I didn't get around to doing
my Christmas shopping yesterday as planned, owing to the rain and the fact that I'm a lazy bitch when I want to be. I ventured out this morning though and managed to get about half of it done, which I think I deserve a medal for given the ferocity of the crowds on Dublin's streets. I was walking along Westmoreland St. laden with bags and ill humour when I saw
Pat Ingoldsby sitting by the huge metal container inexplicably parked by the side of the road.
Pat's an Irish institution, a relic of my childhood. I love his poems, the humour and the humanity of them. Sometimes they make me feel very sad and worried for him. I've bought books from him a couple of times when he was having a bad day (I've never bought one in a shop). He was gruff and I was disappointed, which is funny as I don't expect any of the other authors I read to entertain me as I make a purchase. Today was a good day though, he greeted my hello with a beaming smile and chatted to me about his books. I asked him to write the dedication in Irish and asked him
as Gaeilge, eliciting another smile.
Tá Gaeilge álainn agat, a deir sé,
Gaeilge ón chroí. I'd love to have stayed and talked with him for longer, maybe got him a cup of coffee and kept him company for a while. He has an extraordinary warmth and energy about him, an air of eccentricity and giddiness, and loneliness. I'd love to have stayed, but I didn't. I lacked the courage, afraid that I'd impose, or bore him. I regret it now; he's man enough to tell me to piss off home if he doesn't want me annoying him and who knows, he might have been gumming for a cup of coffee.
Tomorrow I'll post one of my favourite poems of Pat's. I'm too fuckin tired tonight though, after my interrupted night's sleep...
