The Five O Clock Shadow

And have you any photos of this latest one? Nana never misses an opportunity to get an affectionate dig in. The implication is that I have trailed a string of them along behind me, that I have a short short span of attention. It is flattering; I do have a short short span of attention, she's right, but not when it comes to the romantical stuff. When it comes to romanticaliness I'm all about the slow burn, the long haul, the big romance, the hard-won battles, but more often than not I come away singed. She doesn't see this because I am so mortified by rejection that I scrape off the char and swallow my pride like toast. I would rather she thinks of me as independent and flighty than insecure and um... flighty.

So she's curious about this New Thing. She liked the last one, you see - he had a big appetite (for such a skinny lad!) and was a Catholic (he wasn't, really, I don't even know where she got this from) so that was pretty much all her boxes ticked. She was all about him when I was all about him, but congratulatory and cautionary when I broke it to her that I had broken with him. You need to do what's right for you she nodded, sagely. Otherwise you can end up married, if you're not careful.

Quite.

So I show her a picture. She scrutinises it, like a mugshot. I'm not sure what she's looking for, and I wonder if she sees any of the things that I do. He has one of those chin things she says, and I wonder what the fuck she's getting at. Seeing my confusion, she reaches for the right words. You know, she says, pointing again at his jawline, a 7pm.

I nearly wet myself laughing. She asks me, deadly serious, if I plan to stick with this one for a little longer. Will he stick with you? That's the $10 question, I suppose!

I love my nana. She's priceless.

Lá 'le Pádraig

I mentioned my sober and contemplative Paddy's Day - here are a few of the photos I took on my stroll. Town was packed to the gills with tourists, harried looking suburbanites with wailing sprogs and native urban terrorists, all apparently sponsored by Carrolls Irish Gift Shop. The south docks were very quiet, however. The only person we met was an elderly gent out for a cycle, who said he was sad to see all of the old history down there being lost.

Sad? I am and I amn't. There has been a lot of debate recently on the subject of cultural and national identity and what it means to be Irish (tis the season, I suppose) but I don't think I'm articulate enough on the subject to add much to the discussion. But you ramble inarticulately about all kinds of other things! cry the readers. Indeed and I do, but this is one I feel strongly about. So instead here are the pictures, and a little waffle I stole off teh internets about people throwing shoes.

Mucky Tunes: Stereo in the silt down by the Westmoreland Lock.

Ratz From The Flatz: Graffiti at Grand Canal Basin

Shoefiti: Ringsend

There's an interesting article on 'Shoefiti' on Wiki:

Some say that shoes hanging from the wires advertise a local crack house where crack cocaine is used and sold (in which case the shoes are sometimes referred to as "Crack Tennies"). It can also relate to a place where Heroin is sold to symbolize the fact that once you take Heroin you can never 'leave': a reference to the addictive nature of the drug. Others claim that the shoes so thrown commemorate a gang-related murder, or the death of a gang member, or as a way of marking gang turf.
Some claim that shoes are flung to commemorate the end of a school year, or a forthcoming marriage as part of a rite of passage. In Scotland, it has been said that when a young man has lost his virginity he tosses his shoes over telephone wires to announce this to his peers.
Others claim that the shoes are stolen from other people and tossed over the wires as a sort of bullying tactic, or as a practical joke played on drunkards. It may also be another manifestation of the human instinct to leave their mark on, and decorate, their surroundings.

I suspect the motivation in this case to be booze and bollix-acting rather than crack houses, gangland murders or sexual adventures but I suppose you never know. My favourite line in the Wiki piece was this: Others simply say that shoe flinging is a way to get rid of shoes that are no longer wanted, are uncomfortable, or do not fit.

Dubliners are nothing if not practical.

Capable of coherent conversation

Apparently I'm not. It's been commented on on a few occasions recently though, with one cheeky shite today going so far as to ask if I was drunk. See, sometimes I forget that my partners in conversation (for argument's sake, let's call them my 'audience') can't hear the connections I'm making in my head, and don't necessarily follow my trains of thought as easily as I do myself. Choo choo. It's something I could work on, I suppose.

Or they could just get with the fucking programme.