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..