Off the top of my head:
The rain has stopped. That’s something. And the wind; our youngest trees are leaning 45 degrees towards northeast. That’s what the Gulfstream will do for you. I wonder is that why we Irish seem to brace a little, lean forward with a wary smile, as if waiting for the next onslaught.
I walked into a butcher’s shop yesterday, hood up and head bowed.
‘Miserable, huh?’was the butchers greeting. I could only agree. If it was bad enough that we couldn’t go out it might be better. I didn’t bother wearing a coat when I walked the dog. It was warm and it seemed easier to not fight and just get wet. I am weathered.
Actually, if you want a true insight into the Irish pysche you should read John Boyne’s A History of Loneliness. I’ve been intending to write about it for weeks but I get a pain in my chest every time I think about it. It is funny, laugh out loud hilarious at times, but don’t read it unless you are prepared to know the worst of us, the evil we accepted in this country and to which we turned a blind eye. The worst was not being shocked by it because this history, to our eternal shame, is embedded in us.
So badly did I need a lift after John Boyne that I broke out the last Jilly Cooper, Jump! from six years ago.Did you hear? Rupert Campbell Black is BACK! Woohoo! I fell for Rupert in my teens when I moved straight from Judy Blume to Jilly Cooper. That now was a big leap! Jilly holds nothing back. I don’t know how she gets away with such politically incorrect ribaldry. Perhaps it’s because she is so posh. It’s all good fun and Rupert is, well to quote her nibs, ‘still Mecca for most women.’ The new book is darned expensive so I may have to hide my blushes and order it from the library.
Anyone else willing to admit to literary crushes? I’ve had too many to count. There was a Boy called Will in K.M. Peyton’s Flambards. I think he was the first. Mr. Darcy of course. Heathcliff (I am Heathcliff). Jay Gatsby. Rhett Butler (Scarlett, never at any crisis of your life have I known you to have a handkerchief) . Just last year, on re-reading To Kill A Mockingbird, I fell hard for Atticus Finch but that may be real love and not just a crush. Galbraith’s Cormoran Strike has appeal although Tom Burke who has been cast for the upcoming TV series, is not at all how I imagined him. My old book club, now sadly disbanded, read Fifty Shades of Grey by mistake. I swear, it was an accident, we had no idea what filthy hole we were falling, nay leaping, into. What a load of rubbish that was…Christian Grey is only a jumped up eejit. I refuse to even highlight his name in bold type. Honest to God, there are real men to be found in books if only people would look for them.
Until quite recently Rupert Campbell Black was most definitely in the pole position but he has been nudged into second by the literary skill of Winston Graham (let’s face it, he beats Jilly Cooper hands down for plot, pacing and possibly even riding skills). Like a fine jockey on a good horse, Aidan Turner, has sped past the post and the new, official, Sultanabun Stud-in-a-Book award goes to Captain Ross Poldark.
“Since I met you,’ he said, ‘I’ve had no eyes and no thought for any other girl. When I was away nothing mattered about my coming back but this. If there was one thing I was sure of, it wasn’t what I’d been taught by anyone else to believe, not what I learned from other people was the truth, but the truth that I felt in myself- about you.’
I’ll say no more. Read it yourself. And weep.
I read the first three books last summer before watching the show. Funnily enough, they got me through a wet week that time also. I’ve just bought books 4 and 5 so I’m keeping ahead of the TV show.
This is the pile that came in yesterday’s post. Bliss.
You can also see that the granny square blanket has reached the putting-together stage. Vibrant is one word for it but I’m leaning towards lurid. Oh dear.
The family had a big treat on Sunday when The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain came to Cork. So, so funny and wonderful. My kids have been singing and plucking strings non-stop since they got home. My eleven-year-old sat on the bedroom floor this morning while I was making my bed so that I could hear her rendition of Teenage Dirtbag (Instagram to the left).
Apparently, the kids need me to learn four guitar chords (to add to the 3 I know!) so that I can join them in a medley of Fly Me To The Moon/ I Will Survive/ Killing Me Softly/ Love Story like this one. There are dozens of great clips on YouTube but, given our conversation today, I had to go for this one… (you will laugh, I promise.)