and headed for Balbriggan's Sunday open-air market. My sister has a stall there and I visit the odd time - always at this time of the year to pick up my winter fireside rug from my lovely rug man with whom I have my annual natter, solve the problems of the country and always walk away with a lovely rug for under thirty euro, can't be bet. I bought some home made blackberry jam - early but feckin' gorgeous, a few cute second hand 'ormadils', proper mucky misshapen carrots and real dark green cabbage. I also picked up two sporting books for Jemser and Kurt Cobain's 'Journals' for son #1 - mesmerising for insight into a brilliant but, I think, not fully rounded mind (I'll be killed for that). Poor bugger. Great market - sometimes full of crap but you'll pick up the odd gem, don't bring too much cash and in general kids over five love it, it's always worth it for the characters. Particularly worth it to view with amusement the fleeing traders who trade in the perennial counterfeit DVDs, illegally imported cheapo fags and sometimes electrical tools of dubious origin who run with their wares as the Gardai pay at least three visits over a six hour period.
Back home and Jemser had the dinner underway - Championship Sundays = early dinners. That man makes the best gravy in the 26 counties. I re-read 'Dancing at Lunaghasa' (son #2 is studying it for the Leaving) as I had a cuppa and was mesmerised again by the language characters and symbolism. A classic. The Sunday roast, roasties and two veg with a glass of red knocked me out so I had a three o'clock six o clock snooze. It was great to wake up refreshed at five oclock with the All-Ireland over (hard luck Tipp) the dishes done and feeling refreshed enough to write a little. Mind you I have RSI and am warned off. But Jesus lads - I'd crack up if I couldn't blether. BTW, can you get RSI of the mouth? Probably not, for I'd surely be crocked if you could. It had been raining when I fell asleep earlier reminding me of many wet Sunday afternoons when the kids were smaller and fractious, I couldn't drive and Jemser wouldn't budge from RTE and the GAA. I often felt like strangling someone before teatime. Changed times.
It was a lovely evening so I did a little late season dead-heading - the garden is struggling but still looking well. I went for a ramble and a bit of a think and now I'm settling down to some knitting for the expected new arrival ( after a eleven year gap) into the Walsh clan. This babby is going to be the only babby ever born. Deffo. And the most wanted, cherished loved and adored baby too. And YIZ BETTER MAKE ME AUNTIE VERY SPECIAL!!
I might even read the Sunday papers after a while.
Then meself and son#2 hopped into the car and headed for Balbriggan's Sunday open-air market. My sister has a stall there and I visit the odd time - always at this time of the year to pick up my winter fireside rug from my lovely rug man with whom I have my annual natter, solve the problems of the country and always walk away with a lovely rug for under thirty euro, can't be bet. I bought some home made blackberry jam - early but feckin' gorgeous, a few cute second hand 'ormadils', proper mucky misshapen carrots and real dark green cabbage. I also picked up two sporting books for Jemser and Kurt Cobain's 'Journals' for son #1 - mesmerising for insight into a brilliant but, I think, not fully rounded mind (I'll be killed for that). Poor bugger. Great market - sometimes full of crap but you'll pick up the odd gem, don't bring too much cash and in general kids over five love it, it's always worth it for the characters. Particularly worth it to view with amusement the fleeing traders who trade in the perennial counterfeit DVDs, illegally imported cheapo fags and sometimes electrical tools of dubious origin who run with their wares as the Gardai pay at least three visits over a six hour period.
Back home and Jemser had the dinner underway - Championship Sundays = early dinners. That man makes the best gravy in the 26 counties. I re-read 'Dancing at Lunaghasa' (son #2 is studying it for the Leaving) as I had a cuppa and was mesmerised again by the language characters and symbolism. A classic. The Sunday roast, roasties and two veg with a glass of red knocked me out so I had a three o'clock six o clock snooze. It was great to wake up refreshed at five oclock with the All-Ireland over (hard luck Tipp) the dishes done and feeling refreshed enough to write a little. Mind you I have RSI and am warned off. But Jesus lads - I'd crack up if I couldn't blether. BTW, can you get RSI of the mouth? Probably not, for I'd surely be crocked if you could. It had been raining when I fell asleep earlier reminding me of many wet Sunday afternoons when the kids were smaller and fractious, I couldn't drive and Jemser wouldn't budge from RTE and the GAA. I often felt like strangling someone before teatime. Changed times.
It was a lovely evening so I did a little late season dead-heading - the garden is struggling but still looking well. I went for a ramble and a bit of a think and now I'm settling down to some knitting for the expected new arrival ( after a eleven year gap) into the Walsh clan. This babby is going to be the only babby ever born. Deffo. And the most wanted, cherished loved and adored baby too. And YIZ BETTER MAKE ME AUNTIE VERY SPECIAL!!
I might even read the Sunday papers after a while.
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