That’s the journey.
Wednesday - a dash to Shannon
Wednesday evening - a meal out with Paul C. in a French bistro in Bath. Followed by the shock of going into a house that hasn’t been lived in since November. I spend two hours cleaning the cooker and muttering about how stupid it was to leave the house without a woman’s eye. Paul is wonderful but it’s too late for him to develop a woman’s eye for the things that matter to prospective purchasers.
Thursday - gardening for many hours, cutting back the privot around the gate the leads in. Attacking the ivy in order to the place the appearance of being loved. Spiking the lawn, using the mower, searching desperately for plastic bags in which to bag. Missing every appointment. And just realising that the clock on the wall was still showing an hour earlier because no one was there to spring it forward in March.
Thursday afternoon - winning a golf match at last. Victory over Pete McC bt 4&3 on a glorious day at Cumberwell Park. Being lent clubs and shoes by Gerry the shop and not being charged for the privilege. Feeling like I belonged there.
Thursday evening - drinking water, a little Gin & Tonic and a half pint of Guinness in the Dandy Lion public house. Writing a poem there, like the old days again. This one celebrated mobile phones and how they brightened up the cheeks of girls at the table in front of me.
Friday - frantic Friday, going to see estate agents, key-cutters. Showing a couple and baby round the house and nearly missing the plane back to Shannon.
so manicured and sophisticated around Bath, so neglected around Clonakilty. I have something to write about a field needing a good cow, even a horse or two.
We are in Lahinch now. Sun pouring down. The blue I knew so well when I was a child and we used to go to the seaside almost every week.
The cold in my nose that streams and strains my chest.
I have missed the excitement of Thursday and Friday. The papers are full of it.
Luck plays a part in politics. It was on McD’s watch; it was on Birtie’s watch - they will pay for it, even though there isn’t a politician who isn’t responsible.
And I still can’t find any justification for the axing of Rattlebag. Ana’s made her point. The Irish Times published 6 letters. That’s it. Gone. Only the wake to prepare.
