Over here

So, seeing as all I seem to do lately is talk about food, cook, and eat, I started a food blog. It’s over thisaway.

I’ll be back here sometimes too, though. Probably.

Always had a roof above me, always paid the rent

Dear internet, I have a confession to make.

I have never ever been camping.

I tried to, once, aged about fifteen, when a bunch of us decided to pitch a tent in the field behind my friend Sheena’s house. Sadly, neither Sheena nor the rest of us was in the least bit punk rock, and by 2am we had scared the collective bejesus out of ourselves with the awesome power of our own ghost stories. We abandoned the tent for the comfort of the sitting room floor and that was that.

Since then, I’ve managed to evade having to camp anywhere, even at music festivals I’ve been to. It’s not that I’m a diva or a wimp or anything, honest, it’s just that there’ve always been other options. But now, at the age where most people are probably considering upgrading from a foam mattress and a sleeping bag to a king-size bed and an eiderdown, I am set to pop my camping cherry. Himself bought us a very snazzy tent last Friday, and come next Friday, we will be pitching it in Stradbally.

I’m almost as excited about the camping bit as I am about the festival bit. It’d better not rain on my parade.

Norway

This is Bergen. A couple of weeks ago, I didn’t know much about it other than the fact that it was home to something called the Hanseatic League and, more recently, the Kings of Convenience.

Now I know that there’s a huge fish market in the middle of town, and that one can make up a rather substantial snack from all the free samples the fish sellers give out. I can also confirm that smoked whale tastes just as odd as it sounds.

I know what a fjord looks like from the clifftops, looking down the sheer rock face, and from the water, wrapped in blankets on the deck of a boat.

I know that Bergen wasn’t always the beautiful, peaceful city it is now. We spent the second night of our trip huddled round a firepit on a patio originally built as a German lookout during World War Two, listening to tales of resistance tactics.

I know that everything is just as expensive as everyone said it would be (and then some). 400ml of beer will set a drinker back the equivalent of €9 on one of the little terraces outside the colouredy old wooden buildings in that photo. We stocked up on duty-free and invited everyone over to our apartment every night.

By everyone, I mean the huge group of Irish people who had travelled to Bergen for the wedding of two vets – one Irish and one Norwegian. Their dogs were not, alas, allowed into the church.

I know now that Norwegian weddings are full of tradition and custom; from the beautiful traditional costumes, to the pre-dinner singsong, and the open mic for speeches. I know that if enough people clink their glasses at a Norwegian wedding reception, the bride and groom have to stand on their chairs and kiss, and that if the groom happens to leave the room, every remaining man will queue up to kiss the bride in his absence.

And I know that Norwegian people – well, all the ones we met – are amazingly funny, articulate and welcoming, do a great line in bad puns and emotional speeches, boast some great dance moves, and, more fool them, have issued us with an open invite to return.

We’ll definitely be taking them up on it.

Lather, rinse, repeat

I wouldn’t have been much cop as a Victorian hausfrau. Our washing machine packed up yesterday evening after much thumping (it) and shrieking (me). The bearing is shot, said Patrick the repairman, which would explain the oily mess that leaked into the machineful of spinning clothes. I spent a good hour soaking and scrubbing and rinsing and wringing and sweating and cursing our management company with their stupid no-clothesdrying-on-the-balcony policy. Not wanting to waste the breezy evening entirely, we left the balcony doors open until late and let the whole courtyard hear us hooting at Community.

We may have a new machine as early as tomorrow. Otherwise it’ll be pocketfuls of change and a good book for the launderette.

Southbound

The route to my new office is an altogether quieter, leafier one than before. Up the hill and over the river, past the two cathedrals and on towards the canal and beyond. There are fewer honking buses and trams, and lots more bikes. Being a creature of early morning habit as I am, I’m already meeting the same cast of characters along the way.

There are the lollipop men and women, who’ll always say hello, and who I’ll always smile at. I’ll miss them now school’s finished for the summer.

The little guy in the hi-vis vest on his electric bike, who’s always frowning and distracted-looking.

The besuited man with one child on the crossbar and another on the carrier seat. I usually meet them at a junction and the two boys copy their daddy as he signals to turn right.

The Dublinbikes crew, refilling the stations along the canal. There’s usually a queue to take the bikes they’re dropping off.

The bicycle convoy along the Grand Canal. I’m not used to cycling alongside so many people in Dublin, but the Grand Canal route is probably the closest thing we’ve got to this. Amazing.

It’s just as well I’m getting used to the commute while the weather’s good. Once the skies descend and the rain returns, I’ll be swearing and sweating beneath my rain gear, eyes firmly planted on the road, and it won’t seem half as dandy.

Hobbled

I have been walking with a rather unsightly limp for four days now. My osteopath poked at the ligaments and tendons in my ankle on Monday evening and pronounced them “damaged”. “What did you do?” he asked, and I had to reply – honestly – that I didn’t know. And not in a too-hammered-to-know way, like the time I damaged my right knee falling down the stairs of Break for the Border after too many Long Island Iced Teas. I’m much saner and soberer these days, but I still can’t point to a single incident of clumsiness this past week that could’ve reduced me to such a hobbly state.

Instead, I am chalking it down to a combination of a stompy dance class, new clumpy flip-flops and a brief but ill-advised foray into barefoot soccer at a family party on Sunday afternoon. I couldn’t have timed it worse, either; whilst the ladies of Dublin have been floating round in sundresses and sandals, I have been garbed in jeans, my gym runners and an elasticated support bandage, popping Nurofen like sweeties. Here’s hoping the good weather outlives my uneven gait.

Coming up roses

Yep, it’s still all sweetness and light round here. I’d give last week and this week giant bear hugs and buy them both thank-you pints if I could.

Instead, I’ll moon over all the good news floating round and scheme excitedly for the coming weekend while cruising round in the sun on this beauty:

His name is Hendrick (yes, after the gin), and he’ll do very nicely.

On a far more pleasant note

I am employed again. No more Gilmore Girls and Location, Location, Location marathons for this gal, oh no.

The champagne will be broken into this weekend.

Paris

Carrie Bradshaw landed one of her Jimmy Choo stilettos in a pile of dog merde on a pretty cobbled Parisian street. Me, I plonked one of my eighteen euro flats in a puddle of vomit on a sweaty airless Parisian metro. There were no sparkly fountains nearby so I made do with a drippy tap in a public loo. Charmant.

Otherwise, Paris was as cute and delicious as ever. Especially the Champs-Elysees, which was grassed over for the weekend. Picking a path through traffic light flowerbeds and cedar tree plantations on the way to L’Arc de Triomphe was great craic – if only someone’d do the same to O’Connell Street. And maybe line it with a bunch of cafes while they were at it.

The company

A publicity shot for our production of Goldilocks and the Three Bears (Including One Panda), staged in my parents’ sitting room, c. 1992:

Some true facts about this photograph:

1. Despite having two blonde sisters, I still got the part of Goldilocks.
2. None of us liked porridge so the bowls contained Rice Krispies.
3. This is not the worst haircut I’ve ever had. That happened about three years later when I decided to cut my own fringe and ended up with an inch-long, sticky-out disaster. These days, I do not have a fringe.
4. I’m pleased to report that the table has recovered from getting the rubbish part in all of our plays, and is now walking upright.