Two things I noticed in bonny Oirland yesterday (and shit I was sad to say goodbye...they're such sunny, great people):
1)The names of shops here. They’re as lyrical as the people themselves. One in particular – I just loved this: Get Stuffed. Obviously it’s a company whose expertise on cushion stuffing is arguably quite exceptional, but just imagine the conversation between the Gaelic housewives:
‘Aw, but Molly. Look at yer new cushions! Tey’re grand!
‘Yes Sheila, I had tem professionally stoofed. Tey’re good craic, aren’t tey?’
‘Aw, but where Molly?’
‘Are you messin’?’
‘No really…Get Stuffed.’
Then I saw a fabulous little bakery, all painted red, along with the characteristic red Georgian door, and a bicycle perched outside, a board scrawled with all the pastries and cakes one can chow….you know, postcard…it was called The Queen Of Tarts.
I loved that. It means bitches and ho’s can also enjoy a piece of cake. Without being judged, at the very least.
2) The Irish Spawn. Spawn don’t really make me broody or all ‘oooh, but I want one.’ It’s usually ‘oooh thank God I don’t have one of those.’ Spawn tend to irritate the crap out of me, to be frank. Especially if it’s crying and deserves a bloody good hiding. For being a brat. If the kid is pretty, I appreciate it. If it’s cute, I dig it. But generally, I don’t tend to take much notice. One day I’ll think my kids are amaaazing like every mother out there (smart, beautiful, cultured, well-disciplined), but Irish kids!
Perhaps I’ve just been lucky and only seen ones that aren’t screaming and whining and pulling on Mommy’s leg, but Aunty Peas’ needs a gin and tonic around these types of kids anyway. Irish kids on the other hand, are, firstly gorgeous. Big blue eyes, cute faces. Just reeking in innocence and cuteness. One little dude was clutching a teddy bear and talking like a little craic beauty yesterday – and all the kids coupled in their gorgeousness seemed well behaved. Now THAT’S the spawn I’m talking about. One little dude ended up having a fat chat to me, while our flights were [fucking] delayed.
After my training ended yesterday, and my brain’s Overload Alarm was well and truly clanging away, I suddenly felt a little emotional. My trip is over. I got my taxi to the airport and thought ‘Shit, back to the crap and politics of Johannesburg.’ Back to all of that. If there’s one way to literally run away from things that have hurt you, or have angered you, (or simply made you change your life) or even because you need a change or a holiday – it’s a well-timed business trip overseas.
I really loved my days in both London and Dublin. And met some incredible people and saw some beautiful things. I am a lucky, lucky girl – this I know.
Overseas is such a culture change. You can literally run away, work, holiday, party all at once, and get caught up in other distractions like hot Irish men, the tube, interesting architecture, cool accents, good pints. And two weeks away just didn’t seem long enough to be honest.
However, I get to spend a weekend reminiscing with about 70 girls I went to boarding school with.
The flight over also made me more emotional. My flight from Dublin to Paris was delayed and I almost missed my connection flight. As a result, I got home with no luggage, it was just too tight. Arrgh.
But on the brightside, I'm on a roadtrip with lots of mates from school - Natal we go! And a huge bender is organised for tonight. Again, hello Red Bull. I'm knackered but strangely ADD and awake.
One large girls weekend. At least I get to avoid Johannesburg that eensy weensy bit longer. It's going to be a hoot.