Welcome Home - Week 2 (Delayed)

I feel like i've made a terrible mistake at some point, and stepped through a mirror. My worries are abstract - based on the opinions of people across the world, or messages through a phone I can turn off. 

I'm almost surprised when something physical and real happens - like 'oh, that's a thing!' 

I lie awake in the morning, reading news and email on a phone, I plug in headphones and walk to the train, work on a computer, videoconferencing with people I rarely meet, surrounded by other people, all gazing at their screens.

Sometimes I travel, for ten hours, I look at a different screen, in a smaller chair, to arrive in a hotel. Thank god, as I plug into another screen. 

I cook, I talk to my wife, but often we're on our phones. 

I studied Digital media technology - using these tools to create. I thought I was so clever - now you can use an Instagram filter, and get better results. So much of my life is abstract, I'm worried that I need to come home, get back to something real. 

I daydream about only having a world I can see and touch.

Then I write about it on a cloud-hosted blog. Banal. 

Week 2.2 - Welcome home

I can still clearly remember the first night at home with my baby son.

"Welcome home". It's a phrase normally punctuated with an exclamation mark, and infused with warm, fuzzy feelings of happiness, familiarity, safety.

Sure, happiness was in there. But familiarity and safety? Not by a long shot! Fear, on the other hand? The feeling I'd talked myself into a job I was vastly under-qualified for? Check, and check.

We got home in the afternoon - Sean, baby Matthew and me, along with a bunch of "Welcome Baby Boy" and similar cards and a collection of stuff that was really too much for such a small person to have gathered together as essentials in just over 24 hours of life.

Like someone with the 'flu, I felt relatively OK until night fell. Sure, we hadn't a barney what we were doing, but I had no doubt that given time we'd be wielding muslin clothes and getting legs as ridiculously wriggly as they were tiny into miniature trousers as confidently as the best of them. Maybe daily baths would even become a thing - just because I could, rather than as some awful self-punishment.

Already familiar with the exhaustion that was to become as normal in my life as Cornflakes for breakfast, the three of us headed off to bed at the same time.

Matthew seemed to cop the point of bedrooms quite quickly, heading off to sleep with ease.

Sean and I...didn't. We couldn't. Suddenly the huge responsibility we'd taken on made itself comfortable and settled its whole weight on our shoulders. Perhaps I'd read too much into the SIDS info, but all at once the job of successfully keeping our little scrap of a baby alive through that night and all the others to come became as challenging as climbing a mountain. In a wheelchair. With no water.

We didn't sleep much that night. I cried at a point.

Fast forward 18 months or so and there are still some nights when I don't sleep much. And cry. But the reasons have changed. Two nights ago the scrap of a baby who has turned into a bolshy toddler vomited on my face, which effectively put paid to quality slumber that night. And tears are a destination I'm sometimes driven to by the same toddler, whose relationship with sleep has changed since that first night to some sort of on-again-off-again one that I for one just can't predict.

But, thank God, the first night fear is but a memory.

Week 1.2 Restart - Laura

“Will ye ever whisht, the farming weather’s about to start,” Jim said gruffly, his manner both terse and resigned.

His tone was one that brooked no argument. Years ago it had worked a charm at immediately bringing the household to a silent pause, unpaused only when the meteorologist gladdened, or more often broke, his heart with news of the expected weather. In recent years, however, it had become ultimately ineffective against the babble (he’d given up tuning in, so couldn’t say whether it was friendly conversation or argument) of his three children.

“What’s wrong with companionable silence?” he thought to himself as the familiar theme tune jingled its way from the television set to his ears.

“Good afternoon, and thanks for joining me for your weekly farming forecast,” forecaster Evelyn Cusack began.

“The past week saw more rainfall than average for this time of year,” the familiar voice continued.

“You don’t have to remind me,” Jim thought, shaking his head at the thoughts of the mowing he’d done on Tuesday that had been promptly followed by showers as heavy as he’d seen last winter.

As the forecaster stepped from one side of the map of Ireland behind her to the other, Jim recognised that her reflections on the weather that had gone before were being wrapped up, and the important bit - what was to be expected next week - was on the way.

“Shush,” he bellowed, to no avail.

Not able to hear exactly what weather he could expect, Jim leaned forward to see if the charts Evelyn was summoning to the screen as if by magic could fill in the gaps. He thought it suggested the rain might hold off until Tuesday night, and so let him get the top field mowed and picked up before then, but without the glasses he could never find he couldn’t say for sure.

“...heavy showers,” Evelyn concluded. “Good afternoon.”

And it was over.

“What heavy showers?” Jim panicked. “When?”

“Three Goddamn minutes, is that too much to ask for?” Jim shouted. “Three minutes for a bit of help from Met Eireann so I can keep doing my level best to keep this farm from going under and keep you in the style you’ve become accustomed to. Sure for all I got from that forecast I would have been as well going out and asking the dog what he thinks. I may as well toss a coin to decide when to mow now.”

“Just rewind it Dad,” Clodagh, the six-year-old apple of Jim’s eye, suggested innocently.

“I can’t rewind it, silly billy,” Jim said, softening a little. “It wasn’t a recording, it was today’s weather.”

“That doesn’t matter, you can rewind it. You can even go right back to the beginning of it if you like,” Clodagh insisted, skipping over to the collection of remotes on the coffee table and taking control of them with all the confidence of her young years.

A few button presses later, and Evelyn was once more bidding Jim a good afternoon and thanking him for joining her for the forecast.

An old dog, Jim had as much chance of learning how to time travel back to the start of the forecast himself as he had of figuring out how to do what his little girl had just done.

“Turns out you’re worth your salt after all,” Jim smiled, ruffling Clodagh’s hair. “Give me a hand with the herding and I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d worked your way up to an ice-cream after dinner.”

Week 1.2 Restart - Andrew

I always buy runners. 

Then I have a stake in the game - I don't want to be that guy who bought runners and never runs. I run for a few weeks - months if i'm lucky. 5k in 30 mins, and I love it. I feel great. I'm happy, proud, and positive. Then i miss one. I have to travel for work, I miss a couple, and then I'm not running. 

I start to track my food in myfitnesspal. I do well until i'm in a routine, then I travel, or have a birthday, or get a cold, or some other excuse. Most recently, it was fox's classics. They put fox's classics beside our kettle in work. Have you had one recently? After avoiding sugar for six weeks, the crunchy biscuit is like a sparkler in your mouth, the creamy filling like a velvet blanket. 

I haven't restarted. I haven't bought runners, and I amn't logging in myfitnesspal. 

I bought a synthesiser, and i've started to record with the band. We're picking thing a week back up, but I know none of them are the problem. 

The problem requires a serious restart. 

Week 42 - Andrew - Debate

Let me present the case in defense of an aspect of my life few people understand, and a scheme I have been undertaking for some time now. 

Every day, I wear black socks. Marks and Spencer, size 9 black socks. I don't have special socks for special occasions, I don't have dressy socks, I don't have casual socks. 

We don't have a tumble drier, and we have to hang the socks out to dry. this is a fiddly job, and I hate it. I also hate pairing socks. It is an annoying job, with little return for time spent. 

My wife is an extremely kind woman, and she sometimes washes my clothes - she has complained about how difficult it is to pair identical black socks. 

Now, I love my wife, and I want to spare her from difficult jobs. 

These were the pieces in play before I began my scheme. 

If you assume that all black socks are identical (which, given how difficult they are to pair, would seem true), then there is no need to pair socks. Any black M&S sock will go with any other M&S sock. 

I've heard complaints here, people who say they can't wear socks if they know they came from seperate pairs. To those people, I say - the time you spend thinking about socks, I spend productively reading articles about old engines on the internet. Who is winning now? 

So now, I have a drawer with un-paired black socks. So far, so productive, and Aoife's job is easier. There is, however, another barrier to a happy life - washing and drying all these socks. 

I'm a hygenic enough man, and I like to wear fresh socks every day. That's fourteen socks to be washed a week! Every week, for the rest of my life, I have to wash fourteen socks. It's enough to take up regular heroin use. 

This is why, for a period of time last year, I didn't wash socks. I bought socks. My target was to buy 90 pairs of socks. What a waste of money, right? 

Wait - If you assume that a normal pair of socks wears out after a year's wear - that's 52 wears, if you have seven pairs of socks. oof - heavy work on that poor sock. With my system though, it would take thirteen years to get to fifty two wears of a pair of socks! Imagine not having to buy socks for thirteen years! 

There's also the question of washing socks - That weekly chore? One big wash every three months. Granted it's a bigger job, but it's less annoying than a constant grind. 

This point of view is somehow controversial. I always try to maintain a balanced view on the world. If I feel strongly about something, I will try to empathise with those who feel the opposite. This helps me to moderate my views. 

In this case, however, I cannot see how moderation is called for - 90 pairs of socks. Buy socks once every thirteen years, wash socks every three months. 

You know I'm right. 

Week 42 - Laura - debate

To get a fringe or not? It really is one of the great debates of our time. Or maybe just my time. As in my time right now. Today. This minute.

I’ve finally broken up with Mark, and I’m determined to rubberstamp my decision with a brand new hairstyle. Sure, it’s clichéd, but it’s effective. And even though I’m pretty sure it’ll end in disaster, I’m thinking of a fringe.

The funny thing is every girl who gets a fringe knows she’s going to end up hating it. She just doesn’t know when. Maybe she’ll love it for a couple of years. Maybe she’ll get sick of it in a month. That’s the magic, and the mystery, of a fringe. Much like the magic and the mystery of Mark, now that I think about it.

I suppose, technically, it’s not the fringe you end up hating. It’s the thing the fringe becomes when you decide to grow it out.

Fringes seem to need trimming every twenty minutes or so. Weirdly though, it takes about a hundred years for a fringe to grow out. And in the meantime you’re stuck with in-between-y strands of hair that are neither short nor long and are only good for looking crap.

“So, what’s it to be?,” my new stylist asks as she eyeballs me in the mirror, scissors at the ready. I swear she's laughing at me. Probably because she knows the internal argument I've been having with myself for the past five minutes word for word. And she knows how it ends too.

Feck it, for better or worse, I’m doing it!

Week 41 - Andrew - Dinner last Friday

Lunch

The day was bright and blue. As we passed over the Samuel Beckett bridge, I picked out the sunlight on the water. It is that memory I will take with me when I no longer work here. The taxi driver was giving me feedback on my directions. I could save myself money by taking a different route.

'If he stops talking' I thought 'I can save money by not vomiting on his taxi'.

I had been drinking, and heavily. There was prosecco, and cocktails, and whiskey, and vodka - straight, and a bottle of cider. and some champagne and lots of all of it. There wasn't much food, and even less thought as to how I would manage to survive.

The office was quiet with people, but loud otherwise. The noise was loud, even from the ground floor. The lift opened on my floor. There were maybe a hundred people there. Men and women, twenty five, thirty and forty years old.

It was eleven in the morning, and they were dancing and drinking. A sales manager had set up a PA system, and it was banging - LOUD. Two directors had set up a bar on a desk, and were racking up STRONG bloody marys in red solo cups.

I stepped backwards, and the lift doors shut, to take me away, to a toilet cubicle.

The rest of the morning passed in a sweaty montage of conversations, retching, solpadeine and Todd Terje's greatest hits.

Lunch was healing. Salty chips and hotdog sausages. We sat, the survivors, staring at each other. Asking the same questions - "Did that happen?" "Did we really see them do that?" With each second, with each grain of salt, everything became easier to handle.

Dinner

The clear day had given way to a freezing black evening.

Two hours face-down on the couch, I was surprised I couldn't see the imprint of the cushion etched red on my face. More Solpadeine fizzing through my blood, nominally curing my headache, but mostly acting as a security blanket against a harsh and unfeeling world.

Comfort was easy at dinner. Hot food, good company and clear, pure sparkling water. Soft music and easy conversation. Trust and fun, nonsense arguments and acceptance.





P.S. - Esprit de L'Escalier

People probably take drugs because they're fun.

There are probably points on the spectrum between 'no drugs are legal' and 'there is no law'. I am advocating in favour of one of these points.

People should take pride in their work, I enjoy restaurants, I have tremendous respect for the people who work there. It's just unusual to start cleaning away plates when someone at the table is still blatantly eating.

Just how many Solpadeine would I have to take for it to be an addiction? Fizzy water is massively improved by the addition of codeine.

Week 41 - Laura - dinner last Friday

What’s my greatest skill as a waiter? Oh without a doubt it’s keeping a pretty believable smile on my face and remaining outwardly pleasant to you diners while inside I’m having a good bitch and moan session about you all.

So I took your friends’ plates away before your wife was finished. Honestly, I’m finding it difficult to give a shit. It’s just dinner, for God’s sake; I didn’t murder anyone. Although right now I can’t guarantee that won’t happen before the night is out.

It’s not just you being a pain in the hole tonight. Oh no, you’re in good company. Your man over at the table by the window insisted on speaking to a manager because of the wait for his dinner. Clearly he missed the hundred or so other people here tonight. All being taken care of by Kim, yours truly and the manager whenever she can be arsed getting down off her high horse and pitching in. I no more believe it’s the ‘flu keeping Kevin and Stace off work tonight than I believe in the Easter bunny.

Bloody etiquette. I read somewhere the French just came up with the whole idea to stave off boredom. Well thanks to them, and you, staving off boredom is about all I’ll be doing on my day off tomorrow, because your little outburst means I won’t be getting my hands on any of this evening’s tips.

Do you really think I’m doing this job because I’m passionate about serving food to people? That’d be a no. I’ve more passion for the old woman with the blue rinse next door who smells like she hasn’t washed in six months than I have for this. And that's no passion at all, just in case you're thinking I'm some sort of perv with a blue rinse/BO fetish.

Roll on Christmas, and a break from this kip. And New Year. It's time for a few resolutions.

Week 40 - Laura - drunk

The word ‘drunk’ is so boring.

Going forward I’m going to try use some of these alternative words or phrases instead:

I was Moulin Rouged

I was pixelated

I was overcome

I was jiggered

I was pickled

My head was full of bees

I was cabbaged

I was boiled as an owl

I was on a toot

My wits were muddled

I couldn’t see a hole in a ladder

I couldn’t lie down without holding on

I was measuring paths upside down

I was three sheets to the wind

I was drunk as a wheelbarrow

I’d taken off my considering cap

I lost my rudder

I had my wobbly boots on

Week 40 - Andrew - Drunk

It's very difficult to write about drinking. 

Here are the things I've started to write, and why I've stopped writing them. 

1) The story of Dirty Friday, a memorable night out - god, why would you write that, binge drinking is a serious problem. Also, you're 32 years old, for God's sake! You shouldn't be talking about that! 

2) Fun stages of drunk, like how my wife and I, after two bottles of wine, will inevitably talk about starting a Fleetwood Mac Tribute band - Two bottles of wine doesn't sound good. That might be too much. That's a bottle each. 

3) Descriptions of my favourite drinks - Mist on the side of a perfectly clear vodka martini? The salty tang of a bloody mary? the richness of a deep burgundy? A crisp white, with some grilled fish? What are you, the alcoholic observer food section? 

4) A serious paragraph on the relationship with alcohol you naturally have as an Irish man.  Youcan't write that! You hate pints! Don't even like guinness...

5) The enduring seductive power of oblivion, and altered states in general - Really? That's stuff you should probably be telling a counsellor. That goes nowhere good. I mean, it's absolutely true that no-one can live in a world with homebase, and sales quotas, and buzzfeed, and not want to catapult their consciousness into a beautiful plane of existence full of laughter and song. You can't say that though - maybe there are people who don't think that. 

6) A list of things I do better drunk than sober - that's something you wrote on an old blog, a long time ago. You don't play pool any more, and you've realised that you have more social competence, if not confidence when you're sober rather than drunk. 

7) Great Drinking Stories (tm) - The anecdotes I trot out that everyone around me is sick of hearing. Trains in Russia, Upstairs in Doyles, etc. etc. etc. Sad, just sad. 

In conclusion, this has made me consider my life more than most other Thing a week entries. I hope you're happy, past me! 

Week 39 - Andrew - Dear Diary

December 2015 

Dear Diary, 

My life is different this year. A lot changed, a lot stayed the same, but writing this entry, I’m pleased with all of it. 

First of all, the big change. I finally got it together and lost the weight. I don’t worry about it as much now, and I feel a lot healthier. I regularly run 5ks around the neighborhood, and occasionally run 10K. I’ve become more active in my hobbies as well. Aoife and I took an active holiday this year, and went hiking in the Alps. 

Long walks and hot tea have become my favorite things in the world. 

I dress better. 

Aoif and I are better than ever. We’re more present for each other, and we continue to talk about things immediately, rather than letting them sit. We travel more together, and we are more in control of our time than we have ever been before. 

Professionally, I continued to see good results, and reap the rewards. This year, I haven’t yet begun to study for an MBA, but I am in the late stages of starting to do it.  I broadened my network, and have raised my profile outside my own company, in the wider industry. I regularly take on outside speaking engagements. 

We’ve continued to save money, and are in a position to spend a little bit on ourselves, as well as putting away for the future. 

We’re closer to our friends. Our lives are different at the moment, but we haven’t let that become a barrier. In particular, I’ve been guilty of not prioritizing friends, and letting my work dictate my schedule. A few years ago, I undid the worst of this, but this was the year I finally achieved work-life balance. I still work late, but I am less flexible with my personal commitments. 

I was supportive to my family during a transitional time, and we remain close. The time we all spend together is relaxing and enjoyable. 

Week 39 - Laura - Dear diary

When I was young I kept a memory book. A memory book, for those who don’t know, is like a diary for the lazy, with only sporadic entries required or expected. I dug it out yesterday. I didn’t write it to be entertaining, but how I laughed reading it. Kept mainly in my early teens, unsurprisingly it’s mainly a record of unrequited crushes and worries about kissing boys. I also recorded a few of my (undated) feelings about my mam becoming pregnant when I was 15...

“The way I feel now is...weird. Mammy is going to have another baby. When it’s my age I’ll be 30. Ugh! It’s so weird. WEIRD!”

“We’ve decided on names for the kid.

Boy - Marc

Girl - Averil

I’m not so keen about Marc, but still, it’s better than Evan.”

“Mammy went in to hospital at quarter to five. I feel so confused. It’s the end of all the familiar stuff. It’s not a cousin, it’s a brother or sister. HELP! The world is so full of hassles. I hope I don’t cry in the hospital.”

“It’s a girl. Born at 1.27pm on Sunday, 30th June, 1996. Avril Victoria Francis. She’s gorgeous. I cried when I heard. I’m such a wreck!!! She’s home now. She is sooo cute.”

That’s all the mention you get from those years Avril. Sorry for being a bit uncertain about you at the beginning. Eighteen years on though, and I wouldn’t swap you for the world!

Week 38 - Andrew - Sin

Bless me father for I have sinned. This week, I have broken the majority of these commandments in some sense. 

1. You shall have no other gods before Me.
   Thursday Night - at my boss' leaving drinks, I definitely prayed to the god of beer to bless me with a reprieve from his horrible punishment. He did not bless me.
   
2. You shall not make idols.
   I am almost certain I have stroked my car this week. That's not normal.
   
3. You shall not take the name of the LORD your God in vain.
   Jesus Christ - how is this still a sin?
   
4. Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.
   Certainly remembered that it was Sunday - but a roast chicken and a documentary about Kurt Cobain was as holy as it got. (there were serious holes in the documentary's theory)
   
5. Honor your father and your mother.
   I mean, I don't think I've...dis-honoured them? Certainly made different choices than they'd make...
   
6. You shall not murder.
   While I didn't actually murder anyone, after a good sales meeting, I did say that 'we killed it'. Which is a worse sin than murder.
   
7. You shall not commit adultery.
   No, I didn't do this. On an unrelated note - If I die, please just delete my internet history. Better yet - just burn my computer.
   
8. You shall not steal.
   I work for an un-named tech company. there are snack racks. I haven't paid for chewing gum in a year.
   
9. You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.
   Wierdly, I'm not sure I did this one. wait! no, I did! I was horrible about someone's facebook pictures.
   
10. You shall not covet.
     There was very little I didn't covet. Especially food! I certainly coveted a sandwich I saw a guy eating. 

10/10  - ACHEIVEMENT COMPLETE! 

Week 38 - Laura - Sin

“It’s a sin,” Neil Tennant intones, judging me via my CD player speakers as I unwrap the last KitKat Chunky of the multipack.

Gluttony is a difficult vice to defend when you’re a fan of the Pet Shop Boys, I muse.  Of course that’s particularly the case when four KitKats form just part of the evening’s comfort eating menu, and come after I’ve single-handedly (mouthedly?) dealt with a Domino’s meal deal for three. And still have plans to attack the Oreo cookie ice-creams I know are in the bottom drawer of the freezer.

“I know it is, Neil,” I say out loud, stooping to a new low by carrying on a conversation with a song that was recorded in 1987. “But so is lust, right? And I’m pretty sure fucking Janet Jackson - no, not the singer, our slag of a neighbour of the same name - falls into that category. So you’d better be tunefully lecturing Luke this evening too.”

Have a break?, I think, swallowing the last of the KitKat without even tasting it. Oh, Luke and I will definitely be having one of those. A long one. ‘Til death, there or thereabouts. And I’ll tell you I’d love to help him a little closer to that milestone with another sort of break right now. Ideally a collarbone. I’ve heard that’s pretty horrific. Even a leg break would do though. We’d soon see how attractive he is to Janet when he’s wearing a cast instead of his skimpy rugby shorts.

I should’ve known that tart’s new-found interest in Luke’s over-35s team was more than just “being a good neighbour”. Of course stupid me took her at face value. I even tried to set her up with George, one of Luke’s teammates.

Now it’s me who’ll need pity dates, I think as I hiccup, and quickly slide the first ice-cream out of its packet and shove it down my throat to stop the lump that's there moving any further up.

“It’s a, it’s a, it’s a, it’s a sin,” Neil selfishly continues to chant in the background as he reaches the song's grand crescendo, totally oblivious to the fact that my world is falling around my feet. Which, if I continue to eat at this rate, will soon be connected to the rest of me by cankles, a little voice in my head warns.

Neil blithely moves on to 'I Want to Wake Up'. And I wonder if my relationship with him is nearing its end too.

I think I need more supplies.

Week 37 - Andrew - What I did last Tuesday afternoon

My outlook calendar from last Tuesday would tell you that I had an XFN with GSS, a Client Perf. catchup, a 1:1, and a PST review.

My notebook has a lot of scribbles, and the word 'Strategy' underlined three times. Someone said 'Strategy', and I wrote it down. Unfortunately I don't know if it was GSS, the client team or the guy dialling in on VC from PST.

My facebook chat logs show that I was making puns about beastie boys lyrics, while trying to organise a training session. I didn't speak to anyone outside of work during this time on facebook.

Gmail is where I do my real out-of-work chatting. Aoif and I chatted a lot about the building work we were doing in the house. The shower had to be replaced, so we talked a lot about how much to pay the builder. She showed me an article about a friend of hers who got engaged to a famous sports personality, I called her a brainy beauty. We flirted a bit, it was nice.

At one stage, I looked at a 2 minute video clip on how to drill into ceramic tiles. (use a special bit, and use masking tape to get purchase on the surface)

I spoke to my brother a lot about the ECU problems you would see with my Mercedes vs his BMW. This may have been why my notes from the client meeting were so paltry.

On the whole, last Tuesday afternoon was largely representative of most days, at least the documentary evidence. I'm a lucky man, I am in love with my wife, and we are building a good life and a nice home together. I have a close friendship with my brother, and I get on well with my colleagues in a job I enjoy.

I'm crap at taking notes. What the hell was this 'Strategy?'

Week 37 - Laura - What I did last Tuesday afternoon

If there’s one thing last Tuesday afternoon taught me it’s that I’ll love my son no matter what.*

If only because I made him myself.**

I made butter shortbread cookies for the first time ever last Tuesday afternoon. (Just bear with me…)

It wasn’t my choice. They cropped up on the schedule of a baking course I was doing. It would have been churlish to refuse.

If you’d asked me my opinion on shortbread cookies last Monday afternoon, or even last Tuesday morning, I’d have argued that they’re a weak link in the cookie army.

At least one round tin of Danish Butter Cookies showed up in my house every Christmas when I was a child, and I couldn’t believe that anyone actually liked them.

I remember thinking that they didn’t really deserve to be called cookies. Chocolate chip cookies set the cookie standard, and Danish butter ones just didn’t belong in the same category. Or, indeed, the world.

Fast forward a couple of decades and a few more years for luck, and last Tuesday afternoon I found myself mixing butter, caster sugar and icing sugar together - step one in making the really rather characterless cookies. “I can always give them away,” I thought, as I added in flour, ground rice and roasted ground almonds.***

After an hour of letting the paste chill in the fridge, I cut out the bland biscuits. I baked them for about 20 minutes, and, after only a glance, let them cool.

Then I tasted my work, and OH MY GOD - amazing! How have I never appreciated the delicate taste of a butter shortbread cookie before? How could I have written off this beautiful biscuit? They are the business!

Now see even at this stage, if pressed, I’d equate Mario with something like a milk chocolate goldgrain - one of the best and most upstanding in the biscuit world.**** It’s a mighty starting point, but last Tuesday afternoon has taught me that even if, God forbid, he takes a wrong path in life and turns into a delinquent of the butter shortbread cookie variety, I’ll adore him still.*****

*Although I’m pretty sure he’s going to be super-loveable for a million reasons.

**with help from Sean

***I promise not to give you away Mario!

****I’m sure nobody is going to press me to liken my unborn child to a biscuit, but it’s best to be prepared.
*****Comparing my child with a biscuit is perhaps a new low for me. Maybe I'm more tired than I thought. I might go take a nap now...

Week 36 - Laura - luxury

Luxury is...

...leisurely balcony breakfasts

...fresh bed linen

...buying myself flowers

...not setting an alarm

...ice-creams after dinner

...brunch with friends

...tea from a teacup and saucer

...afternoon naps

...month-long honeymoons

...warm towels

...milking parlour chats with my dad

...Mammy dinners

...walks with Ralph

...knowing there’s enough money in my bank account

...wandering on Portmarnock beach

...reading trashy novels in a hot bath

...being minded when I’m sick

Week 36 - Luxury - Andrew

A room costs 3 euro. A room with a window and a fan costs 5. Your 3 euro room comes with access to a shared cold shower. A room with a hot shower will run you 12 euro, and aircon could knock you up to 18 euro. Bear in mind that you are in a rural part of Cambodia - You stay in the cold shower, no window, no aircon room.

You need a car, for 2000 Euro, you can get an 8 year old 1.6l Skoda Octavia with more mileage than the International Space station. You'll have to drive to a yard in Stradbally and buy it from a man in a frayed jumper who smells of damp cigarette smoke.

To furnish your house - Ikea deliver the best balance of quality and value. The product won't let you down. You can get cheaper (fractionally), but it will let you down, and you'll end up buying it again. Try and go during a sale, you can put lights in your living room for 10 euro.

Pre-prepared food is expensive, go to a greengrocers and a butchers to get your food. Get cheap cuts, chicken thighs, pork shoulder, stewing beef. Over time, you'll build up the skill to prepare whatever you want to eat, at a reasonable price.

Coffee is coffee is coffee - a big tub of Maxwell house will run you 2 euro and will last you a couple of months.

A room in central London costs maybe 200 Euro, but you can get a nice one for a little bit more. Check Tripadvisor for reviews, make sure you're booking a room you'll get value from.

Don't take a loan out for a car, but certainly buy something you will really enjoy driving. It's ok to pay a bit more road tax and insurance. Buy it from a dealership where they will give you a cup of coffee and will be able to talk to you about cars. You need to have confidence, cruising around.

Everyone's house is full of Ikea furniture, It's nice to get something different. Have a look in some of the other furniture shops, you can get one or two nice pieces for not much at all.

If you want cheese, it's worth going to Sheridan's. Meat, definitely Gleesons - but for unusual cuts, go to Fallon and Byrne. It's nice as well to go out for dinner every so often. Again, tripadvisor is a great resource. Use it to find somewhere really nice.

3fe roast the best beans in Dublin. You can buy a bag for about 7 or 8 euro, and you'll get a week or so out of the bag. But once you try it you won't go back!

Week 35 - Andrew - costume

Do you like my costume? I'm dressing up as an adult.
I don't know why I bought these clothes.
I don't actually understand any of the things adults are meant to do.
I never want to follow Irish political news. It's the vegetables of information.
I never want to eat vegetables. They are the Irish political news of food.
I often want to sleep, watch TV comedies and eat garbage.
I am a 17 year old dressed up as an adult, for a year-long halloween.

Week 35 - Laura - costume

Bought for a wedding, the black suit’s life should have been one of fun.

Instead it was thwarted by hospitals, bookended by ill-health.

It was more a costume really, something its wearer would never naturally choose to put on. 

It ended up being taken out of the wardrobe only when occasion - and relatives - insisted.

It stayed on its hanger for that first wedding, its owner fighting to wake up from a massive heart operation instead of christening it with beer stains and dance floor sweat.

It had its day after, at one, two, three weddings I think, and a funeral.

Now it’s being aired for the last time.

The first hospital stay meant it wasn't needed at the time after all. This one means it is.