Apologies for the drunken Diaryland posting. That night I had a few too many gin and sodas at a speed quiz. Father G was on our team again; all winter he’d stop me to ask when was the next table quiz. A fellow quizzer was miffed the parish priest was on our team, among us heathens: “we should all quit our positions (in the church)” she kept saying. At first our team was winning the speed quiz… but then the other teams were allowed to take away our points during the "novelty" round, oof! Father G threatened to excommunicate our rivals. Nevertheless it was great craic.

//

For once it has ceased raining in this godforsaken land. All of Ireland sighed with relief. First ice creams of the season and coffees al fresco, loitering teenagers and pale men in t-shirts, every bird singing its heart out and lambs lying in the grass. This afternoon I even wore sandals and walked the dog at the beach. After dusk I lay in bed, gazing at the colours of the darkening sky. Later I located Sam in the unlit sitting room by the scent of the sea and its memory coming off his fur.

After the wettest March in recorded history, I could feel my self fraying at the edges, bits washing away in cemeteries and trains and theatres, at concerts and funerals and family gatherings. I probably wasn’t the only one undone. Mrs M, buried on Monday, lay dead in the house for weeks before her son, who lived with her, reported her death. “Attachment issues,” said the husband. Apparently there were people in hazmat suits at the house as of yesterday. Oof.

<<