Didn’t the yolks in Cadbury’s Creme Eggs used to be bigger and yellower? I just had one and it barely had a yolk at all. I feel robbed. And the whole thing was tiny! Titchy even! And it didn’t have that Creme Egg taste I remember as a wee girl.

I blame mass-production practices and factory-farming at Cadbury for the pale yolks and miserable sizes of today’s creme eggs. Sad hens give sad eggs. Creme eggs should be laid by happy chickens free to scratch and peck.

In an occasion marked by solemnity and nervous hilarity, last week the cities of Ojai and Stornoway were officially twinned marking what Mayor Janice De KirkFitzMacCohenburgerski (America’s Miss Teen Melting Pot 1964) called “an occasion of immense cultural and economic importance to both towns.” Already an agreement is in place for the exclusive rights to trade sun-dried tomatoes and mutton between the two cities.

“Hahahahahaha!” Stornoway mayor, Mr Uistean “Big” MacAuley remarked upon hearing his Ojai counterpart describing Stornoway as a forward-thinking city with a great future ahead of it. “Oh, that’s a good one, right enough,” he added, guffawing mauvely.

Mayor KirkFitzMacCohenburgerski expressed the hope that the twinning would lead to a whole new era of cultural exchange, particularly for the young people of both towns. A young person, later told us, “Yeah, like, it’s a super-cool idea, furilla. These Scatch kids seem like cool, ya know? Gnarly. I mean at first I was all like, Whoa! what’s wrong with your teeth, dudes? But then I remembered that the Brits have, like, dental problems? And they can’t, like, help it? So I was all Hey man, don’t sweat it, my grandpa’s got the same deal. I heard it’s because of that Tony Thatcher bitch buying them Falklands from Northern Ireland so now there’s no money left to pay the dentists and’ shit. I learned all about that stuff in the World History class I had to take when Pottery and Navel-Gazing got filled up. Yo.”

While in Ojai, the Stornoway delegation are enjoying the hospitality of Rotary Club members who have opened their homes and locked their liquor cabinets for the week.

Mrs. Maggie-Aggie MacKenzie told us about her delightful experience staying with her host for the week. “Oh yes, a ‘ghraidh, I’m having a lovely time. The heat is a problem because I’m under the doctor at home for my varicose veins and I’m supposed to walk a mile every day but I’m chust not used to the heat, you see.” Mrs. MacKenzie dressed in a black wool skirt, thick wool stockings, her church hat and a frankly fabulous itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka-dot bikini bra top, giggled girlishly at “having her interview taken”, went on to describe how she “could never take a tan, I just go red and peel. A-woooohooohohohoho” she whooped, amiably elbowing this reporter off the sofa with surprising strength.

The twinning ceremony, marred only by a single small bladder incontinence incident described by Mr. John Jerome 88, as nothing really – hardly a dribble”, was hailed by all as a triumph. Here are some accounts of the day by attendees, in their own words, when asked what memories they would take away:

Savannah MacLeod, 15 (Stornoway) “Man, you can get Diesel here for washers! I think high fashion at low low prices is what makes America a strong moral leader on the global political scene.

Gerald Butler 63, (Ojai) “Well, mostly I’m just grateful to meet such a fine array of inbred people. I had my reservations at first, of course, but, I have to say, they’re really splendid ambassadors for the Scottish inbred community. A pleasant surprise indeed, especially after all the things I’d heard. I only saw one 11-digited person all week.”

Seamus MacCuish, 50, (Stornoway) “Amazing tractors.”

Sylvia Horborgenssen 49, (Ojai) “They’re just so cute with their little accents and all! I simply adore them! I wish I could keep one. I’m 1/16th Scottish myself, you know! They showed me a picture of their lil old Callanish stones, adn I said to Norm, didn’t I Norm? I said to Norm, we just have to get some of these made up for the front lawn. Cause it’s our hair-tage.”

Colin “Utter Bore” Morrison 38 (Stornoway) “Well they go on about California beaches and that but they’re not a patch on our unspoilt Lewis beaches and what about the rampant consumerism, eh? In my opinion this country’s got fat and lazy, too comfy. Can’t people be happy with just a lonely house, a madeira loaf and poor TV reception? Oh no, it’s “McMansion” this and “gateau” that. And the breakfasts! I mean who puts syrup next to sausages? No wonder America leads the world in childhood obesity…” (There a short muttering conference with with Miss Tiffany MacDonald, 38-26-36 (Stornoway))…”Oh. It appears that’s the Scots, but anyway that’s completely beside the point. The point is, the point IS, where’s the culture, eh? Where are the community bonds, the strong social fabric? It’s all I’m all right, Jack, out here. Nobody knows their neighbours, and why shouldn’t they have to when there’s me putting up with that old witch Peigi-Effie down the lane from me, with her, (affecting a falsetto) “Ooooh could you pick me up some milk when you’re in town, dearie?” and her completely fake multiple sclerosis. And why the helling hell can’t you get a drink anywhere past 11pm on a Tuesday? Land of the brave and home of the free, my arse. And another thing, what about the gun violence, eh? And being 26th in the world for education? There’s not enough long walks to isolated sheilings containing a thousand haunted memories, if you ask me. Not enough bitter weeping and rampant alcoholism for a healthy society. All this have a nice day rubbish. It’s so fake. So insincere. Everything’s just surfaces, healthy, happy, tanned looking surfaces. Everything’s so nauseatingly well-meaning. God I can’t stand it.” At this point Mr. Morrison had to be led away sobbing uncontrollably.”

Katherine-Anice Bolton-Macleod 29 (stornoway) speaking with commas and semicolons and words like “indubitably”: “What’s been most of interest from an anthropological point of view – I’m studying the subject at St. Andrews, you see – has indubitably, for me, been watching the interactions between the two cultures; examining the expectations, the accommodations made vis-a-vis social mores etc. Just this morning at the golf-club breakfast buffet (sponsored by Pammy’s Pampered Pooches), we had a very interesting discussion about how to make a proper cup of tea. Mr. MacCuish had expressed some dismay about the fact that the Lapsang Souchong he had been served was “bloody horrible” and “so weak it was nearly a fortnight.” This led to some embarrassment on behalf of the Ojaiwegians but, after Mrs. macKenzie produced some Tetley’s teabags from her handbag for everyone to try, there followed an interesting exchange of ideas on the practice of adding milk, whether lemon with tea was “poofy” and what was the point of iced-tea, exactly. Fascinating. I think we all learnt a great deal.”

The Stornoway delegation are in town ’til after happy-hour on Thursday, whereupon they continue on to Las Vegas.

Saturday morning dawned or rather nooned. I’d slept the whole morning away. I hate to do this on holidays but I needed the lack of daylight badly. The early afternoon was spent in some mild pain but by 4ish Devin and I were better and capering off to The Ladies Tea Party, an event put together for any women bloggers who wanted to show up. A good number did and a pleasant time was had jawing on blog-talk and cheesy nachos. But there were awards to go to and no time to waste so Dev and I hot-booted it back to the hotel, Dev got changed and I attempted to cover up some of the ravages of two nights drinking and a rainy walk on my face.

Descending the hotel’s case of stairs, all re-primped and re-primed, we met Medbh and Mr. Medbh again and another person. Dev thought it was JC Skinner who I’m sure is a nice bloke and all but I don’t really know him so I nodded greeting amiably and didn’t say much more to the guy. Shortly, it became clear though that, far (or not far, I dunno) from being JC Skinner, the person before us with the big smile was none other than Manuel! None other! Well, I weren’t half excited to meet Manuel and greeted him all over again and then continued to greet him all evening. Events had it such that, as with Gimme, I never really got a chance to talk properly to Manuel and that was a great pity. I did however score some badges off him. Next year – along with finally meeting the much missed Sneezy – this will be rectified and I will scare both him and Gimme into a corner so I can interrogate them to my satisfaction with cocktail sticks and Guinness-boarding if need be.

Anyways, where was I? Here: It was a filthy night so Dev and I took a taxi to the Alexander rather than let the rain flatten and smear our loveliness. Bizzarely, the taxi-driver started on about Toyland. (Toyland? Toyland?) and the ladyboys there. Ah, Thailand, righto. Dev and I sat in the back giggling like schoolgirls and smacking each other to shoosh.

And then we arrived at The Alexander Hotel on Merrion Square. Dev and I skipped lightly tra la la out of the taxi, now well primed for a good night out and off we larked for an evening’s excitement. We went downstairs to get our obligatory name badges and the first person we saw was His Gimmeness. Then His Curliness. It was great to walk in and already recognise some faces but it was almost as much fun to try guessing who was who among all the strangers. I saw some of the ladies I’d already met at the tea party which was good because peering at women’s breast areas to glean a small-font name for the face was not really how I’d hoped to introduce myself to people.

Then, woohoo! who’s this coming in with Eolai? Sniffly! Lemme tell you about Sniffly – he’s like a very winning bear, thoroughly loveable and as generous-spirited a fellow as there is. He wondered off at the end of the night and I never got to say cheerio properly but I hope we’ll meet again.

But back to the event at hand. We all said Coo about how big the function room was and then went to get a drink. Pretty soon the place was swarming. I met the sweet-as-sweet-pie Deb from the tea-less tea-party again – and discovered her to be a doll and full of fun. And then the lovely Jen from Little Bird Eats whose chocolate bread pudding with rum, folks, rum! I shall be making for next sunday lunch.

I’d just settled in my seat for a minute with my cooling pint – it was roasting – when Dev hauled me up and off to meet Mr. Twenty Major, later to become the night’s big winner. He seemed a lovely bloke and not once in our short yackeroo did he call me a lady-bit or a gent-bit or make mention of any coarse coital verb. I was deeply disappointed but enquiries revealed I couldn’t get my ten euro suggested donation at the door back just because Twenty isn’t really a foul-mouthed misanthrope. However, later on, I saw him call an adorable little puppy a bastard and then he punched a passing old lady in the face, just because. I felt a lot better for that.

The awards commenced commencing and the 400 of us filling the room clapped and cheered the winners. Best Blog Post was won by the splendid Fatmammycat. However, because she was off galivanting in Galway for work, she’d asked me to collect her prize for her should she win. So, with 800 eyes all eagerly trying to finally get a glimpse of what fatmammycat looked like, I bumbled my way up to the stage acutely aware of the disappointment I was about to give. I could hear the whispers on the way up “Is that her?”

“I’m not fatmammycat,” I mumbled Scottishly, (Huh? What’d she say? – I dunno she talks funny. I think she said she’s not fmc – Ah, shite.”) In other mumbles I conveyed fmc’s thanks to Damien and her readers and then skulked back to my seat. Whereupon a fellow told me to go get my photo taken.
“But I’m not…”

“It doesn’t matter, the category sponsor needs a photo.”

So I impostered a bit more and, do ya know, I started to like it, knowing full well that this would be the only chance I’d have to catch a whiff of bloggery-prizery. Proudly I clutched the award that wasn’t mine. Happily I rubbed up against the shiny people for the winner’s photo, hoping to catch some lustre. Twittily I gawked and stood around not knowing what to do, wondering if the winners got a free drink.

Fmc was a very popular win and all the night following people were coming up to me and telling me how much they love her blog. That bit was really nice and I relaxed happily into my Ambassador for FMCland role.

After the awards was an 80s disco but our lot skedaddled upstairs to the other bar for some chat. There I got to meet the unique and fabulously talented Sweary and her Mister, the delightful Manuel Estimulo who was piously and devoutly downing pints with his Missus, the sweet Annie Rhiannon and Bjarni, and many more genuinely lovely people too numerous to list here.

We all mingled as the fancy took us and later downstairs I met a young mohicanned man with a belly full of Guinness and an accent more impenetrable than Mother Theresa’s knickers. I smiled, unable to make myself understood either, so instead I felt one of his spikes, knocking it slightly skee-whiff in what I hoped was a gesture of good-will in Mohicannese. In this way we managed to communicate for a good 5 minutes, completely oblivious to what the other was saying, me knocking his spikes off centre and he saying some apparently good-humoured shit.

And that’s all I’ve got time to write just now. Car getting serviced and I need to pick it up pronto. Other stuff happened. Much other fun had and stuff, but I’ll leave it at that. Here endeth the Dublin Chronicles.

Walking into the hotel bar to meet fatmammycat, I paused at the door to scan the room for likely candidates. Directly opposite a woman appeared to be peering at me. I peered back. For a moment we just peered, then smiled. I strode confidently forward into thin air, completely missing a booby-trap step, and reached the exquisitely composed fmc at a sort of bent-kneed stagger. I’m choosing to remember this as a dignified bent-kneed stagger and compared to other moments in the night to come, it was actually one of my more together ones. Bum! I thought. Happily, shame over my inelegant entrance was dissipated almost immediately in my excitement.

Oh Lordy God! I shrieked in my head. Oh boy oh boy oh boy – my first real live blog-meet! Jumping up and down (inwardly) I say “Hallo.”

We greet each other for the first time almost like old friends – a curious moment, strange and familiar, inquisitive, slightly shy and boisterously good-humoured all at once, and one that was repeated throughout the weekend as I met more and more bloggers. We fell immediately into delightful conversation. Fmc is all she appears on her blog and more. She is truly a dazzling force of nature; glamourous, poised, with chin raised slightly and a flick of her wrist, she declares her positions: “I’m against it!” she cries. And with toss of her hair and a decisive nod, “Eeeeeeeep! I approve!” But she’s not merely arbitrarily casting reactionary judgment, all style and no stuff. Fmc can argue her point up the street and round the block because behind every opinion lies a good deal of thought already thought and considerables already considered. I’m enjoying myself. We drink and it is good.

Then we head off into town to meet her charming paramour in one of Dublin’s finest old-style bars. A top night ensues and I know that should the rest of the weekend turn out to be crap, the chance to meet these bright, funny, warm-hearted people has already made the trip worthwhile. And then Gimme shows up! Gimme! By this point I am well on my way to inebriation and to be honest I recall little of our meeting save that I was delighted to meet him and only slightly concerned I may be dribbling. We drink more.

At some point, I cease to remember much of anything at all. And then it is morning. Later I learn that I was poured onto my bed by the sterling fmc and her capital paramour. It had been tricky obtaining my key from reception apparantly:

“No, sorry, we don’t know her room number. Her name? Oh yes, uh… she’s Sam, Sam…um…Problemchildbride?…uh… (Intense chatter)… Yup, we think it begins with a Z”

The receptionist gives them my key, shrewdly deducing that we are not frauds or robbers for, really, what villains would burden themselves with such a pitiful drunken creature? By hook, and probably they had to use a crook too, I am deposited in my room. I remember nothing except a brief flash of thought “Oh. We walk now. Yes” when we were walking back to the hotel.

Friday.

The hurty hurty hurt. It hurts so! My plans for a Joycean tour of the city that day come to naught. I reel about my room for a while bouncing off walls and furniture. I lose many minutes staring out of my window in a stupor watching the smart people striding up Harcourt Street, purposeful, responsible. How strange to be them, I think, as I turn and reel about the room some more.

I get it together enough to shower and go out for a sandwich which I eat in the gorgeous, secretive and nearly missable Iveagh Gardens across the road, the one and only sight I see that day. The short walk exhausts me so I return to my room to sleep some more for tonight I party again!!

Tonight rolls around at about 4ish. I go down to the bar to wait for Devin, one of the people I am most excited to meet. Devin is as down-to-earth as they come, funny as all heaven and hell, and has the kind of nailed-it prose writing style that’ll keep me reading Hangar Queen for years and yelling “Damn, why didn’t I think of that?!” at my pot-plants and kettle. In she walks with an enormous, gorgeous smile, not looking for a second like she’s just come off a delayed transatlantic flight, and for the rest of the time she’s in Dublin we spend a good deal of it in each other’s company. I get the better end of that deal and I feel strongly that the warmth I felt for her via email and the blogs were spot on. Quick-witted, generous and genuine she is the perfect companion. We chatter. We drink.

We duck up to mine with our beverages in hand so I can change and soon we’re heading down to the bar again to meet fmc. Dev has covered that beautifully already so I won’t try except to say that it’s true folks, fmc can control a waiter from across the room with one twitch of an eyebrow even when he’s facing the other way! It’s incredible! Dev can do some pretty arch eyebrownastics herself. It’s only I of we three early supster-sisters who has to actually push mine up with my finger.

We drink at least 3 more and it is great fun, then we part, for Miss Cat is off to Galway early the next day for some noxious work thing. Dev and I make our way to Mulligan’s which we utterly fail to find. We are guided in to land at the bar by Bock on the phone. We squeeze our way through a heaving mass of Dublin men (where are all the women?) which alternates wildly from being deeply unpleasant to really quite pleasant indeed. I make a mental note to never let up on flossing. I have no idea who we’re looking for but Dev and Bock have met before and pretty soon they have honed in on each other across the assorted humanity, greeted each other, and I am meeting Mr. Bock himself.

Mucho delightful curls and as merry as you please, Bock is not nearly the angry man in person that he often is on his blog. And oh what mischief is in these eyes! Behind them he has whole evolved worlds of smarts, wit, acid and extraordinarily beautiful fairy stories – the great mystery of Bock is how all that anger can sit with all that tenderness and whether both things come from the same spot. Bock’s a dear man and a fascinating puzzle. And he has food! A cottage loaf fresh from Limerick that morning, Oh dear, sweet man – did he know how hungry we were? I tear into it like a beast.

In between and sometimes through great unladylike gobs of cottage loaf I meet Conan, Eolai, Medbh and Mr. M in that order but as Medbh and Mr. M are at the other end of a big table in a thundering bar I don’t really get to say much to them at this point. I know that I have the whole weekend to get to know the others but Conan’s only in Dublin for one night and I need to need to drink as much Drumm as I can. We yell at each other, inches apart in the noisy pub. Conan is like your favourite professor, the one you like to drink with, the one whose brain you want to pick about everything, the one you probably have a secret crush on. He is self-effacing, gentlemanly and whipsmart funny and he has the most open and kind smile in the world. I wish he could have stayed on for the awards on Saturday.

And then I get to meet Eolai, of whom I’d become very fond, especially on American Hell. Thoughtful, eccentric and beardy the first thing you notice about Eolai is how still he is. I noticed it several times over the weekend. All around him is whirling, noisy life and he sits in the middle of it almost perfectly still – save for his Guinness arm – like the eye of a storm, watching it all, processing it and letting it back out again in hilarious little comments, cartoons and vibrant art. Eolai is deep, honest, sincere and utterly utterly himself in the way many students try to cultivate but can’t pull off without grandstanding. He is a treasure and I am fonder of him still.

That night I don’t get much of a chance to talk to Medbh and Mr. Medbh but later in the weekend I do. Gorgeous, bright as a well-educated button, petite Medbh with her fire-engine red boots is dynamite, channeling a cross between Bette Davis, Jackie Kennedy and Gloria Steinem. An acute social observer, she has an almost encyclopedic knowledge of films and popular culture and a considered treatment of both. Far from being a stuffy academic though, she bristles with irreverance and fun and is great company. Mr. Medbh is superfit, quiet (and who could blame him in a room full of bloggers) but garrulous after a Guinness and he held his own in a world which many spouses just do not get, nor want to.

So there we were at table. Bock’s scar was just out of my reach for groping sadly. And it did look quite the most gropeable scar in the room which doesn’t sound like much of a compliment until you realize that the room had 7 million people in it plus bar-staff. I did cop a feel of Eolai’s beard by night’s end though, and Gimme’s. Of the two, I’d say Eolai uses more of a moisturizing conditioner on his for movement and shine, while Gimme’s all about volume and va-va-va-voom with his beard-care routine. Both beards looked like they had just stepped out of a salon in any case despite the windy weather. Both were very satisfying strokes. And Conan twinkled at me! With his lovely warm smile – a veritable eye-twinkle, as though from a much brighter Sean Connery! *Swoony*. At that point the best I could do was wave to Medbh. Time to move on for we’re all ravenous.

Wandering and biddable as a herd of cats (we nearly lost Conan up an alley) we wound a wet, windy way to a warm, salty lump-selling eatery and ate. Then we repaired to Dev’s and my hotel for more drinks, and there we met Gimme. Angry man, devoted family man, veryveryfitman, full-of-pith and vinegar man, wittywittyfastman and above his luxuriant mufti beard, an exceedingly kind, smiley-eyed man. I saw Gimme every night I was in Dublin but I never managed to have a proper one-on-one yack with him yet. I’ll do a better job of cornering him next time.

Now, lest there be cynicism at just how fabulous I found all these people to be, remember the circumstances of our meeting. In many of the most important ways I already knew and liked them. Blogging friends are self-selected. They aren’t the people you happen to know from the office and for better or worse go out with on a Friday, they are people with whom, long ago, online, you have met and clicked. You talk with these people almost daily, certainly weekly, and you build up a relationship. At any time you can walk away from that by simply not visiting them any more but you choose not to. You go back and back again because you want their particular brand of writing or humour or want to know what they think about a particular thing. Conversations run from the serious to the inane and political to personal. You get to know people in a different way. People from half a world away whether geographically or psychologically. You get to know them well enough that when you disagree it doesn’t matter because you respect and know them to be good, honest people. You learn a lot. Blogging is a strange mixture of the solitary and the social and when bloggers get the rare treat to meet each other we are tremendously excited about it to the point that it might baffle our regular pals. I already knew I liked these people a lot. Having met them, i can honestly say that I have all the time in the world for every one of them. I hope to know them all for many years to come.

Next up – The Blog Awards.

I wasn’t going to post about the Irish Blog Awards. It was fantastic in every way but, for some reason I didn’t want to write the whole weekend out on the blog. And besides, I can’t top Devin’s account. However, I made such a long comment over at her’s -and I’d promised myself not to be writing these mammoth comments – that I’ll do a wee jot on it here.

OK , if I’m going to do it, I’ll start at the beginning and do the toury part too, so this is a bit of a boring post about my first couple of days in Dublin – Sami saw this and Sam saw that and blah blah blah. You want the dirt on other bloggers, right? Right. I’ll split this post and do the Dubliny bit here and the blog awards bit next which is a bit more of a peopled post. That’ll come tomorrow ‘cos I have heaps of things to do this afternoon.

Wednesday. Arrive in Dublin. Am cold. Get bus into town. Find hotel. Very sleepy but don’t want to fall asleep so go out for long walk around all the sights I aim to see in the next few days. (Some of this plan happens and some doesn’t on account of mammoth alcoholic imbibation at night).

At breakneck walking speed I see: Stephens Green, St. Patricks, Christ Church, Dublin Castle, Trinity College, Merrion Square and Oscar Wilde’s house. (Big breath) The house where Yeats died and Schrodinger’s house (the dead moggie theory Schrodinger, not his brother, the unfamous one); Fitzwilliam Square and general Georgian gorgeousness; The National Museum, Leinster House and many unnamed great grand buildings around there. Smashing.

As much as anything it was just lovely to walk about in a European city again with the heaving bustle and the sudden quiet when you turn a corner into a quieter street, all hushed by big buildings and ideals. Now out in the blowy cold struggling with your plastic bags against a salmon leap of shoppers, and the next minute reprieve as you’re holed up in a warm pub with a golden drink and a chuckling good read. I miss that a lot. Dublin is a fantastic walking town.

I crossed the windy river and walked up O’Connell street stopping in Eason’s to get Twenty’s book. I saw the Post
Office where the Easter Rising took place, assorted statuary including the great man O’Connell himself and the equally great but more embarrassed Parnell. There was a massive spire just sitting there so I looked at that and found it to be a good thing, and moved on up to the unfortunately ugly Garden of Remembrance. Then to Parnell Square and the James Joyce centre.

By now I was warmed up but hungry so I headed back towards Grafton Street’s main drag and had an Irish stew and a lager in a pub. Then I was so very, very sleepy. I thought to take another turn in Stephen’s Green but catching sight of myself in a Grafton Street shop window I noticed I was no longer stepping out but was shambling in the manner of an old lady with a double hip replacement. I went to my hotel and slept… until at 10 o’clock when I didn’t.

The hotel I was in also has two nightclubs in it and even on a Wednesday they were packed with revellers who all appeared to have taken their loudest vocal cords out with them too. Singing D.I.S.C.O! Oh, D.I.S.C.O! But never mind! I was on my holidays! I had no responsibilities and noone to look after but me! I’d already had a shower for as long as I liked (!), I had only one face to wash, a mere 30 odd teeth to brush, no requests to fulfill and, apart from the deafening music, peace and quiet. I slept again soon after.

Thursday – massive breakfast in hotel, thinking that way I’d save money on lunch. (Dublin is dearer than a doe and I’d already noticed I was pissing away euros like urine.) Out and about early, off I go, all excited. I spy a bus tour. Why very not? I think, for I am a tourist and touring ’s what I do! I see much of what I’d walked the day before with useful narration from the worst joke-teller in Ireland. Then we head West to the Liberties and reach the sombre and imposing Kilmainham Gaol where the Easter Rising rebel leaders were executed; Not half chilling. If ever an architecture screamed its purpose, the walls of Killmainham Gaol do, and the route the bus took gave an almost cinematic half-circle sweep of the place. It looks like a place bad and bloody things happened; you would know that even before you knew that they did.

A half-mile or so on, I considered getting off for the Guinness tour but it takes nearly two hours and to be honest, though I did get a taste for it in Dublin where it’s ten times nicer than the pasteurized US stuff, I’m not that bothered how it’s made – not two hours worth of bothered anyway. The architecture of that place was eerie too. Massive, high-walled and sprawling like a crop of mushrooms – which it didn’t smell unlike, it was like a menacing Victorian Willy-Wonka factory with the same vibe as the old Battersea Power Station. Films should be made there. Alleyways galore. A small door opened in an enormous brick wall and Oompah Loompahs were disgorged onto the street to light up and linger for a bit before Mr. Guinness needed their labours again.

I was on the top of the open-top bus and freezing like I was a painter of Italian walls but there’s no point in sitting downstairs on a tour bus. Anyway, I needed blood in my limbs which I could sense were returning to their natural tinker’s-tartan and blotching purple ‘neath my clothes, feeling for the first time in a while the chilly winds of the North Atlantic and responding by automatically changing the colour of my skin, cold-weather-chameleon-like in a pinky-blue palate. So I jumped off and took a warming pootle in Phoenix park for a while. I saw the massive cross marking the place where Pope John Paul preached to a million people in the 70s, the presidential offices, the Wellington Monument which surprised me ‘cos I guess I’d just assumed Wellington was English; I took a wee walk in the People’s Park and found out that the MGM lion, Rory (har har), was a Dublin Zoo lion(!) before hopping back on the next tour-bus and so back into town. I saw Bono’s expensive hotel on the ride along the river, the impressive Four Courts of which there are only now 3 and back to O’Connell Street.

My breakfast plan hadn’t worked and now I was starving again, so I picked a random pub, had some kick-ass fish and chips and rolled onwards towards Trinity and the Book of Kells. The college museum also has the Book of Armagh and the Book of Darrow and I spend a happy while in that strangely alert, strangely sleepy museum fug, willingly being guided or herded -I didn’t care – by the huge posterboards explaining the script, the myriad illumination elements and history of the books.

The line for the actual Book of Kells itself wasn’t too bad. I was expecting a lot worse but, when it came time to look at it, it was difficult to get around the cabinet for the peering people. When I finally did I found myself standing next to an oldish lady who smelt of pee. This put me off my own book-peering. Worried that people would think it was me I high-tailed it upstairs to the magnificent Long Library and my breath was taken away. Dark and high and, indeed, long, it smelled of the thoughts of men and women, old bindings, paper dust and, what’s this? Pee? God, she’s back again! I move down the library. She follows me! Go away, old woman! What do you want from me? Unfortunately, because I want to hate her, she is sweet and lovely and murmers a few smiling, appreciative comments to me about the library. I like her. Damn! I move away and examine some fine drawings of birds by some old fine bird-drawer whose name I can’t recall although I bet I could if Mrs Sweetie O’Stinky hadn’t been there. I beat a retreat down to the gift shop.

Blinking out into the day again like a mole, I am in the mood for more book-peering and make my way to Dublin Castle to the Chester Beatty Museum. This is a treasure of a place. I spent a couple of round-eyed hours in the dark there, ogling my way around some of the world’s most precious religious texts. Right there, in the heart of Dublin, is a premier collection of some of the oldest and finest Korans,(Korans in Dublin! – who’d a thunk that?) biblical texts, and ancient Eastern manuscripts in existence. I saw the earliest known copies of the letters of St. Paul, and the Gospels. There were mediaeval books of hours in their original leather bags where travelling priests would keep them on journeys. I saw ancient Chinese law books, Japanese prints, Arabic law and poetry books, Coptic scrolls, Manichean texts, some of the first known korans in existance – the North Afican ones lavishly decorated but the Arabic ones left plain because adorning the sacred was profane to these scribes; and papyrus and parchment and vellum scrolls with holes from the flaying process that the scribes just wrote around. It is a rich, incredible place and Chester Beatty himself was an incredible man. He was a pioneering mining engineer and made his fortune in the Wild West just a few decades after the Wild Bill Hickock days, before moving to London, increasing his wealth and travelling all over. He bought up a lot of his library at a time when the many of the old families of the East would gladly part with a few old manuscripts in exchange for a Cadillac or something difficult to get outside America. He moved his collection to Dublin finally and Dublin is lucky beyond measure to have it. And it’s free!

I emerged feeling as if I’d been absorbed by the books and not the books by me, and feeling dusty, but not. Dublin is all aroar about me after the quiet and I think I might have a cuppa somewhere. But what’s this? It’s nearly time to meet fatmammycat! Back to the hotel for a shower and a bit of a phone home and then downstairs to the bar to meet herself. My first blogger!

More tomorrowish.

This morning I awoke to the cat farting gently in my face. “Phh-sigh” went her bum and was almost melancholy. Not an auspicious start to the day.

Before breakfast we had to check our leprechaun traps in the garden and were again disappointed. One trap had actually sprung but, alas, there was the golden irish euro still twinkling in the 7am sun, still tied to the string tied to the stick balancing the purple box. We thought we could discern some little scratch marks such as might have been made by a tiny, tiny person struggling to escape. Foolishly we forgot momentarily that leprechauns can make themselves invisible and when we lifted the box was when he must have escaped without our seeing. Morning 2 then, and still no recorded sighting.

Breakfast was a defeated affair.

I am.

Just recovering from an unexpectedly longer journey than I’d thought, and a horrid bout of the gastric bug in the last day; catching up with my kids after a wee; and just have mundane things to take care of awaiting me here. I’m trying to catch up with y’all slowly in my usual random way so if I haven’t been around commenting, don’t think I’m ignoring you. Some running around to do but back to normal in a couple of days I expect.

Blog awards – fantastic. Drinking – industrial. People – wonderful. Only complaint – didn’t get to meet Sneezy for the lunch we’d planned.

Was on the same plane as Snoop Dogg and his man-mountain body-guard bling-horses. Close up he looks just like Snoop Dogg. He needs to fire his pig-tail advisers though. Candy pink and red translucent bobbles he had on the ends of them, such as would have provoked a covetous punch-up among the beyatches in a kindergarten girl-gang’s wendy-house.

Pip-pip, mofos.