Debris falls in Ireland all the time

Further to the recent and ongoing volcanic eruption in Iceland, which has been of severe disruption to air travel over Britain and the northern part of Europe, reports have been coming in of cars in Ireland acquiring a fine coating of dust attributed to the distribution locally by strong northerly winds of fine particles from the event.

It is not unheard of for similar phenomena to be observed here. Some years back a particularly energetic dust storm in Africa resulted in red Sahara Desert sand being deposited in some areas.

My own neighbour reported only three or four years ago, a coating of pale dust on the bonnet of his car which we traced to the two Lithuanian men working a circular saw in my front garden. Indeed, the neighbour on the other side reported deposits of stones and topsoil on his car which investigations revealed had come from the operation of a tree-root shredding machine by a gobshite.

In February 2003, a piece of chewing gum from the space shuttle, Columbia, got stuck in my hair as I was passing through Tymon Park. This mirrored an earlier incident when I was 13 years old and my best friend was skewered by a red hot screwdriver that had fallen out of Skylab.

My father informed me that he saw at least two Cubans on the windshield of his Commer diesel lorry following the Bay of Pigs invasion of 1961.

His father maintained that a Filipino gentleman landed on his dung cart following the Taal volcano eruption in 1911.

The list goes on.

Isn't the weather great?

A bit of sunshine and all of female Ireland goes absolutely manic, like an anthill that got an unexpected kicking.

Lawnmowers are being beaten, screeching into life and bellowing to each other across back walls. There are multi-coloured looters in the garden centres. There are runs on Ladyshaves and strange wear on Hisself's good electric razor. Aul wans and young wans are digging through the wardrobes to find last year's skimpy teeshirts and slathering the Bisto onto milk white thighs. Old hounds that haven't stirred from contented kennels since last autumn are being hauled up roads and across parks by the neck. Sleepy aul lads and dopey young lads are gawking through bus windows at the strange Meccano set structures now visible through the clinging clothes of marching hoards of winter crazed stubbly womenfolk. The heat is savage. The air electric.

I'm staying out of it. Sure you'd be trampled!

The 9th of July....

...and I've just seen a truck going by the window delivering bags of coal.

Wasn't there supposed to be a summer here around now???

Garage a complete dud

We've enjoyed Pat Shortt and Jon Kenny in their parts as anarchic comedy duo, D'Unbelievables. We've enjoyed Shortt's multi-tasking in the television comedy, Killinaskully. We've enjoyed the bitter-sweet Adam & Paul, from director Lenny Abrahamson and writer Mark O’Halloran. So putting Shortt, Abrahamson and O'Halloran together on a project should have resulted in high entertainment. Certainly, given the accolades so prominently reproduced on the DVD box of Garage one expected a great couple of hours viewing.

The movie is set in a rural backwater town where Josie (Pat Shortt) runs a ramshackle petrol station for an unsympathetic local businessman. Josie is obviously a sandwich short (no pun intended) of a picnic. He is variously ridiculed, exploited, even dispised by other characters in this unremittingly bleak drama. Where Adam & Paul pulled few punches in that movie's portrayal of drug addiction, it was at least relieved by some tragic comedy. Garage has no obvious relief in it whatsoever. An interesting comparison to Garage is Sweety Barrett (1998), where the similar underdog character played by Brendan Gleeson ultimately triumphs against adversity. There is no redemption in Garage.

Garage won IFTA awards in 2008 in the Best Film, Best Director, Best Script, and Best Actor categories as well as a prize at Cannes 2007.

I don't get it. It is the most boring, depressing, black movie I have sat through in a very long time. I hope never to look at it again.

St. Patrick's Weekend in Second Life

Yes, St Patrick's Weekend was celebrated in Second Life, not least in the various themed parties and meet ups in the clubs and bars there. Discover Ireland also arranged for a number of parades along the streets of "Dublin" as part of an effort to publicise the Real Life (RL) city. The theory behind this is that people might like SL Dublin and come searching for some RL kicks.

I find SL Dublin to be strange in the extreme. Walking (or flying) along College Green, one sees traffic-free streets and some familiar sights like Trinity College and the Bank of Ireland. Enter a doorway, however, and one finds oneself inside a typical SL boutique selling avatar clothing or jewellry. It's like being in a dream where the familiar is ever so distorted. In O'Connell Street, the widest thoroughfare in Europe, one finds the GPO a stone's throw from the river (I flew into the Liffey by accident and walked along the bottom -- a real first -- I've not done that in RL... yet....) and then the Northside stops abruptly before Henry Street. No Clearys, either, but there is a Millenium Spire. There are quite a few avatars hanging out in SL Dublin's bars and clubs and it is definitely worth a longer exploration some time.
On Sunday I joined the onlookers for the first parade in SL Dublin. It was fun for a number of unexpected reasons, primarily the technical problems of too many visitors filling up a Sim in one go and the comments from those whose avatars were experiencing difficulties. People were materialising without any hair, or couldn't see anything, or couldn't figure out if they were sitting in an unoccupied seat. Luckily, although there were some lags in the action, I didn't experience too many glitches. The arrival of SL floats whose construction was sponsored by various RL and SL interests was announced by a commere whose American origins meant some interesting pronunciations of the pre-prepared script: "Dally-mount Park" and "Chapel-eye-zod" for instance. "The Christchurch" was another small blooper.

I have to say I didn't stay to see the whole parade, but of those I saw the floats mostly appeared uniformly cubic in shape with various uninspiring (some downright mysterious) attachments forming their bodies. They zig-zagged in a kind of controlled chaos down the streets (and sometimes on the pavements) to the applause of the crowd. After a while, I let my camera wander over the spectators, who seemed much more interesting, if only because they come in far more varities of sizes, shapes and styles.
Of course, I eventually ended up in Toby's Juke Joint Blues club in Garden City, which is my favourite hang-out in SL so far. The party must have been good because my avatar was missing a boot next day. Bit like RL, I suppose.

But I think the parade showed great promise and I hope it continues to grow. Perhaps with a longer lead-in time next year the floats might show more of that Second Life magic. Ironically, I've seen creatures and costumes in the real Dublin parade that rival any fantasy creations roaming in the wider Second Life world. I hope someone finds a way to integrate that kind of creation into the 2009 SL parade. Good work, people! Looking forward to next year already.

Eurovision 2008 preliminaries off to a flying (or at least a feathered) start

Following Ireland's last place finish with 5 points in the 2007 Eurovision song contest, the national broadcaster, RTÉ, is arranging the final preliminary round of choosing an Irish entrant for the 2008 contest. The final, to which the lucky entrant will be sent, is to be held in Belgrade, Serbia, on Saturday May 24th.

A controversial entrant is the puppet, Dustin the Turkey, whose presence in the competitions led to a short debate on the political television programme, Questions & Answers.

For those interested in following Irelands' and other countries' shortlisting and voting results, the site All Kinds of Everything has a very interesting blog and an extensive News section.

From The Irish Times:

"In the past some unkind critics have described Ireland's entries in the Eurovision as turkeys but this year we could actually have a turkey performing our entry.

"The Irish final will be held on February 23rd when the public decides who will represent Ireland at the Eurovision semi-final in Serbia in May. Already the turkey has ruffled feathers with one Eurovision fans' website reporting that Dustin is in the running, with the headline "Puppet to Mock Eurovision?"

"The Dublin turkey has an impressive CV, having run for president of Ireland, recorded with Bob Geldof and made a career out of insulting Pat Kenny and mocking Leitrim. But the puppet will have to pull some strings if he wants to make it to Belgrade. Bill Hughes, chairman of the judging panel, said Irish voters would have a very strong field to choose from.

"The other songs are:
Double Cross My Heart, performed by Donal Skehan and composed by Joel Humlén, Oscar Gorres and Charlie Mason; Time to Rise, performed by Maya and composed by Maja Slatinsek and Ziga Pirnat; Not Crazy After All, performed by Leona Daly and composed by Leona Daly and Steve Booker; Sometimes, performed by Liam Geddes and written by Susan Hewitt; and Chances, written and performed by Marc Roberts, who came second in the 1997 Eurovision Song Contest.

"Mr Hughes said the panel did not choose Dustin's song in a flippant manner. "We did think seriously about it but once we heard it and we all laughed so much we decided it was worth including."

"Ireland had never entered a novelty or humorous song before, he said, and it was just one of six songs for the public to choose from. John Waters, who co-wrote last year's Irish entry, was not getting into a flap over the prospect that his successor could be a turkey. "Don't forget that we are talking about the Eurovision. It's fun, it's kitsch and nobody takes it all that seriously," he said.

"He may have come last, but Waters believes that the turkey cannot lose, because of his novelty value. "If Dustin wins it's a victory and if he comes last it's a victory. The worst thing would be if Dustin came second-last. That would be failure as we would have beaten him." Dustin's election campaigns included promises such as bringing the Dart to Dingle, but he will have to step up his game as he bids for Eurovision glory. The only problem is, will Europe understand him when he shouts his catchphrase "Go on ya good ting"?"

Gas Leak sets me all headless chickenish

So anyhow, the plumber comes and goes and connects the gas line up and signs the certification papers and all is okay. There's some concrete needs finishing by Bord Gáis and also by the plumber. We'll have the heating system running in a few days. Yadda-yadda-yadda.

We're minding the grandson over the Saturday night. On Sunday, Herself brings the wee man for a wee ramble down the road. Following some major building of coloured block houses on the carpet for rapid demolition to the shouts of "H'gain!", unsticking pieces of half eaten toast from the armchair, and tap tap tappity dancing over lots of plastic toys, I wave them off merrily at the front door.

"Do you smell gas?" Herself says, frowning. I mentally check that I took my blood pressure tablet this morning. Check. Then I have the mickey fit.

"Oh, bollix! Bollix. Bollix. Bollix. And... bollix."

"The number is on the invoice. Or in the book. Bye-eee!"

Herself and the wee man go off kicking autumn leaves while I scramble about unplugging electrical appliances and wondering if any of the cats smoke cigarettes. The black cat may well smoke a pipe.

"Hello," says a voice on the emergency Bord Gáis number (1850-20-50-50, in case you are presently still Blogging while holding your breath and really, really should phone that number before you pass out).

I gabble away about gas and smell and front garden and recent connection and....

"I'll just switch you to Dublin," the voice says. Obviously a panicked Dub is nothing for a Laois man to deal with at ten past ten on a Sunday morning.

"Hello," says a reassuringly Dublin accent.

I gabble away about gas and smell and front garden and recent connection and....

"Your address?"

I give him the address.

"You don't have a meter," he says, in a kind of half-puzzled tone. Perhaps Bord Gáis wants to know how much it can bill us for the amount of gas creeping about the driveway as we speak.

"No we don't. We're literally only connected up since yesterday."

"I'll have someone out within the hour," he says. Then he launches into the mantra about not smoking or not lighting candles to look down the pipe and so on.

Thirty minutes later a man in overalls and with the serene look of an overtime payment in his immediate future tells me the on/off valve is ever so slightly switched to "On." And maybe the blind end is a little less white-stick than it should be. He gives it a twist.

"All fixed."

"Bloody marvelous."

"Ah, sure they sometimes seep out a bit of gas before the meter is installed. It shouldn't be a problem out in the air like this."

Feck it, we haven't even heated a radiator yet.

I may push the car out of the driveway in the morning before starting it. But most likely I'll be so lazy by then I'll tell Herself to give the ignition a lash as usual.

Sure what could go wrong, eh?

Turnover Toast, Part 2

This wonderful thing is a turnover loaf.

My friend Joyce read my blog post on not being able to find a picture of one online and about remembering what it was like to eat this bread as a kid. She then trundled into Meath Street, in Dublin, where she bought me a loaf. (She also mentioned gurcake, but that is an entirely different story).

You may use your imagination as to what kind of evening I am about to have, but rest assured it will include bread, butter, and a fruit preserve of my choice.

As there are no photos of turnovers to be had on the Internet, please feel free to use this one in all your bread photo albums.

What?

You don't have bread photo albums?

How strange.

Turnover toast

It's amazing, but I have not been able to find a photo online of a loaf of turnover bread! [But you can now see one here.] For those who don't know it, it's an Irish bread which is not one of the pieces of floor-sweepings and turf sods that the Diaspora earnestly bakes in an earthenware dish and chokes down in the name of ethnic authenticity. Turnover is unashamedly a doughy white bread. The baker takes a long piece of raw dough and folds two-thirds of it back over along its length. The result is a bread which has a distinctive shape -- one end is narrow, the other (the turnover) is rounded. The crust is crispy, and sometimes blackened slightly in the larger end.

I don't know if maybe turnover is confined to the Pale, and perhaps this is why it hasn't made it into the recipe books of other "traditional" Irish breads on the Internet. Whatever the reason, it's a wonderful bread to eat fresh, or, as we used to do as children for fun and for practical reasons if it had become a little old, toasted on a twisted wire coathanger in front of the coals of an open fire.

Toast has become a larger part of my diet recently than I have been used to. My father has now the habit of calling to visit each Saturday mid-morning for an hour or two. I know he tends to rise very early, so I offer him tea and toast to bolster him against the possibility that his breakfast was at 6.00am, or maybe not at all. He has no qualms about scoffing down factory-sliced pan loaf that has taken a trip through the toaster and is dripping with butter and marmalade. He had always complained about the quality of modern convenience bread like this, but I think the necessities of tending to himself and the practicalities involved have educated him to the notion that such foods rarely cause poisoning. There's also a lot to be said for having food handed up to you.

Turnover, sliced from the loaf with an old, almost toothless breadknife, tasted best when piping hot and speckled just a little with coal ash that had accidentally trickled from the hot grate. It was a delicate juggling act to reverse the slice on the prongs of the toasting fork, unless you had managed to skewer the bread in such a way that it could simply be flipped over. I always preferred the simplest two-prong, hanging method, rather than the trickier embedded through the flesh of the bread way of doing things. This latter art, though handy for getting both sides done, could leave the bread untoasted in some small bits, or cause it to warp on toasting. Of course, whatever the method it didn't do to let the mind's eye wander for a mis-spent moment or the toast would blacken and have to have the worst of the burnt bits scraped off with the scratch-scratch-scratching of the edge of the butter knife. And trouble would surely follow from the mother if you let any black bits stray into the butter dish!

It's funny that now I've taken my eye off the toast again, so to speak, the turnover has all but disappeared from the shelves of the local supermarkets. It's true that a factory-sliced version can be got in some places, but it's unhappily wrapped in cellophane and really doesn't give the full satisfaction of sawing off the shorter end and practising the skill of the breadknife slicing sideways through the crumbling white bread. One of my earliest memories is of breadcrumbs left over from an evening meal on the oilskin tablecloth of the kitchen table at home. I associated the word "hungry" with it. Not that we were hungry -- my mother put food on the table every day and followed it with slices of turnover spread with butter and blackberry jam. It's more just the picture I conjure when the word reaches my ears.

When I was very small, I was weaned on warm milk and bread mixed together. And later on I would dip fingers of turnover in my cup of sweetened tea, a habit I grew out of.

We had a good few rounds of toast this morning with Herself home convalescing from her recent hospital tests (all clear, T.G.), the father on his weekly visit, Herself's brother dropping off a birthday present to her, and me, the "toast cook", riffling through the sliced pan and tossing slices into the modern toasting machine. I must find out who still sells the uncut turnover I remember. We don't have an open fire any more in the house, but I can toast slices under the grille -- they wouldn't fit in the square slots of the toaster. And I promise to take a picture when I get one too.

Rory Gallagher - Garbage Man

Trippin' to Malahide

So we ended up in Herself's aul' haunt, Malahide. Every time I go there, the tide is in. But I'm reliably informed there's a beach under the waves not far from the Sea Scout's HQ. Of course, the dunes start further along the coast and eventually become Portmarnock, but that's probably another story and one that would likely go way over the head of this out of towner.

The village is decorated with just-at-end-of-season hanging baskets of flowers which make a pleasant scene. The traffic is bloody well unbelievable, though. I had planned on taking pics of a few shop fronts for posterity but no matter what direction I pointed myself a convertible with build-in blonde or an SUV with God-knows what in it hove into shot.

Malahide Hardware had the fittings for our curtain rails we'd been searching for off and on for the past year. So I bought some to make more work for myself and will probably be found with drill in hand again this weekend straightening the rails out before Herself decides in another day or two that the whole lot need to go in the recycling bin.

Duffy's is the spot for lunch in Malahide. Very friendly staff and boiling hot food make for a perfect combination. I had the Lazagne special -- lazagne with a side order of boiled vegetables that must have been put in the pot so fresh they didn't realise they'd been pulled out of the gound yet. Herself went for roast beef that almost melted off the fork into the mouth. Herself's brother poked his head around the corner just as we were ordering, which was a pleasant surprise. We stuffed ourselves and waddled off down the side streets keeping a wary eye on the traffic warden and the reminder on the parking permit of when we should leave to avoid a ticket.

Drogheda

"Are we there yet?"

"Don't start."

Good journey out to Drogheda on the M50 and then the M1.

"What?"

"Oliver Plunkett's head. Where is it?"

"There's no head here!"

It was in the 25-foot tall reliquary, near where the lady local was lighting a candle for her presumed good intention. One severed head, some rib-bones and a hip later, we found ourselves among the ladies of the town in the Copper Kettle coffee shop, enjoying a cappucino.

Splash!

The waitress, almost dislocating her neck to see what's going on among the passersby on the street below tipped over a milk jug onto the floor.

"It's hot in here," Herself said.

Drogheda is a nice-looking town with several spots of historical interest. It's hilly, so walking shoes are a good idea. I had mine, anyway. There are lots of people bustling about and plenty of shopping. Off Laurence Street is a new mall which is still awaiting tenants, but there are plenty of single shops and boutiques along the streets. One gets the impression that there is a lot going on in the town that our fleeting visit couldn't cover.

Lunch was served in the Westcourt Hotel. Always a good idea to go where the locals are eating, and this was very busy. "Family friendly" is the term I'd use. Ear-plugs an option if you are not too family friendly yourself. Food quite good, but suffered a little from the perennial problem that carvery's have, i.e, the food goes cold quickly.

We took a quick jaunt over to Newgrange, remembering along the way that the only access is through the visitor centre at Bru na Boinne. So we took a few quick snaps over the hedge and headed for home.

Days of birds and heavy weather

These past few days. Firstly on the top deck of a bus sweltering along, looking at all and nothing. I noticed over the back gardens of houses off the Old Bawn Road a flock of starlings sweeping upwards. One would arc lower using the downward fall of its trajectory to gain speed then turning the angle of its wings slightly, pulling up, up into the sky, high, higher than I had ever seen them flying before. Something about their dancing skywards puzzled me. Then I realised they were hunting. Catching flying ants rising in the heat.

The birds' wings, stretched wide out to lift them on the hot air the princess ants and male, winged ants were soaring through in invisible clouds, would suddenly twist and fold in an anxious stall as the bird almost stopped to snap up another pair of mating insects.

Further down the road, great flocks of seabirds spiralled upwards over the parklands, following the swarms. White wings upraised they swooped gracefully and plucked at the air.

No-one among the footballers or walkers or commuters stuck in traffic noticed them.

This evening, walking down the long concrete foothpath towards home I noticed scurrying platoons of ant attendants rushing frantically about, encouraging latecoming princesses in lacy wings to take off onto the dull breeze in the torid heat and run the gauntlet in the sky.

Far off towards the mountains a column of hundreds of pairs of white feathered wings blazed in the sunlight, a beautiful ballet of death and of life. The children, bored with summer holidays, didn't look up, but went about the business of who was playing with whom and who's pick it was.

Nothing ever happens in Firhouse, no doubt they'll say.

Escaped traffic lights recaptured

A herd of traffic lights which had made a sensational escape from a depot of South Dublin County Council overnight were recaptured and corralled in Firhouse this morning.

Under cover of darkness, the eight-feet high lights had sneaked out a hole in a fence and scattered across parkland into nearby estates.

Local resident, Eilish Okimbawano, told our reporter: "I came out to pick up the milk and there was one standing in my garden, eating the top off my Clematis campaniflora.

"I got it in Woodies in the 50% off sale," she added.

This is not the first time there has been a problem in South Dublin with roadside structures. In 2005, one-hundred directional signs disappeared along the M50. It is thought they migrated to Southern Italy for the winter.

The escaped traffic lights were rounded up by Roads Department staff on overtime this morning and corralled in a temporary compound off the Firhouse Road. A spokesman said:

"We think we got them all back, but it's hard to tell. They're pretty frightened at the moment and will probably just mill about for a few hours before settling down. Once they get used to the new surroundings they should all start pointing the same way."

Reports this afternoon from the Dodder Valley Park area of sightings of two more traffic lights hiding in shrubbery near Firhouse Weir are being investigated.

In the meantime, member of the public are asked to be vigilant and to report any suspicious traffic lights to their local Garda station.

So, this man goes to the doctor....

Amazing how quickly your six-month duration prescription runs out, especially when you dodged the hard questions about weight and blood pressure the last time because a Locum doctor was on duty.

I gave up drinking alcohol about four or five weeks ago, following my stomach upset, and have lost around a stone and a half (21 pounds, for our American friends; 9.55 Kilos for our Euro pals) since going off the liquid bread. My face has only two chins now instead of three. And bones in it. And I appear to have only one back now.

I know what my doctor is like, though, so I didn't put much faith in making an impression on him with this news.

"Hmmm," he said. I think doctors say that to make a nice noise in their own heads when the ear pieces of the stethoscope are in. "Your blood pressure is kind of okay in that arm anyway."

"I've lost a stone and a half to come here," I said, half-heartedly. "And I've given up booze."

"It's a good idea to cut down," he mumbled, looking at my computerised record.

"Given up entirely," I said. In a moment I would be giving him the paw for a Scooby snack.

"What weight are you now then?" he asked, absently.

I told him.

"How much is that in Kilos?"

"Ah. I don't know. Knew I meant to convert something to something else before I came out.."

We looked at the cheapo model weighing scales under the examination couch. On the dial the maximum it went to was about a stone less than I weigh.

"But I have lost a stone and a half," I tried, one last time.

"Have I ever given you diet pills?"

"What?"

"To lose weight. Have I ever tried you on something?"

"No... I'm losing weight... No beer... Walking..."

He "Hmmmm-ed" again and printed out a prescription for appetite suppressants.

"I'm not likely to use these...."

"Well, if you feel like you want to, you'll have them."

I was so caught on the back foot by all this I paid my €55 to the doctor's receptionist and next door I just handed the prescriptions to the pharmacist. While he filled them he started asking about whether or not I had a rebate card. Then he got me to fill in a form. Then he got me to sign something. Then the fucker asked me for eighty Euro.

"In the name of Jaysus the-most-fucking-merciful!"

I had to use my Laser card to pay for my usual medicine, a pill for my chesty cough, and a rub for my scabby leg. And for those bloody diet pills I now hear give you the droop and make you lick rusty nails.

I'm still not drinking and I'm still losing about four pounds in weight a week.

Bastard doctors.

My health appears to be someone else's wealth.

I couldn't have won €16,185,749 anyway

"You never play Lotto," Herself tells me, as if I hadn't noticed not throwing away €312 a year.
"No, I don't."
"You should play it today."
"Why's that then?"
"It's over sixteen million Euro. We could win."
"You have a ticket don't you?"
"Yes. But I'm not lucky with things like that. You are."
"How do you figure that one?"
"Well, because you don't play, you'd probably win."

I think this over. She says:
"You could walk up to the shop now and buy a Quick Pick."
"How much is it to play?"
"€3."
"Naw. I can't really afford three Euro."
"But it's sixteen million Euro! Look! I'll drive you up. It'll only take a minute."
"No, you're all right."

The Lotto grand prize has apparently rolled over -- not been won -- eleven times in a row, making it a record-breaking €16,185,749 prize tonight. The news reported that two million people bought tickets for tonight's draw. A single ticket in the south of the country was the one with the winning numbers.

The best I could have won would have only been €8,092,874 anyway.

Not really tempting, is it?

Under the weather

"I don't remember a Summer being this gloomy," Herself says. She is speaking about the weather, which showed definite promise in April when we got sunburn and optimism, but which, ever since, it seems, has dissolved into incessent rain and grey, grey cloud.

I was surveying at work yesterday and ducked under a tree that was laden down with winged seeds. Where the hell has autumn come from? We haven't had a summer yet!

None can compare with the cliffs of.... Tallaght?

Tallaght Town Centre and two large gulls appear to have made a home recently on top of one of the pitched rooftops. I can see one of them from my office window, on the north face of the clock tower of County Hall, one sitting in the niche of a louvred ventilator. When its mate appears, the two greet each other with many "Shree! Shree! Shree!" calls that remind one of being at the seaside.

Someone speculates that perhaps the sitter is one of this year's young, still being fed by a dutiful parent.

I don't know enough about them to judge, but it looks to me like they're considering nesting on the rooftop. It is sheltered from the prevailing wind. It overlooks a courtyard that isn't accessible to the public. There are several fast-food restaurants in the area from which an enterprising gull might, conceivably, glean enough discarded food to raise a chick.

The nesting theory gained a little ground yesterday when the sitting gull maintained its position even during the worst of a number of thunderstorms that swept the area.

We are quite a way from the sea, though, and I wonder if nesting is a viable option. I shall bring my binoculars tomorrow. If nothing else, it should worry my colleagues in the opposite side of the building as I peer out the window and focus in one something unseen over their heads.

[Pic by User:Dschwen at Wikipedia Commons. Republished under terms of GNU Free Documentation Licence]

You might have been in the wrong political party anyhow, missus

RTE radio's Morning Ireland programme, this morning. Twenty percent of the environmentally-savvy Green Party are ticked off that the party will be going into government with Fianna Fáil:

Interviewer: "Will you be resigning your membership of the Green Party over this?"
Lady Green: "Yes I will... And we will be gathering next week outside the Dáil to protest and burn our cards."

Sheesh!

Okay Yah Land here we come, loike.

She said: "Nioo. I've noit run away from hiome. I just don't loike being there. It's loike... everything there is loched."
He asked: "What do you mean, loike?"
She said: "They switched off my Internet conn-eh-shone. And took my mobile phoine. Loike why did they take my phoine?"

I thought: "Because they were sick of the sound of you."