Tag Archives: leaving cert

A life update before we plunge into the good stuff once again.

Hi there friends and people I don’t know. Probably more people I don’t know than friends, actually. But that’s another story.

Last time I was here was August 17th, so I’m going to a nice, easy but relatively boring post in order to ease myself in gently to this blogging thing once again. I’m thinking list form, because there’s less of a chance for me to go off on a tangent and it might look friendlier to the eye for all you loyal readers.

1. Beginning where I left off, I drank a few glasses of whiskey and orange juice the morning of the results, and waited until I knew everyone would be gone from the school and went and collected my results. Neither precaution was really necessary though, because I got 590. And, if you’re like the vast majority of people to which I’ve told this news, you’ll want to know where those 10 points went; the answer being science fucked me over. A1s in everything, and then A2s in biology and chemistry, which I think is quite good for bullshitting my way through science.

2. I went to Electric Picnic. That was terrible amounts of fun. I probably didn’t see as much music as I had planned, but I don’t regret that for a second. Great craic, and a long list of memories that I’m not going to bore you with. Not that I want such stories to become common knowledge. What happens in Stradbally stays in Stradbally. Unless you’re one of those people who holds a grudge. In which case you shouldn’t be allowed go to Electric Picnic in the first place.

3. I started college. Law and French in the mighty as-featured-on-HIMYM UCC. It’s class. Law is interesting, and I like French, or at least the idea of one day being able to speak it fluently. (Or to fluently speak it. Do we have any opinions on split infinitives?) Aside rom the academic stress of starting my assignments 24 hours before they’re due, and struggling to attend lectures after a night out when sleeping is so much more attractive, I love college in general. UCC is lovely, and I’m glad I stayed in Cork, even if I would absolutely love to move out. I like how you’ll always see some friendly face around campus. I like how it’s different from school and so much more ‘me’. I like how my class are lovely and we’ve good craic together. I like arsing around campus even if I’ve a million other things to be doing. I like it in the evening when it’s dark but the illuminated Quad looks lovely and, at the moment anyway, the Christmas lights just make me smile. Oh, and it’s Ireland’s only five-star university, yo..

4. Following on from point three, I do a radio show on UCC radio every Friday, along with three others. It’s in Irish, which wasn’t exactly our plan but I’m glad, because it gives me the opportunity to use my Irish on a weekly basis, something I know would never have happened after I changed my CAO from Law and Irish to Law and French if it weren’t for the show. It’s very ‘organic’ as we like to say on a regular basis, in that it’s rarely well-planned, our Irish isn’t fantastic, I say ‘like’ about 100 times per show, and we’ve started depending on Youtube for music instead of iPods and CDs which isn’t the best idea. Like today we played some Christmas track but there was just random noise for the first 30 seconds while some stupid airport scene took place in the video. If this all sounds like your thing, UCC98.3fm (accessible through iTunes radio) every Friday from 2pm ’til 3pm.

5. I got a MacBook Pro, which pleases me very much. I’d had my good ol’ Sony Vaio for the past three years, and while it was still going strong-ish, I broke the screen by pushing on it too hard when angling it in order to watch Gossip Girl – or something equally embarrassing – in bed one night. So y’know, I told the parents how imperative a laptop was for college, especially in my course so I can save the environment and read various cases and reports on-screen as well as doing assignments and the like. And I told them there was no point in getting me anything other than a Mac because I just wouldn’t be happy. So they bought it for me as my Christmas/birthday present. Quite frankly, it’s the best Christmas/birthday present I ever got, and that ol’ education discount is nice too.

6. Oh I got my Christmas holidays today. We finished off with a charming French exam which we won’t talk about right now. (Ah to be fair I did pass.) Next week is technically study/review week but I doubt I’ll make it into college which leads nicely on to my next point…

7. …because I have tonsillitis! Only made it to two lectures this week as a result, although to be fair I did do a contract law assignment on Monday in between going to the doctor and taking antibiotics. So I finished the assignment half an hour before it was due, made my mum drive me to the print shop in the student centre but they told me they were “closed for printing” (’cause they do so much else) as there was a “big job” going through. Panic ensued, until I remembered this other place up on College Rd., ran there (first time running in UCC, awkward) and then continued my sprint to the law office and I made it, sans-bibliography, with five minutes to spare. Anyway, tonsillitis sucks. First time getting it so the doc wasn’t all ‘to hospital with you!’ but it’s still a terrible nuisance and my tonsils look disgusting and all I want to do is eat sorbet. Made orange sorbet myself one day during the week, squeezing about ten clementines and one large orange in order to get enough juice. The sorbet was amazingly good but it was gone all too soon. And so much for my dad’s promise of getting me more today.

8. I’d love an Irish coffee or a Bailey’s coffee right now. And some sorbet, of course. Slán.

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On the eve of the results..

So, here I am, sitting in my bedroom, eating a banana, alone apart from the crane fly in the corner whose murder I am currently planning. The Facebook statuses are being updated at a rate only comparable to the eve of the Leaving Cert itself, and I’m lamenting the fact that there’s only a glassful of orange juice left in the house to go with my Jameson in the morning.

I’m strangely calm right now, but when I start to think about walking through the front doors of the school again, seeing the principal, teachers and fellow students, and, most of all, being handed that envelope, it makes the whole thing seem a little too real.

In fairness though, this is nothing compared to June. It’s hard not to get worked up about it all, but the exam’s are done and no-one can change that now. (Well, maybe a corrupt State Examinations Commission employee, but that’s unlikely. Hopefully.) And, unless something terrible happens, like failing maths, we all get to go crazy tomorrow night and drink ’til we no longer remember what the Leaving Cert is.

I’m excited too. Excited at the thought of finally escaping from the clutches of secondary education. Excited at never having to think about a state exam again. Excited about what the future holds…maybe.

I went to the pub to meet a few friends earlier. Everyone was just going a bit insane at home and heading out for a drink seemed like the best idea. I had a mojito, which was suitably pretentious of me. People were planning tomorrow’s activities on an hour-by-hour basis, but I think I’ll go with a more spontaneous approach to things, it’s more my style..

Whatever happens there’ll be tears, either of joy or despair, and plenty of alcohol to intensify those emotions and help in the creation of much drunken debauchery. Right now though, it’s time to find that feckin’ daddy-long-legs’ hiding place, murder it with my trusty weapon of The Irish Times, and get myself to sleep. G’luck folks, it’ll be grand..

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D’Leaving

I’m worried, just ever so slightly, but worried all the same. With only one exam left, and a four day gap between now and then, I have lulled myself into a false sense of security in which I think it’s all over and I can go out, drink coffee and get drunk. Not necessarily in that order. Pre-drinking saves you money after all..

The past week has been a bit of a bitch. The hype surrounding the first two days and the speculation as to whether or not dear Ms. Boland would make an appearance (she did, but it was a manky question) died down very quickly and we were all left to struggle on, sourcing strength, support and encouragement from our good friends Berocca Boost and Red Bull.

Every evening at about 8pm, Facebook would be taken over by multiple statuses all saying the same thing: ‘Tips for Geog tomorrow pleeeeeease? SO FUCKED.’ ‘Boland Dickinson Frost. Boland Dickinson Frost. Boland Dickinson Frost.’ ‘Topics for French essays? Alcohol? Cyber bullying? Heellllpppp… :(‘ ‘All-nighter for Bio anyway.’ etc. Facebook: an uncannily accurate portrait of a procrastination-loving generation. Think that’ll be the title of my third book. (Two other ideas I gotta deal with first..)

Most mornings, I’d set six alarms, beginning anywhere between 6am and 6.30am, depending on the amount of cramming required, and scheduled to go off at 5 minute intervals so that I’d either eventually get up or else fuck the phone off the wall and return to my state of slumber. I think the fact that the phone’s only a week old dissuaded me from employing the latter technique and, instead, I’d begrudgingly drag myself from the bed at times I’d never before seen on the face of a clock.

Tuesday was not a good day. I’d now like to express the intense dislike I feel towards whoever thought it would be a good idea to have Irish Paper 2 and Business on the same day. Do they not know that it is genuinely impossible to study both of those courses in one evening? I focused my attention on the masses of Irish literature I had yet to learn, and planned to use the ever-popular exam technique known as ‘winging it’ for Business. By now, some of you may have worked out that I like to ramble. A lot. So, yes, there is a very high probability that my answer on the ways in which managers can use Maslow’s Theory to motivate staff reads much like one of these literary masterpieces that are my blog posts.

I quite enjoyed the rush of adrenaline that pulsed through my veins as I ‘winged it’ right through the short questions, only faltering slightly at a financial ratio calculation, before continuing with more of my meaningless babble in the Applied Business Question, and finishing the paper with the highest concentration of bullshit in the long questions. And then I went home and collapsed. Trying to sound like you know what you’re talking about is actually rather exhausting.

Actually, come to think of it now, winging it seems to have been my general plan of action since Business. French study consisted of watching Hors de Prix, while Biology was just a bit of a write-off, apart from a brief venture into the never-before-seen world of genetics. Having said that, I feel the paper seemed to slightly favour those of us with a ‘erra fuck it shur’ attitude to the whole thing. I mean, there’s nothing about migratory ducks in any LC Biology book.

And now I find myself in bed before midnight for the first time in over a week, not exactly sure how I used to waste days upon days on the Internet. This is the reason you’ve been treated to this highly coherent and witty blog post which most excellently displays the stability of my mental condition at this moment in time.

Come Dine With Me’s on in ten. Gotta find some energy and put on the kettle, although it’ll be a bit weird having tea instead of a heart-palpitation-inducingly strong mug of Nescafé Gold Blend..

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An Average Day in the Library

Alarm goes off. I groan, and consider staying in bed. Sleep, after all, is a much-needed investment in productivity. If I’m too tired, I’ll end up doing nothing. I then remember I’ve said this to myself the past three mornings. Surely that’s enough sleep.

I decide to get up. I go to the kitchen. Eggs. Right. What kind? Check bread situation. Bad bread leads to a hard boiled egg, or possibly fried. Good bread leads to a poached egg. Cook and eat egg.

Check time. Shit. Quick shower, which becomes a long shower. No point in not washing your hair properly. It’s another investment, this time in atractiveness, which may be required later. Dry hair. Straighten hair. Find clean clothes. Leave house.

Get to library a little later than planned. Hope the ‘All study places taken’ sign isn’t up. It’s not! Success! Go inside. Realise all decent study places are taken. No window seats left. No people watching today then. Gutted.

Spot a seat at one of the big tables. Well, there’s a chair. No real table space. Awkwardly enquire as to whether there’s someone sitting there. (Eh, yeah, he’s invisible.) Sit down as others move their stuff to accommodate you. Ignore any sighs from fellow students.

Sigh yourself. Realise there’s a long day ahead. Decide which subject you hate least. Notice you don’t have book for said subject. Consider giving up. No, no, must work. Leaving Cert soon. Maths book. Pick topic. Binomial Theorem. ‘What the fuck is this shit?!’ Ah, week I was in Amsterdam. Start teaching yourself maths. Get bored. Look around.

Look at fellow Leaving Cert students. Attempt to judge them based on what subjects they’re studying. Realise all of them are using revision books and exam papers, while you’re learning everything for the first time. Become freaked out. Find something else to look at.

Wonder about the librarians’ lives. ‘He wears such shit clothes. Runners with trousers. I mean come on. Ay! Be nicer to that person. Just because you never got any further in your career than the first floor of the library.’

Old man number one comes in. He’s the nicely-dressed one though, kind of grandfatherly. He takes the paper. Sits down. Clears his throat. Looks around. ‘Hmm, does he have a wife? Why doesn’t he buy the paper and read it at home? Ah, wife dead, craving human interaction.’ He tries to talk to young girl next to him. She laughs nervously. He finishes the Examiner. He goes and gets the Times. He’s in this for the long run.

Smell of piss wafts past you. ‘Ah, it must be old man number two: smelly hobo. He too gets one of the papers. Does he have a wi-. Never mind. He just wants to experience the novelty of actually being inside a building, and what better place than the library.’

Shit. Realise you’ve done nothing. Look at book. Concentrate. Right. So. A binomial is… No, gone. See your set square out of the corner of your eye, and are brought back to first time you met Library Guy. He borrowed your set square. How romantic. What a cutie. How come you only ever saw him here three times? Talked twice. 66.7% of the time, there has been chat. Would be 100% but one time he didn’t see you. Choosing one’s seat is clearly important.  Think again, ‘Where is he?!’

Analyse male-female ratio. Not good. Far too many females. Examine remaining males. Make mental list. Cross off librarian, old men, hobos, foreign men learning English, and slow-looking Leaving Certs. Realise there’s no-one left. Pine after Library Guy. Tweet same.

Look at clock. Count how long you’ve been here. Count how long is left. Accordingly, schedule lunch break and coffee break. An hour to go. Text a friend and try to convince them to come to town. Oh. No. They’re studying at home. Well fine. Just because you don’t have an internet addiction and can actually do that.

Get bored of maths. Check bag. Options are Chemistry and Biology. Hmm. Well I’m not studying the Reproductive System ’cause that would be so ‘awks’ if Library Guy came in, so Chemistry it is. Other advantage being this makes me look smart. Take out book. Curse subject. Question why you are doing it. Open first page of Organic Chemistry for what feels like the millionth time. Sigh. Make some notes, also for what feels like the millionth time.

Wahey! Half past one! Lunch! Happy. Then sad, when you realise you are going to have to eat lunch alone. Miss Library Guy all over again. Contemplate texting that person you know will be around. Realise this is stupid, and go to Tesco. Sandwich or pasta. Hmm. No forks available with the pasta. Sandwich it is. And a Tesco smoothie. 99c. Fuck yes.

Leave Tesco. Try to think where you can eat potentially messy sandwich without anyone seeing you. Eliminate all dodgy alleys. Try to think of somewhere with seating. Ah yes. That sort of street with blocks for sitting. Arrive at said location. Notice you are not the only person who has had this idea. Feel ‘at one’ with your fellow lonely lunch-eaters. Eat sandwich. Begin to enjoy sitting in sun. Contemplate not going back. Freak out when you realise crazy Spanish dude may have stolen something of yours. Rush back.

Return to the death hole. Scan room. No sign of Library Guy. Begin to hate him for doing this to you. Sit back down. More Organic Chemistry. Alkanes, alkenes, and the like. Maybe some calculations. Wait, no, fuck that shit. Begin clock-watching. Make mental plan of what you want to get done and by when. Forget mental plan. Decide you should start making physical plans. Find this to be too much effort.

Notice how much you hate people your own age. No, that’s not true. Well, not really. You just hate these people. ‘Please tell me I’m not like these people? Like, what is that girl wearing? It’s some sort of Adidas sports top. Now I’ve no problem with people exercising, but you’re in the library. The public library, i.e. you are in public. Wearing sports clothing in public should be illegal.’

Then feel sorry for the girl. She obviously doesn’t know any better. I mean, she’s left-handed, isn’t wearing any make-up and looks terrified by the wheezing fat man. Consider taking her under your wing and making her cool. Realise you have no patience and/or tolerance and that this would not end well.

Analyse guy sitting next to you in similar fashion. Speaking of fashion, he clearly doesn’t do it. Again, more of this sportswear thing. Get annoyed by prevalence of sportswear among Irish teenagers. Try to come up with solution to this horrible cultural phenomenon. Consider entering politics in order to combat said problem.

Develop headache. Water is required. Go to Centra for cheap water. 89c. How bad. That’s even cheaper than the smoothie. Decide you should treat yourself as you’ve been working so hard. Spot a bag of white chocolate buttons. G’wan so shur. Buy said items.

Stroll back to library, successfully avoiding certain people with the help of your trusty €1.50 sunglasses. Enter dark cavern of library once again. Wish you could be like all the carefree people outside enjoying the sun. Curse education system.

Take seat once again. Become distracted by woman with startlingly green eyeshadow. She gets herself a magazine and sits at one of the reading tables. She takes out an Alpro Soya Chocolate Milk drink. It’s in one of those little cartons with a straw, like a kid’s OJ would be. As always, notice what she’s wearing. Pale blue shirt with a dreadfully pointy collar. Short sleeved red jumper over it. Camel pants. Red and camel, very chic. But the green eyeshadow negates all this. She gets up. You follow her with your eyes. She picks up a copy of ‘Arthritis Today’. WHAT?! Oh my God. There’s a magazine called Arthritis Today. Tweet same.

Another hour left. Hmm. Hear some movement from behind you. Two girls are vacating a window seat. Success! Move belongings, offending people at your old table. Sigh, this time with relief. Enjoy having more space. Look out window. Become distracted.

Notice two knackers, one with his top off. The tattoo of his lover’s name on his back complements his tight-ended tracksuit pants very well. Not. He and his friend attempt to chat up two girls having a coffee. Try to decide whether or not they’re knackers too. Come to no definite conclusion. Make mental note to never go for coffee where aforementioned girls were having coffee.

Notice fluorescent  jackets. Ah, the Gardaí. Mighty pillars of society. Genuinely. I’m a big fan. Nothing like a man in uniform. On their bicycles and all. They stop the two male knackers, and a friend. Notebook is taken out. This means business. Try to work out what is happening. Knackers walk off. Similar scene takes place with two older, and not as knacker-ish knackers. Cork is such a charming city.

Try and make a stab at learning something before you leave. Do some pH calculations. Decide to never do this question in the Leaving Cert. Yawn. Stretch. Notice flickering light. They better fix that. Notice place is getting quieter. People are leaving. Tables are emptying. Half an hour til closing time, but whatever. You’ve been here hours.

Pack up stuff. Leave. Decide the day is worthy of a blog.

The End.

(This is a true story. And if anyone actually got this far, then fair fucks.)

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Oral Fever

I promised myself I’d go to bed early tonight. I swore I’d be in bed by nine and asleep by ten. Yet here I am, once again, going back and forth between Twitter and Facebook, watching rubbish on RTE Player, before finally deciding a blog post is a good idea.

I’m wrecked. Exhausted. Drained. I could go on, but I’m sure you get my drift. Oral fever has hit the school and it’s spreading faster than the swine flu did, only it’s worse, because those hand gel dispensers around the building have no power over this epidemic.

On Monday morning we met Eibhlín, the examiner. She seemed nice, putting us all at ease and making us think that all we need to learn is ‘Mo Theaghlach agus Mo Chaithimh Aimsire’. That may be the case, but knowing me I’ll end up digging myself into various holes and going off on multiple tangents because, stupidly, I’d rather force my opinions down someone’s throat instead of twisting every topic and relating it back to the economy which I could talk about forever. God forbid I should actually utilise some effective exam technique.

You can feel it, though. You can feel the air of slight panic blended together with a nice touch of tension that is so unique to the fortnight of the orals. The signs are up near the rooms where they’re on, instructing students to take a different route, avoid going to the office, and to just shut up in general. Leaving Cert students wander around aimlessly, Irish notes in hand, obsessively consulting The List in order to see how long is left until D-Day. Some teachers attempt to get a bit of work done, while others resign themselves to the fact that it’s Irish and Irish only on the brain and allow us chat away to practice the cúpla focal.

Each day I say to myself that today’s the day I’ll learn the Irish stuff properly. That day has yet to arrive though. I have the notes written out and all put together with one of those nice binder clip things – y’know the black ones that look like they’d be used to keep a manuscript for a book together. I attempt to talk to myself. I blab on about country vs city living, school, my family, last summer, next summer, last weekend, next weekend, music, what I’d do if I won the lotto, if I was Taoiseach, if I didn’t get the points… the list goes on.

Now it’s half eleven, and my eyes probably want me to stop looking at this stupid screen and allow them to close. So I think I’ll probably grant them, and myself, that luxury. Tomorrow’s my last day of learning how to talk in Irish about hypothetical situations. Thursday’s D-Day for me. I might come back and let y’all know how I got on. Hopefully reports will be positive, although if you don’t see another post here between now an June, feel free to assume the worst.

Slán go fóill agus oíche mhaith..

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A Life Update (Possibly in list form)

Wow. Hi. Remember me? Probably not. Apologies to the four people who’ve been checking this horrifically neglected blog on a daily basis in the hope that I’d published some more of my world-class ramblings. I’ve been busy. Because I like lists at the moment, I’m going to tell you in list form what I’ve been doing. Or some of what I’ve been doing at least.

1. I went to Amsterdam! I think that’s the biggest bit of news really, hence it’s number one. Although this list will not be arranged in order of importance. Anyway, I visited a friend in Amsterdam and spent five-nights-six-days there. It was lots of fun and Amsterdam is an amazingly chilled out and beautiful city.  If I get a chance, I’ll do an Amsterdam post, because it really does deserve one of its own.

2. I did my pre Leaving Cert exams before that. They were ok. I don’t mind exams; they’re better than having classes and they seem to go pretty fast. I’ve nearly all of the results back at this stage and I’m quite pleased, especially considering the vast majority of subjects were studied solely the night before.

3. The Irish orals are on this week and French next week. My Irish is coming up this Thursday I think, a fact which is slightly terrifying, but not as terrifying as the fact that French is next Monday. There’s a high probability of me crying.

4. I’ve been listening to lots of music, probably just in an attempt to avoid doing any work, but it’s nice all the same. I’m also very much looking forward to various gigs and festivals that will be taking place during the summer.

5. I’ve been talking about getting a summer job. Yeah, just talking about it. God forbid I should hand out CVs or actually do anything about it.

6. I’ve joined StumbleUpon and have whiled away many hours looking at nothing. It’s horribly addictive and I wouldn’t recommend joining unless you consciously want to destroy your education and/or home life/marriage.

7. I hung out in the library there a bit while I was doing the pres. Studying, like. Not actually hanging out reading the newspapers with the old men or anything. Life’s not that bad yet. It was good though. I made a friend when this guy borrowed my set square, I saw hobos being arrested on Grand Parade, I went for lunch and coffee in Gusto lots, I engaged in polite conversation with an old man, I wondered just why that Vans was up on the window ledge next to me, I cursed the loud buttons on my phone, I looked out the window alot and, from time to time, I studied.

I couldn’t be bothered concluding this nicely so instead:

The End.

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What’s this?!

At this moment in time you may be thinking that your eyes are deceiving you. This couldn’t possibly be a new blog post from Niamh, could it? No, not really. It’s just going to say the same stuff that all the others say, but technically it could be considered new content. There’s something for you too all debate amongst yourselves.

I don’t really have the time to write here anymore, so you might find yourself wondering (or at least I find myself wondering if you’re wondering) why I’ve suddenly popped up here with a few words of my infamous (not) wisdom. Well, I’m sick. Sort of. I think. Hopefully not. Anymore.

On Thursday night there I started on the ol’ Biology papers, beginning the long trek through the light and dark phases of photosynthesis. Paul McLoone had this competition on his show where you could win two tickets to The National at Other Voices in Dingle. I got nervous and excited at the same time and hijacked all the mobile phones in the house to enter said competition. Around the same time I began to feel a bit crappy. McLoone announced the winner, and it wasn’t me. Or any of my family members who wouldn’t know a National song if it jumped up and hit them.

I abandoned the charming Biology papers and installed myself in front of Ros na Rún, bowl of Cheerios in hand. I think I’ve watched about three and a half episodes of Ros na Rún, but sometimes you get an idea into your head. Anyway, I thought I was developing ‘sensitivity’: a unique, hard-to-describe affliction that I sometimes develop for a day or two. I guess it’s like the flu, but then again, I’ve never had the flu, so I don’t really know for sure. It only lasts a day or two though, usually cured by two paracetamol and a night’s sleep.

But, on this particular occasion, WE HAD NO PARACETAMOL IN THE HOUSE. I’d like to pause here for a second and say the following: WHAT. THE. FUCK. What kind of house doesn’t have paracetamol? There was a few drops of Paralink in a bottle, so I downed that. It really didn’t taste like the claimed ‘strawberry’ flavour but I didn’t care. Ros na Rún was getting interesting.

I went to bed early and took up where I’d left of with The Secret Life of Bees, that ol’ Leaving Cert novel that I should have read over the summer but didn’t. Next morning I woke up none the better and stayed in bed for the day, awaiting a delivery of Panadol and Lucozade, which seemed to help things alright it has to be said. Within an hour of the sweet, sweet Panadol dropping into my stomach all seemed well again. I ate a bit f pasta, took a shower and went to a friend’s house to eat pizza and caramel slices while watching Tubs on the Toy Show.

Getting out of bed on Saturday morning was a bit of a trek, but I managed it, and off to town I went in my ridiculously stupid outfit of a little vintage cropped blazer, bandage skirt and pumps. It was bloody freezing. Did coffee, went home, went to bed. Felt mank, slept, listened to the radio, worried about my health, etc.

Sunday passed in much the same fashion, just involving Sunday papers and plenty of The Panel on RTE Player. Single Handed and a cup of tea perked me up a bit though. There’s just something about that Garda uniform..

Now it’s Monday, and I’m at home. The snow is melting and it’s all disgusting so I don’t want to go out and take photos because it’s frankly quite depressing. I’ve also given up thinking about all the study and homework time I lost over the past four days, and have instead turned my attention towards making it to Dublin on Friday for The National. Which I will. Fuck the Leaving Cert, fuck school, just once I get to listen to that beautiful music LIVE. Excitement is building. And I’d also love if Dublin was all snowy, but I hate slush, okay?

So off you go to cross your fingers, look for 11:11 on the clock, throw copper coins over your shoulder, pray, meditate, whatever you’re into, so that I can make it there.

I’ll bring you back a National badge, like. Now there’s an offer you can’t refuse..

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