I am not Spanish, nor do I speak Spanish. Sorry. I’m a Brit (of mixed English, Welsh and a teensy bit of Scottish ancestry) who moved to Ireland with her family at the age of seven, and I have been here pretty much ever since.
I’m about 5’2. Both my children are taller than me, and I am resigned to having a permanent crick in my neck from speaking up to people. I have brown eyes and hair, and currently nine tattoos. I have had eczema since birth so I’ve spent a lot of my life feeling itchy and scratching holes in myself, although it has been much better for the last two or three years. I speak hardly any Irish, a bit of French and almost no German, although I understand quite a lot. I live about twelve miles south of Dublin with my husband, two children, and three dogs who we have re-homed from various rescue centres. We live in a house that I bought in 2011 called ‘Thalia’ – one of the three Graces and the muse of comedy but probably only if you were an ancient Greek – where we will all live with relative contentment ever after. Some days it’s easier to believe this than others. I think most families are like this.
I love quietness, and books; dogs and colours; plants, and textures; wombats; huge mugs of tea; grass under my feet; Doc Marten’s; The X-Files; bells hanging from curtains on brightly coloured strings, higgledy-piggledy houses with nooks & crannies; Sons of Anarchy; long hot baths, and cool Autumn days; Audible; overflowing bookcases, the scent of verbena, and rhubarb anything; pear cider, roast pork, parsnip anything, and Chinese duck with pancakes; House M.D.; Rob Stears; tattoos; Land Rover Defenders, Fat Face clothes, the colour turquoise and gorgeous fresh lime green; snow, and the sound of rain on the window when I’m reading in bed; Supernatural; Lush’s Karma and Flower’s Barrow; naps on summer Sundays when the curtains billow in a fresh breeze and lawnmowers buzz in the distance; Faithless; box sets of DVDs that absorb your focus and capture your imagination; North Wales, all of Malta, San Francisco, most of Co. Donegal; silver, sapphires, and rubies; John Mayer, John Martin, Nick Drake, RHCP, Hozier, James Brown; driving with the music up loud; dreadlocks with beads, and Pacifica’s Mediterranean Fig solid perfume; Cartier’s La Tank Française; Hermès’ Eau de rhubarbe écarlate; Lindt chocolate; unadulterated whisk(e)y.
I dislike people who mumble, and people who shout when talking on the phone, and open plan offices; The Daily Mail; ‘celebrity’ anythings and ‘reality TV’; smug ignorance; my lack of self-discipline; silver coloured cars; people who don’t understand what indicators are for; random capital letters in writing that do not denote emphasis, merely a lack of knowledge on how they should be used; Maths; fundamentalist anythings; long finger nails and anything bar the barest sliver of nail on toes; Guinness, red wine, vodka.
My birthday’s in November – I am a Remembrance Day baby; I should have been called Poppy but it wouldn’t suit me at all. I’m not sure what would, to be honest.
I married my husband in May 2002. We have known each other since we were about sixteen and everyone said ‘awww!’ when we got hitched. (Except my parents who said, “What on earth are you doing, and why?”) We separated in 2005 after a very dubious three years together. As we had children, we ended up seeing each other most days whether we wanted to or not, and, in January 2012, realised that, actually, there was something there that we weren’t quite done with. In fact, it was something new completely, bred out of a hard-won maturity and the opportunity to actually see one another clearly for the first time in years. It’s working much better second time around.
In January 2010, after five years of singleness, I fell in love with an Irish man. He had a lot on his plate in our time together, and our relationship lasted for about eighteen months before eventually, it closed due to a lack of time, compounded by the difficulties found with inter-generational coupledom, in the summer of 2011, pushed to one side by things that had to be more of a priority. He’s a good man, though, and you will find the initial stages of our togetherness chronicled here where he is called TRM, short for The River Man. I have, rather distressingly, got a bit of a Thing for Engineers. It invariably leads to trouble. Did I mention I have a degree in Theology?
I am incredibly, terribly, awfully lazy and I gave up feeling overly guilty about it many years ago despite the best attempts of my mother. Hence, you may not see this blog updated for long periods of time. It doesn’t mean I’ve given up, it just means I’ve found something else to do for a while – I’ll be back when I’m ready.