Still around, just busy.

Just to let you know.

Also, spare a thought for my godmother, whose anniversary occurs on Sunday.

Smells like Grandma's fridge

Hello lovelies!

It's been a while, and I've been ... busy. This is good. I've arranged large international money transfers to pay for the upcoming degree, turned down invitations to weddings in Beirut, Waterford and Denver, planned for one in Engerland, booked a trip to Germany where I haven't been in 15 years, and introduced myself to a Croat, some Italians, an Argentine and a good many more. Pictures are courtesy of a different Dublin weekend, but a weekend that did its job admirably.

Last night, we had an epic Sri Lankan feast, a labour of love by the Bearded One. There was spicy sweet chicken, creamy baby brinjalinis, aromatic mounds of rice, and sambols a-go-go.

'Falling apart,' he said with a kitchen-sweaty smile as he lifted hunks of chicken out of the pot. It was a good thing. Miniature aubergines held their shape and colour and sat fatly in pink onions. He worked for five hours. Grandma would have been proud. I planted things in the garden and redid the gd devoured windowboxes. Let's just say that the nasturtiums were a far cry from this when I ripped them out in disgust and started again with primroses. 

Bastard blackfly.

.

At the end, I pitched in for the terrifying vadai-frying experience, lentilly doughnuts bobbing happily in the Boiling Oil of Death, and stripped balls of curd from cheesecloth sieves for the treacley dessert. 

We're sending the extra curry leaves to Cork, as you do.

Sure, the stairs'd kill 'im.

Last night, I resolved to get up with the horses. Websites told me that the Smithfield horse market started just after dawn, so there I was, primed and ready at 6.20 a.m. 

Primed, ready ... and all alone.

Nothing. Not a sausage. No horses, no riders. Just me, and a very small English girl with her granny, out so as not to rouse the parents in the hotel.

And then, two kids sauntered into the square, the John Waynes of Dublin 7. 

– 'How're ye, lads?' shouted an oul fella.

– 'I'm after comin' in from fuckin' Finglas with no fuckin' breakfast, that's how,' shouted back an eleven-year-old with a dirty jacket and a grin. En route to a bacon sandwich astride his pony, I had a feeling that he had the right idea.

But Finglas? Bareback? With a rope? At five in the morning? The mind boggles. Meanwhile, I went for a wander, and witnessed the loveliness of an empty and freshly-scrubbed Dublin. I worried about last night's drunks, but met with this morning's workers.

Two trips back to the house for coffee and several hours later, we were in action. One Dublin institution underway, and one very happy parkbench with her camera.

A few more clopped in, some horseboxes, trailers and sulkies, ponies, foals and dreyhorses. I was not a little intimidated, being very afraid of horses and all, but it was a calm lot in the early morning as things slowly got underway.

Not so later when I returned with the Maternal One – it was a kind of equine chaos controlled by good faith and some handling, with enormous great whacking horses with big fat lads in tracksuits galloping full-tilt down the square, terrifying racket, small ones rearing up in little horse scuffles, and new ones pouring in from around the city, streaming in from all corners of life, across the river and down from the mountains. You could hear them – and smell them – all day, long into the afternoon, when I blinked out of my hot nap at a sharp 'heeeeyAHHH' and the clatter of chariot wheels past my caterpillar-crawly windows.

Bloddie would not be pleased.

So. You may have noticed that I like the natural world, and that I'm particularly fond of nasturtiums. The first thing I did in our nice new house was to plant nasturtium seeds in window boxes and set them out in the sun. We also planted squash, and were left no option but to grow them on the inside – in our bedroom. They're doing nicely, thanks.

.

But I digress. The Editor was over recently, and much to my surprise, stuck his head out the window approvingly and said, 'Hey. Nasturtiums!'

He may have  gained a point for that.

The other day, the Bearded One and I were coming home in the sunshine and spotted a great, fat pigeon flapping in the windowboxes. I'd seen a magpie at the same game that morning. 'They'd better not be eating my flowers,' thinks me. 'There'll be slaps.'

No, stupid. They were eating these:

They have now been summarily re-housed across from the grounds of a local mental asylum. Bill Oddie would not approve. Ignorance followed by brute relocation of small creatures for my own human gains. Bwahaha.

There's one for every cannonball

Sometimes, it's all Nu Dublin; Chinese howeyehs having a laugh on the Luas in from Tallaght, Nigerian fellas arguing about the quality of their rows outside the barber shop, picking up some Polish ricotta with your Irish Times of a Saturday morning.

Other times, it's just Dublin, where you spot a hooker from your neighbourhood as she walks along the quays. This evening, she stopped outside the Franciscan church, blessed herself, took a miraculous medal on a piece of string out of her pocket and slipped it over her head. As she went in, a short, tubby man with a rope around his waist turned and smiled.

She walked into the pews and the berobed lot went about their business. 

I headed home and saw a pair of swans with seven signets land in the Liffey.

Get out your yardsticks – or is that metresticks?

I've been back for two months now, and already I've enjoyed two rounds of a baffling local sport. It's best played loudly and in all-Irish company. The rules of the game are unknown by all and stand to change at any time depending on the players and mood of the group.

It's called 'How Irish Are You?'

I already know that I am never to be the victor in a match of HIAY, and I accept that in good grace. My nationality is not a relative value: I have two, and I don't define either of them in terms of the opinions of my fellow citizens. Legally, culturally and in blood, I am American and I am Irish. Irish and American. Or, more specifically, if we must, Irish and Irish-American. I don't have a lot of trouble understanding this, but the Irish of no other nationality often do.

I describe myself as Irish or as American as it suits me. I can vote in two countries and work in twenty-eight. I always stand in the short queue at the airport, I travel on a neutral passport past smiling border guards and can be repatriated by a hated superpower should their city burn down tomorrow.

But these are rarely the factors at play in a match of HIAY; the scores are older, less relevant and more divisive. HIAY offers a glimpse at how the Irish view themselves, earning points as they go. Catholic or Protestant? Irish-speaker or just an cúpla focal? UCD or TCD? Northsider? Southsider? Dubliner? Down the country? The Rebel County? The West? Hurling or rugby? Farmer or banker? Traveller? 

As a lifelong participant in HIAY and now permanent resident, I might suggest that we update the criteria to reflect the new players. White? Black? Asian? Mixed race? English-speaker? European? Born here? Born again? Buddhist? Asylum seeker? Refugee status?

I'll lose all the same – to the four-year-old Chinese girl toddling into Scoil Lorcáin. I hear they have quite the waiting list. 

A four-year-old Irish girl, so – no?

It's rather important to get out of the house.

  

Yes, I know you knew that already, but you may not know that it's really, really important if you've just started working from home and the paaardner works around the corner. It can all get a bit homey, and not in the fresh laundry on the line, feet up on the sofa, here'syourmartinidear, hilloveIboughtyouaMagnum sort of way, but in the killmeit'sChristmasandIhaven'tseenanyoneI'mnotrelatedtoinfivedays way.

So, now that I'm down a daily six-mile return cycle and the camaraderie of Curly and my fellow workers, I've been cycling everywhere that needs going to, taking meetings for work and meeting friends for pints and cake after hours. But lunches have been spent power-walking around the neighb wearing some spectacularly ugly shoes. I can't run, because I have a kneecap that doesn't like where God chose to put it in His infinite wisdom, and so takes every opportunity to go visiting around the inside of my shin. So power-walking it is.

More to the point, as this is all achingly bougy, the neighbourhood is fantastic. Ours is a beautiful street covered in flowerboxes and a nice mix of Dubs, Nice Young Couples, immigrants and foreign students. Somehow, you know you're in a good part of town when there are lots of French women around. They have standards, you know? We're also near the mental asylum, so there are a good few middle-aged transvestite drug users, edgy-looking young men and the odd young woman chatting to herself who come and go as day patients. Helps to keep you on your toes.

There's all sorts of good things to do and see, arthouse cinema, foodie shops, nice little restaurants and the biggest park in Europe right up the road. All this a few blocks from the river and with views of the mountains to boot. The mountains are a new thing for me, as Dublin was always all about the sea for me.

We may not have seals, but we do have a great fish joint, and cheap!

All in all, I'll take it, this neighbourhood.