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At the corner of Church and North King Street in Dublin, is an intersection with two lanes going north, south, east and west, with an additional two feeder lanes.  This is all watched over by a Daybreak Convenience Store, Baynes and Company Solicitors, a Ramen soup café and the DragonFly Acupuncture Clinic.  I pass by the chaos, a few times a week, after my runs in Phoenix Park.

The juxtaposition between the park and the traffic couldn’t be more striking. 

What I find more interesting than the differences in noise and air quality, is the difference in people’s kindness.  Over in the park everyone is smiling, taking photos of fallen leaves, playing hide and seek with small children, and hand feeding the deer seedless grapes and raisons.  Back at the intersection, the evil side of human nature is on display.

It’s here at this intersection you see the under belly of our species.  Car after car of single, distressed drivers trying to get from their Home Building to their Work Building and back to their Home Building, as quickly as possible.

Driver after driver overtake, nudge, ignore safety rules and take risks hour after hour, and day after day.  Nothing ever changes at the intersection of horror, and everything here is distasteful.  Drivers will risk getting stuck in the box of shame, right in the middle, rather than wait for the light to go green. 

Many drivers don’t believe that the red lights apply to them.

Another thing I find fascinating, is the counter behaviour of pedestrians at this intersection.  Ordinary people, who probably act very reasonably in their work place or at dinner with their family, turn abnormally aggressive, in this part of Dublin.  I’ve seen pedestrians scream, shout, yell, kick out and throw their fists, after close shaves with the drivers, who Must Keep Moving.

One of the crossings has a middle island where the pedestrians can rest. 

People must hover here if the lull in traffic doesn’t last as long as they hoped.  Sadly, there’s only room for one or two brave, intrepid crossers, and definitely not room for three or four.  The recently settled people on the island can’t, or won’t make room for newcomers, which leaves a batch of people on the road, right in the middle of the feeder lane facing the oncoming traffic with only their rage and anger to save them.

The drivers beep their horns, and the pedestrians shout back.

But no one can hear them shouting because the traffic noise is too loud.

Those of us who traverse this intersection often, shake our heads in disbelief, horror and mild amusement.  It happens all the time. If only there were signs there to help people make better choices.  If only there were big, massive green lights and huge, gigantic red lights, to help people get through this intersection safely.

There is a sign on the wall of the post office parcel collection depot that I noticed.

In addition to the many Please Wear Your Mask signs, the new one says:

PLEASE FINISH YOUR CONVERSATION ON YOUR MOBILE PHONE BEFORE YOU APPROACH THE COUNTER

Because now we need to sign up ordinary, decent humanity.

How rude can people be? 

Someone had to make that sign, and tack it to the wall, and hope that people would read it. We must put signs up in public, in order to ask people to behave well.

We must also put up signs to stop them from harming themselves. 

I saw a sign in the supermarket coffee dock, the other day, which said, “please keep your cup upright when scanning at the self-service check out”.

Who are these people that need a sign to tell them to keep their coffee cups upright?

Are they so hopeless, that when they go home, they have a sign on the fridge saying:

PUT FOOD IN YOUR MOUTH AND CHEW.

Is there a sign above their beds saying:

CLOSE YOUR EYES AND SLEEP

Or perhaps one over the toilet that reads:

SHIT HERE, AND THEN WIPE YOUR ARSE WITH THE TOILET PAPER TO YOUR LEFT

I’m sorry. 

I blame November for my grumpiness; I blame the dark nights and the damp.  I blame the billionaires, the liars, and the politicians, who don’t lead and inspire, but who corrupted the garden of Eden, that this could have been. 

Sometimes I look at the evil under the intersection, and I don’t mind that we’re on a trajectory to extinct ourselves.  I think we’ve done too much damage to the planet and to ourselves, to ever make a good recovery.  It’s time for this iteration of humanity to pass quietly away.

We can leave the place to the polar bears, the kittens, and the rabbits, and let them inherit it without the noise, litter, poor air and ruined waters.  They can share it kindly with the monarch butterflies and star fish and sea horses.  Let’s bequeath it to the gentle spider under the street lamp, and a swan on a lake in Shrewsbury.  Let’s leave it to the seagulls in St Steven’s Green, and the ones caught eavesdropping on the quays, in week 10.  Let the seals from the Dun Laoghaire bathing spot, enjoy space and room to play, and let the lemurs, penguins and bears enjoy it all the same.

Some of the most magnificent scenery lies between the Shrewsbury Hills and Hereford, which can be watched from the window of the train that travels from Holyhead to Abergavenny.  The hills are mounds, that ramble with more sky above than before, and it’s a stunning stretch of countryside.  Tudor houses, lakes and forests are the backdrop for the views, and with a cloudless blue sky above, there’s nearly nothing as beautiful.

After unseasonably heavy rain of late, some of the fields are water-logged, which seems so incongruous from the view from the train. One field, that might have previously been used for food for cows and sheep, or growing crops, had ducks and a single swan on it.  The animals seemed so at ease, floating around on a field of water as if this was exactly what they should be doing.  All water covers ground, that was something else a long time ago.

I watched the swan and ducks last week, returning from a trip to Wales, and it was interesting to me, that no one else looked out of the window.  All the other passengers in our carriage were engrossed in their own screens, including one woman who was talking to her friend for a straight 90 minutes.  They missed the floating ducks and swan, and didn’t notice the rambling hills.

When I got home to Dublin, I had a great surprise. 

One of my neighbours in the building has bought a piano! 

Sadly, I didn’t see them bring it into the building, which was a shame because I would have enjoyed that.  I have neighbours above, below, and either side of me, and just this week I discovered that there are also neighbours behind me.  Until now, I thought that the kitchen wall, where the cooker, fridge and microwave live, backed onto the stairwell and the lift area.  This is incorrect.  It backs onto number 32, and their new piano.

I lurked in the hallway for a few days, trying to discover where my flat ended and the neighbours began.  I felt my way along the hallway floor, but outside the apartment, to try and find out where it ended.  For seven years, I have been completely mistaken about the shape, size and edge of my home, and it’s mildly disorientating to discover the truth. 

My flat is not where I thought it would be.

Luckily, the pianist is very good.  I’m enjoying Practice Hour as much as anyone. I get a cup of Earl Grey with milk, and a modest afternoon snack, and I listen to the scales going up and down.  The pianist starts with a series of short exercises, then leads up to longer sections, and finishes with the fuller piece of music.  It’s delightful, and when it’s over I clap, and then go back to my business.

Non-musical people always say things like “I’d love to play the piano” without at all realising how much time and practice goes into such a skill.  The piano player next door sounds terrific, yet they still practice every day from 4.00pm – 5.00pm, and probably will do forever.  It’s like going for a run, or a swim or a haircut.  It never ends; it just keeps on going on.

The gentle piano music has been a wonderful antidote to the darker nights, which have surprised me yet again this year.  Every year, just after Halloween, we are amazed that the nights get so dark, and so early.

Every year.

“I can’t believe how dark the nights are, and so early!” I say to people on Whatsapp.

They agree, they can’t believe it either!

And on we go.

But going back to the ducks, and the swan on the field of water somewhere near Shrewsbury.

I wish I could be as carefree as they. 

I wish I could float around and be calm, and enjoy it, and not worry about the pigs and the sheep. I wish I could say “quack,” or whatever it is that swans say, and delight in all my days.

Orange is the sound of autumn, and the Hunter’s Moon can’t be photographed.

Leaves fall to the ground in perfect harmony with air, and these Mandelbrot fractals of time collect the memories.  Left alone, old fallen leaves protect the roots of the trees from the rain, and frost to come.  Nature’s crispy dry blankets.  Be gone leaf blowers, and let the older leaves protect!

Memories of autumns are sepia toned photos in shoe boxes hidden under beds.  They are daydreams of running through leaves, in faraway child memories.  Collecting leaves for art projects.  Crumpling them up in cold hands.

Thoughts of autumn beguile nostalgia for summer, a feeling of grief, and the time to move on.

There’s a second of sound, where the breath of the person and the thoughts they have, are in unison with the light retracting.

Some people can’t comprehend a never ending universe, while others wonder if it ever ends getting smaller.  What’s the tiniest it can be, and how can such an invisible virus do so much damage? 

How can it still be causing pain?

Friday 22 October was the day the Irish government promised the pandemic would be over.  All of the last restrictions were to be lifted, and normal services would resume. Obviously, this has not happened.  The cases are increasing, while the availability of ICU beds are decreasing, and at least one school has closed already, and gone back to teaching online.  Luckily, no one really believed the government when they said it would all be over today; and yet, we are disappointed.

Pretending everything is normal is the best Halloween costume we could wear.

“Hi, I’m Ruth and I’m pretending everything is normal!  I’ve spent the last 19 months concerned about the pandemic and just like everyone else, I’m a little disappointed it’s not all over yet.  Yes, let’s use that word; disappointed”.

Complaining about my shit is churlish when there’s been an excess death rate of close to 20 million people in the past two years, but complain I do.  Since it all began, I’ve lost one job, have a precarious rental situation, worry about my family in another country, and cross my fingers when I go to the supermarket.  I still don’t want long Covid, or short Covid, or mild Covid or horribly fucking fatal Covid.  I don’t want any of the Covids thank you very much, and I really don’t want to pass it on to anyone else.

On we go.

It feels a little damp in the mornings now, and the wet air lingers.  So I swim in the sea, and I jog slowly around the park.  I write, read, and collect the litter other people throw on the ground on my street.  I watch silly shows on the laptop and laugh at corny jokes.  I wait for it to be over, and I don’t know when that will be, so I wait for it to be over again.

Did you ever watch someone looking at themselves in a mirror?

Did you ever see someone apply make up to their face, while looking in a mirror near the washbasins in a public toilet?  Or see someone check for remnants of food in their teeth, in the rear-view mirror of a car.  Did you ever see someone adjust their hair, while they were looking at goods through a shop window?

Did they ever see you looking?

There’s a wave of light to catch when they hurry back to this world, and leave their reflected image behind.  There’s an essence of time between the moments, when they hope they didn’t seem too pre-occupied with themselves, and they might even try to make fun of it.  There’s a second of sound, where the breath of the person and the thoughts they have, are in unison with the light retracting.

At this time of year, things start to get spooky.

As children, we always loved the Hall of Mirrors in the Fun House at the Fair.  Our bodies were made to look too tall, fat, tiny or mysterious by the specular reflection.  We laughed at the nonsense of it all, and we knew this image didn’t really exist.  We only looked that way in the mirrors.  All the same, they did what good fair grounds are supposed to do; they frightened little children.

Even amoeba act differently when being observed in petri-dishes.

The first mirrors were invented 8000 years ago and were made with obsidian, which was grounded and polished until it reflected reality.  Until recently, only the wealthy owned mirrors, but all throughout time it was always seven years bad luck if you broke one.  Some people believe that mirrors can trap the dead souls, and recommend that you don’t look in a mirror at midnight.

This is the time of the year when things begin to get spooky.

Sometimes, when the moon is out and the sky is clear, I think about an antique compact, powder mirror I once found in dressing table, in an old house in England.  It was in the third drawer down and was elegant and sophisticated.  It was round, and made of silver, and perfectly engraved with a circular pattern that could go on forever.  When I opened it, I could smell the old powder and I thought of the woman who owned it.  She hoped through the mirror portal, and said hello to me, but she didn’t stay too long.  I felt her in the breeze brush past me, her necklace, cigarettes, and pearls.  I put the compact, powder mirror back in the drawer, and for all I know it could still be there now.

This is the time of year, when things all around you, can start to feel spooky.

One Saturday, after sea swimming at the Vico bathing spot with friends, Teresa suggested that I should write a blog about trying to buy property in Ireland in the year of our lord, 2021.

“You should write one of your stories about trying to buy a place in Dublin,” she said, while Julia drove us back into the city.

I shook my head, “I don’t think I’d be able to,” I said. 

“It would be a blog filled with hatred, venom and angry resentment”. 

Later that night after dinner, I wondered if a blog full of hatred, venom and angry resentment was necessarily a bad thing, and decided to give it a go.

My partner and I have been looking for a place to buy since May. We are both on the eves of our 50^th birthdays but have always rented, and never wanted to be property owners, until we realised recently that (eventually), we are not going to be able to afford to live in our current home, on state pensions.

Consequently, we entered the property market.

The first place we went to see was a two-bedroom apartment in East Wall that went up 70, 000 euro in the three days between booking the appointment and going to the viewing.  We realised then, that this market is a strange and inhospitable place, but we’ve been seeing two places a week since the late spring, and we haven’t come close to buying anything.

I enjoy the viewings.

I enjoy looking around a property in seven minutes and the daydreams this highspeed activity produces.  I enjoy sharing my thoughts with a random selection of estate agents who are contractually obliged to be nice to me.

“Oh, this balcony is wonderful!” I gush, “I’ll do yoga here at dawn!”

“Oh, but this home office is ideal for French classes and book club!” I mention casually.

“Oh, this is where I’ll keep my meditation cushion” I confess to yet another estate agent, who smiles politely at me, while thinking about what they are going to have for their dinner.

I live my best lives during those seven-minute viewings.

I imagine my new life full of creative energy and decency, lots of exercise, and more reading.  I promise myself that in this new home, I will be kinder, better, and able to cook.  Probably, I will take up pottery or Mandarin, and I will become the sort of person who buys thoughtful gifts for friends and family.

In this new home, I will recycle diligently.

“That rug in front of the fake fireplace is divine,” I say, and then I leave without a single piece of useful information, such as the date of build, management fees, or if it’s climate proof.

I love the viewings, but I don’t always like getting to them, as my sense of direction is hopeless.

Last Saturday I went to see a lovely two-bedroom apartment in Chapelizod, but I got lost and disorientated and was late for my appointment.  I decided to flag down a taxi and put my trust in professional assistance.  A very nice driver called Abdul, stopped for me, and asked me where we were going.  I told him the full address, and he told me that we were already there. 

We were already parked in the driveway. 

I said, “that’s brilliant, thank you so much Abdul,” got back out of the car, and went inside for my 11.30am viewing, head held high. 

That was the flat where I saw a charming shower curtain, a lovely duvet cover, and adorable candle holders on the dining table.

Recently on the internet, I saw an abandoned 200-year-old windmill in Wales, for a reasonable price, but my partner said, “I don’t think that’s us”.  My partner is insisting that we move into something with both a roof and windows, which we can’t afford in Dublin.  We can’t afford to live in the capital as long as our government writes housing policies which favour Vulture Funds, Hoteliers and Landlords, over residents. 

These exploitative policies are killing people.

Due to the pandemic, I haven’t had chance to chat to people lately, but the queues for viewings are perfect opportunities.  I’ve met a lively secondary teacher from Tipperary, a vet and her mother, a man buying a place for his son who’s at Trinity, and a couple who are about to start their own business so are looking for a home/office combo. 

I tell them all about myself; my hobbies and my dreams, and we all wish one another luck. 

It’s Muriel’s Wedding meets Squid Game. 

This is what I do every week now:  I jog, pick up litter, write this blog, see apartments and swim in the sea.

Even in the height of summer, the Irish sea never gets much warmer than 17 degrees.  Right now, it’s 15 degrees but it’s getting cooler every week.  Every weekend Teresa, Julia and I worry that it will be too cold for us and that we won’t be able to go in. 

Then we go in, and it’s fine.

Sometimes in the sea all you can think about is your breathing, the horizon, and the sound between the waves.  You concentrate on floating, while allowing your shoulders to be submerged and it’s as tranquil, calming and life affirming as coming home.

It’s just like coming home.

Everyone has a story about a fox.

People watch our cunning friends taking food from overflowing bins late at night, or at the purple early dawn.  Always alone, they wander the streets of Dublin, and are less and less afraid of people.  Sometimes they find their way into gardens through openings in fences, and if they discover a garden is derelict, they stay a while.  A vixen might decide to build a den and raise her cubs under the decking or near the shed, and they are used to the noises of the traffic and the smells of city life.

Are you sitting comfortably? 

Then I will tell you more about why the urban foxes are thriving. 

No, seriously.

Are you sitting comfortably?

Many of you have returned to your offices lately, and I worry that you are not sitting well.  Sitting on any object for seven to nine hours per day in an office, is not what evolution prepared us for, but particularly if you are also sitting in a moving vehicle too.  I see a lot of ergonomic stools on my social media newsfeeds, which means that some of you have been buying chairs that you think will save your souls.

They won’t.

Ergonomic stools will not save your souls.

There are just two types of people in this world: those who want to return to the office, and the rest of us.

I still don’t understand why anyone would want to get up early, force feed themselves breakfast, lunge into traffic so that they can sit in an open plan silent office, where they can work on a machine that is similar to one they have at home.  It makes no sense and if offices weren’t situated in privately owned buildings, we wouldn’t be having this discussion.  We should be using the office buildings for accommodation, and more interesting activities: such as, underwater wrestling, entomology classes and witchcraft.

According to the Irish government, the pandemic will officially end on 22 October, however, they didn’t say if it would be before or after lunch. I am looking forward to going back to precedented times.  However, I would like to keep many of the restrictions, including everyone keeping their distance from me, washing hands, wearing masks and of course, working from home (if able).  It just makes good sense and might ease our winter fuel worries brought on by the lack of HGV drivers in Britain, and Russian foreign policy.

Imagine a winter without Netflix! 

Good god in heaven!  Imagine us all sitting in our candle lit homes, with small tins of peas, and only our memories of the first time we watched Schitt’s Creek.

I hope it’s all nearly over.

I made the mistake of reading that article in the Economist last week about the excess deaths, since the pandemic began.  They collected the global death data and took away the official Covid deaths and those deaths which occurred because hospitals were caring for Covid patients.  Then they added the deaths that didn’t happen, such as from seasonal flu, pollution, and road traffic accidents.  They reached a surreal total of somewhere between thirteen and eighteen million excess deaths, since the beginning of this reality horror show.

Those are some numbers.

I shouldn’t have read the article.

I shouldn’t have read the article while the seasons are changing because I’ve believed for some time, that a changing season can upset some of us.  It’s during the changing seasons that we have to admit that life is constantly altering and evolving, and that everything is forever temporary.  This makes us uncomfortable, because we like to believe that we are immortal and fully protected.  We are not.  We are just floating around this galaxy for an infinitesimal period of time, and less than speckles of dust, in the eternal book of life. 

If this makes us nervous, it shouldn’t. 

It should bring us joy.

It should bring us joy because nothing much matters.

What I mean by that, is that none of the absurd foolishness matters.  That argument with a family member, an awkward email from work, a strange sensation after too much social media.  None of it matters at all.  As long as we’re kind to one another and decent, and can show love and human compassion, that’s all that counts.  None of the silliness matters when placed within our concepts of time and space.  Isn’t it wonderful to feel so light and floaty, when we truly accept our insignificance and lack of importance?

So, with that in mind, enjoy the new fox painting on a wall of a building in Dublin, that I used to illustrate this week’s blog.  The story lives on as long as we laugh, love and have more tales to tell.  These things are only important:  love, compassion, kindness, repeat.  Until the time when our parts of this tale end, nothing else matters at all.

One of the apartment windows is directly opposite a street lamp, that lights up earlier and earlier at this time of year.  A slight clicking sound, before the switch connects, to remind people that the summer is slowly folding into autumn, and that the darker evenings are coming this way.

When the street lamp is on, it’s easier to see three connected spider webs that have been designed and built in this setting.  Indiscernible from the ground, or in daylight, the three webs look majestic under their spotlight. 

One web is perfectly concentric, agile and moves like the sails on a ship.  Another is looser and seems to have been a trial effort, while the third web is abandoned and derelict.  It’s not clear if the same spider spun the three webs, or if it’s the work of three separate beings.  What is clear, is that millions of years of evolution has provided the creature with the skills and ability to craft a home and a trap for pray at stratospheric hights that can survive wind and rain. 

The spiders have been here for some time.

As undetectable in daylight or from a certain point of view, many moths fly straight into the biggest web, where they wait to die.  A gruesome sky ballet takes place every night, which is different from the show at dawn, or the matinee.

Dark is for the spiders.

Few people can draw a perfect circle, yet the spiders spin mathematically correct webs.  A millimetre too far and the construct would collapse, a millimetre too near and it would cave in.  Each line is the correct distance from another line, and nothing overlaps.  Made with a visceral memory, an architect’s mind, a dream project engineer and a song.

Spiders have four eyes and spin a silk straight from their abdomen.

The silk is in liquid form while still inside the spider, but transitions into a sticky, strong, agile material when it comes into this world.  Prey unsuspectingly fly or crawl into it every night.  Humans and spiders have been tenants here for a while; mutual fear and dislike has kept a respectful distance between the two species. 

It’s very rare for a spider to kill a human.

At this time of year, the rising harvest moon can be seen from one of the windows in the apartment.  It moves between the Church and the chimneys, over the way.  This allows the spiders to enjoy direct moon bathing, to dance in the rays, to feel the power of the shine.

Almost as if it was planned.

The tourists have returned to Dublin.

They gather on O’Connell Street in herds of sensibly dressed people, shepherded by tour guides.  They carry appropriate rain weather jackets, and they eat breakfast early, in order to make the most of their forty eight hours in Dublin.  Some of them go on the open top bus tours, while others head to the museums, shops and art galleries.  Many of them stop for a Guinness along the way, and some of them book the horse and carriage trips.

They all take selfies near the Spire.

O’Connell Street looks like someone who’s been on an extended sick leave and has just returned to work.  Colleagues welcome it back and say, “you look great, we’ve missed you” but secretly they ask one other, “do you think it’s terminal?”

The tourists look bored.

It’s like they are not sure if the weekend is worth all the effort, and perhaps they are wondering about Fast Tourism in general.  They come with overly ambitious itineraries, which means they virtually run around the city to complete their #WeekendGoals.

“Yes, I’ve done Dublin” they say to one another as they race back to the airport, without having had any craic agus ceol.  Without watching the sunset from Poolbeg Lighthouse as the people fishing, pack up their rods and bags.  Without smiling at the swimmers having a dip, before the moon guides the ferries and the cargo ships out of the harbour, and over the seas, on the evening tide.  Without laughing themselves wretched with some of the city’s best residents.

One of the saddest scenes in Dublin is watching a tourist miss the views from O’Connell Bridge because they are looking at the screens on their machines.  They post their photos in their endless search for “likes”; but if everyone is uploading, no one can be viewing.

I am allergic to Smartphones. 

I didn’t own one until 2017, and I just bought my second one, which will be my last.  When this current one expires, I will return to the simplicity of a NOKIA mobile phone or perhaps a landline.

I don’t have an ethical dilemma about coltan, the energy needs of datacentres, the dangers of the blue light, or over consumption in general.  I just hate SmartPhones.  I hate everything about the slippery little bastards, from the sounds they make to the amphibian-like texture of their screens.  I hate the violently coercive effects they have on my day, and I hate their bullying tactics!  In particular, I hate the fact that they no longer complete the primary function they were designed to do.  Mine is almost always on silent, so as to be free from the never-ending ping, ping, ping; which means that I don’t know if anyone is calling me!

Never call me in an emergency.

I hate how Smartphones have smuggled their way into every day lives.

Just last week, I signed up to do the Dublin women’s mini-marathon and I was immediately asked to “just download the app!”

“Just download the app!” people say to me casually, as if they haven’t described one of the first circles of hell.  “Just download the app!”

What if I don’t want to just download the app, what happens then?

In order to do the Dublin women’s mini-marathon you can “just download the app” and take photos of yourself as you do the 10km route of your choice.  I assume you have to gaffer tape your mobile to your forehead to do this, as I can think of no other way.  You do the 10 km alone, but virtually with others. At the end of it, you present yourself with a medal which has been sent to you previously.

I can’t wait.

After I’ve done my 10 km on Sunday, I will present myself with my medal and I’ve already planned the few words of congratulations that I intend to say to myself.

I will say, “Ruth Powell, you may not be the fastest or fittest person in the land, but you are strong, and courageous and brave!  You are the most respected Welsh-Irish working class woman in this race, and we think your new ASICS runners are beautiful.  The fact that you run very slowly only indicates to us that you are a profound thinker and that you have wisdom, integrity and warmth.  Dublin is very lucky to have you as one of its residents, and congratulations on completing the 2021 Women’s mini-marathon”.

I’ll use my Smartphone to let you know how I get on.

The sailing time from Dublin Port to Holyhead is just under four hours, and if the sea is calm, it’s spectacular. Salmon coloured skies are the backdrop for the seagulls, travellers, migrants, and poets who travel from one Celtic land to another. People have been making this crossing since St Patrick and before him, and the journey is filled with waves of memories and the sounds of goodbyes.

Half way across the water, there’s time to think.

The thoughts needn’t be profound or interesting, but the middle of the sea can be precious and sacred.  It’s there you see the ghosts of the Irish emigrants of the 50’s dressed in their best suits and Sunday shoes, leaving one island for another. You sometimes see St Patrick, heading off to teach the gospel to unsuspecting pagans.  Nowadays, you see holiday makers trying to keep their distance.

Not everyone likes to keep their distance.

Yesterday, a very unpleasant man was too close to me in the queue.  His eyes were narrow, and he had a hooked nose, with an overstretched forehead. I could tell from his side parted hair that he was a careless driver, a bully to his spouse and a challenging colleague.  He wasn’t wearing a mask so I could smell his foul, mouldy breath, and the dampness of it, as it passed my neck, made me want to vomit.

He is the type of man who thinks that being asked to wash his hands is an infringement of his right to wipe his arse and let the faecal matter simmer under his fingernails, all day.

I asked the man to step away from me, but the request made him smirk.  When I asked him, a second time to please keep his distance, he snorted an exaggerated, pantomime laugh.  I told him that I had a Category Four person living at home, and that having a someone with underlying health problems, in my household, made me a little anxious about picking up and passing on diseases.

He laughed and said, “this man-made disease isn’t even real, come on, we all know that!”

How remarkable, how very sad.

I’m often struck by how unfortunate looking some of the anti-maskers are.  You would think they would be in favour of putting a small piece of material over their faces, and covering up for a while.

I don’t have a sick person in my house. 

That was just a lie I invented to encourage a gram of compassion or a speckle of decent, human courtesy from him.  It did not.  Contagious diseases aside, I shouldn’t have to ask men to move away from me.

What’s wrong with people? 

Why are they so mean?

Later, I saw the horrible man coming out of the shop and he was speaking loudly on the phone to some unfortunate family member, friend, or colleague.  He was walking with wide steps, outstretched legs and swagging shoulders, as if he were ready for battle.  He was holding up his phone up high, like a modern day dagger made of gold and lapis lazuli.

For a moment, I saw through the pinhole of eternity and into his soul.  I saw the sadness and grief that had caused this anger and pain, and I wished him less loneliness, and a happier life.

He’s not alone on his journey of insipid selfishness.

If he doesn’t want the free, life-saving vaccine, then so be it.  I just hope I don’t miss out on medical treatment later down the line, because he’s holding up another queue.  I know he’s been doing his own research with that one video on YouTube, and that conversation with his cousin’s best friend, I just wonder if his research is reliable.  I wish you well, strange man in the queue.  I wish you well.

We still have a little while left on this trip, and I wish him safety.

I really do. 

The last time I came back to Dublin, on the ferry from Holyhead, a coast guard helicopter tried to land on board.  It was at night, and it was dark, and it was very dramatic.  Most of the passengers ran outside, to see if we could record whatever tragedy was unfolding.  Luckily, it turned out to be a training exercise, so we all went back inside, and carried on scrolling our phones.

We, the humans, are funny old things. 

We are so perfectly pointless and serene, beautiful, mean and light-hearted.  What an extraordinary privilege to still be here.

Over the sea and back again, over the sea and back again.

I’ll see you here next week, when we can continue on our voyage together, and thank you so much for reading me.

Remember the small door in a tree, that reminds you of you, and is painted bright red?

It has a golden knob, and it’s quietly hidden but easily seen.  Knock, knock, who’s there? 

It’s you.

Two super massive black holes, collide and coalesce their energies, becoming one.  If a third arrives, or tries to join in, it is expelled and is flown over to a further galaxy.  Let’s travel through the wormhole to a different place and time, to a door in a tree, with a door knob.

No one really knows about the moon.

All these stars and planets, rotating like the eggs in your ovaries, silently invisible and tiny enough to be bigger than space. 

When does the universe end?

A virus, a shark, a rising tide, a footprint, elephants herding through China, ice melts.

And beauty, and laughter, and love and sunsets.

Be on the beach, swim in the sea, breathe in the sunlight. Find the door in the tree that reminds you of you.

Inside it’s cool. 

A warm draft passes by your forehead.  It’s small enough for super massive holes to live in.  One day, while playing pool with the planets, God lifted up his cue and asked “double or nothing?”  You agreed to play another game, who knows if you’re being hustled.

Its insidious selfishness, horror and scab like disgust, also comes with sea horizons and joy: unfiltered, uncontained, immeasurable joy.  All around and inside.  Your atoms, your molecules, your heart keeps the engine running.

There is a day, a summer, a laughter, a wooden door in the bottom of the tree.

Knock, knock, who’s there?

It’s me.