Brain Rinse

There’s nothing quite like standing in a freezing cold car park on the southwest coast of Ireland, reluctantly taking all your clothes off, struggling into your wetsuit, dragging your bodyboard down onto the beach and climbing into the frothy tumultuous Atlantic for a brain rinse.

It doesn’t matter that the hailstones start coming down or that the wind is bitingly cold, or that your head is unexpectedly plunged into the freezing cold sea. These things only make it all the more exhilarating, washing away all the weekend debris - conversation fragments, glances, coffee grains of social interaction, late nights and just one more beer.

And that fact that your two friends are out there too, grinning and laughing with you, just makes it so much better.

Responsibilities

Now that I'm an adult, people sometimes give me responsibilities. They trust me to do things. Like taking the keys out of the front door after I let myself in, turning off the lights before I go to bed, that type of thing.

So I had no problem rising to the occasion when the Squeeze (formerly known as the Boy From Another Planet) asked me to 'water the plants' while he was away. No problem I thought, just drive out the 20 miles or so to his house now and then and throw a bit of water on them, think I can manage that. But no, turns out the 'plants' are actually the seedlings which according to him must be 'sprayed with a fine mist' twice a day. TWICE A DAY!? Yes, too much water and they will die, too little and they will also die. 'You can move in while I'm gone' he says. 'You might want to cancel that wedding in Galway' he suggests 'plants need looking after you know'. Well, well, maybe he should have thought about that before he decided to swan off to Switzerland for the week!!

So it's clearly a test. Will the seedlings live or die? 'I've counted them' he says 'and if there are any less when I get back ...'

Oh God, is that the time? Must go out to check on the seedlings.

The Inevitable Baby Post

Those moments creep up on you, don't they? The baby moments, the So, do I want to have a baby moments. Say you do and you're a hormone-crazed fool, say you don't and you're a child-hating monster. It's not like you walk around thinking about it all the time but when you get to your 30s (in my case anyway) it's drawn to your attention now and then, somehow. Whether it's a question in a swimming pool 'so why don't you have any kids?' (tactless and could only happen in Iceland), in a bar 'so why did you never have any children?' (even more tactless - note the 'never'), or just like today, when a colleague brought her new baby to work (not tactless at all and perfectly acceptable).

I didn't even want to see it, or her, the baby, I don't know why, maybe I was trying to avoid the So, do I want to have a baby moment because I'm so tired of hearing the answer. There seems to be a rake of them around these days so they're impossible to avoid.

But anyway, there was no getting out of it. I saw her and my heart flipped over. Thud. Just like that. Then melted so much that it seemed any little thing would dent it. Those tiny little fingers. I was lost for words.

Sometimes It's Hard To Be A Woman

If there's one thing I hate, it's going to the hairdresser. I much prefer going to the dentist, at least I always come out of there looking better than when I went in. Don't get me wrong, I like the bit where a stranger washes my hair, massages my head under warm water until I'm almost asleep. And I like the bit where they offer me something to drink. And I even like sitting in front of the mirror reading and inwardly snorting at some glossy grown up lady magazine that I'd never normally read. It's just the hair cutting bit. It starts off fine but all of sudden my hair is all over the floor and I look up and who do I see in the mirror? Jesus Christ! No not him, more like a fatter Rachel from Friends. The 'stylist' must see the dismay in my eyes because she starts showering me with compliments 'what a rich colour, do you colour it? No? you have lovely natural highlights'. 'It's in such great condition, so shiny and glossy'. Yeah whatever! Just let's get the excruciating blow-drying over with so that I can hotfoot it out of here and, like a dog that's just had a bath, roll in the mud or something.

If there's another thing I hate, it's shopping for clothes. I hate it, all of it. I do it out of necessity. For me to enjoy it there would have to be a shop called 'Cool Clothes for a Truculent Horse' full of clothes I like (soft woolly things, kooky skirts, things with animals on them and cool comfy (yes, like a lesbian) size 4 shoes in a myriad of colours) . But there isn't, or if there is it's called 'Kidz' or something. Anyway, since I'd already done the whole haircut thing I thought I might as well drag out the pain and try to shop for some jumpers. I end up with a slightly too big woollen dress and 3 tee-shirts all exactly the same. Which is kindof like having a new jumper.

Is it just me, or are clothes shops in Ireland shit?

Anyway after all that excruciating pain (if you've ever been to Pennys in Cork on a Saturday you'll understand) I'm too tired to walk home so I walk straight into a bike shop and say 'I want to buy a bike, not too expensive, easy to cycle, gets me from A-B' and then I buy a bike. It's my first brand new bike since I was twelve. It's silver and the bell makes a lovely bright bing sound and I love it! I put my new woollen dress and my shiny executive haircut on the carrier and whizz home, flying up and down the hills of Cork through the beautiful bright blue day, wondering what happened to the rest of my x-chromosomes.

All My New Occupations

God.

It's hard to find the time to blog these days. What with all my new occupations. I mean it used to be simple, quite clear. I was an illustrator, an archaeologist, a procrastinator, recovering teenager (I know, quite tragic in your 30s), vegetarian, truculent horse, favourite auntie, soulmate, outdoorsy girl, geography expert and frequent visitor to Iceland. To these I now have to add the job titles of navigator, lover, tidal expert, actor, recovering vegetarian, roadie, poker champion and friend to foreigners. So I have to spend a lot more time gazing wistfully at the moon and saying 'ah, spring tide tonight', mulling over what type of bacon to buy, lugging around small (and light) pieces of sound equipment, being dramatic and pretentious, filling the car with foreigners, counting my winnings and going to the Boy From Another Planet's Mammy's house for dinner.

Speaking of which (or 'whom' if you were taught English correctly, I suppose), I finally told him about my secret and shameful Internet life as a horse. He thought it was hilarious. Especially my name. Until he heard his name. Which he thought was even more hilarious. He called me 'My Truculent Horse' for a day, and then forgot all about it. For a while anyway, I wish he'd just look at the damn thing and get it over with.

Anyway, all this business (by which I mean 'busyness' and have just accidentally seen the true meaning of the word 'business' which has nothing to do with buses after all. Must add this to true meanings of words list. Now I have two: sodomy and business. I digress), means that I decided to take my last 3 hours of annual leave this afternoon (discovered true meaning of this word a few years ago. Was surprised to find out that it means 'after noon' and not 'after lunch and before dinner' as I had thought) and go on holiday in Cork. The weather is gorgeous so I decided to sit inside in the cold house and blog like a nerd.