Up, Up and Away (with Anglo)

Praia de Garrao - could be Brittas Bay really

I sat in my garden recently; remember that week of endless #sunshine? A friend came to visit. That's worth mentioning as it’s so rare these days. Some people communicate on Facebook, Skype apparently, viber, text of course and email too. But actual visits are rare. It was a brief interlude between picking up her young son from a playdate and on to a barbecue. Oh how lonely I sound. Don't underestimate it, there's a lot of it about.

Next thing, friend whom we'll call Jade, because it’s nearly her name, asked 'why don't you come away with us in two weeks time?'

‘Gulp, away, away? Actually off the island, like?’

A third woman couldn't go, so there was room. It was just a matter of sorting the ticket. Groan #Ryanair.

And that's how I found myself in 'The Algarve' for the first time last Thursday. I think I’d been deterred for years by the whole Quinta golf holiday and newness and Foxrock-in-the-Sun brand. But it’s never too late to be disabused of prejudice, I say. Yes, I heard a lot of Irish accents, and we saw some strange Irish women, like retired nuns, lunching most days in easter bonnets, maybe they were nuns, The Little Sisters of the Rich?

Kate's 5 kilo seed loaf

The girls had a quiet apartment with a wondrous little garden, no shops or clubs, only a fabulous beach nearby. Intrepid baker Kate, aka scriptwriter, even baked a wholemeal seed loaf and brought it on the flight. The garden breakfasts were a revelation, as was the room sharing, all the things you think you need on a hotel holiday - you don't. The essentials are good coffee, good company, home-made bread and marmalade, #sunshine and bikinis.

It was all too good to be true, four nights of condensed female camaraderie. Away from divisive and contentious Oireachtas Bills, away from Landladyhouse, supermarkets, traffic, em, financial worries. Away from Boys!

As Jade tells it, I slept soundly on the first night while she kept vigil for mosquitos and whacked my pillow to kill an offender; then turned over, relieved we were safe. Next morning I had seven bites on my face, four on my eye with a purple golf ball nicely puffing up. There was a lurker.

Drat, if it isn't a ski fall, it's a vampire. That put an end to the eyelash extensions. On Day two it had got even worse and couldn't open the eye, I found a doctor who put me on steroids, super antibiotics and eventually got to the beach and lunch with a lovely Irish woman (I'm running out of alias's), Delilah.

The two game gals are called Kate and Jade because it felt like being in a gorgeous villa in Ibiza, with the whole Daft Punk soundtrack to our boho sojourn, I was just me.And I'd brought one of four books that I'm reviewing. You see, reading on holiday is not the same with the weight restriction. Kindle and Amazon are not the enemy, it's em, No Frills O'Leary.

Down at the ocean, there was a strong rip curl/undertow depending on what hemisphere you're in. But water-baby Kate did dolphin dives all day, more than enough to compensate for my cowardice. Standing at the frilly edge of the surf was sufficient cooling off for me. Lunch in one of the shabby or chic restaurants along the beach front met our recession budgets; we were convinced they were doing us a favour by charging for bread, as we’d lose pounds if we declined. The rosé managed to cancel out that plan.

Ahh, the purple sunsets

Between trying to figure out what mindfulness is all about, stumbling over writer's block, getting a really bad coffee  machine to work and morning forays for pain au chocolat, not to mention the patient endurance of snoring and mozzie attacks, it was one helluva peaceful break. I was blown away by the stunning villa architecture, there was the usual hacienda style and then there were the pristine, crisp lines of breathtaking form, pale limestone, gleaming glass and shimmering sun-drenched pools. Ah, yes, it was a nice walk to the beach.

The only thorn, surprise, surprise was #Ryanair and having to wear my winter wardrobe travelling to tropical sun, for its capacious pockets in the cargo pants and a jacket long enough to conceal the ipad on my back. There was no food on board on the return flight - just when you needed to buy a plastic sandwich for the first time.

So, with data roaming off and no newspapers, we were blissfully unaware of the abject arrogance of #AngloTapes until we got to the airport on Monday.

Hang your heads in shame guys. And then donate your pensions to homeless and suicide charities.

Shattered by the Bookseller of New York

I’m not one for conspiracy theories. But the copy of Alan Shatter’s book, Laura, a story you’ll never forget, was supposed to be shipped on Wednesday according to the ever efficient Amazon.com, only I got an email yesterday from the bookseller to say they were out of stock, promptly followed by a refund email. What can I say, were they being greedy and thought they’d make a hundred dollars more? It went up from 1 cent in the UK last week to thirty dollars (what I paid) as of today it’s 165 pounds and, I kid you not, three copies are 999 dollars each in USA.

I’ve found one on Donedeal with a lady on the North Side for 50 euro, but oh, dear, that is such a lot of food I could buy instead, unless of course I can read it, review it quickly (I feel that won’t be a problem) and re-sell it. I have another trick up my sleeve but saying nothing until I have it in my hand.

Enough bibliophile undercover activities, I wrote a post about the Surreal Moment in Leinster House last Thursday, not realising the effort would take the stuffing out of me when I got home. Though the stories from the group of women in Termination for Medical Reasons brought my own experience back to me and caused a flood of tears, it was the weight of emotion in the room and the compassion from all but two of the audience (the two that left rather obviously before the end, Peter Mathews and Fidelma Healy-Eames) that overcame me at home. It was the kind of evening to be wrapped in a blanket and watch trash TV with chocolate and red wine. Which is exactly why I record Revenge and enjoy my guilty pleasure all the more, can’t wait to see what Laura and her guilty pleasures are all about.

Downtime at Landladyhouse

Back home in landladyland milestones have been passed since last week, both cost centres have finished third level. They talk of needing downtime, they don't need to. They're in perma-bed ever since. I've become a bit of a lazy mother since taking up residence in Leinster House; well I would reside if I could find the bedrooms the Duke of Leinster no doubt appointed for guests. I've slept in the Duke's suite at Carton, I just need a word with bald usher and I'm there.

CC#2 Final Exam Breakfast Avocado and Poached Egg

I've found just about everything else, including the Bold Room and since today the AV Room, where briefings are held. The cost centres still have to find their own pathway (my new term from the Oireachtas hearings) or indeed a space to master and inhabit. Remember when we had those career guidance advisors in school and mock interviews, it was all so abstract, how on earth do you know? As far as CC#1 is concerned he’s heading off to Mullingar for a music festival this weekend as he turns 23, talk of CVs or jobs is off the agenda until next week. 

I thought the ‘Irish Mammy’ was someone like ‘Mary, dear’ from the Riordans, ok too far back, but at least someone from a generation we wouldn’t recognise. I fear she is staring me in the face in my bathroom.

CC#2 is interning for the summer followed by a post grad in the autumn. He’s struggling to decide where to holiday in the meantime. Bless that tax rebate from the J1 job.

The Gentlemen lodgers are still here, #1 is in a high state of excitement with the level of rugby on recent weekends. G.L.#2 continues to patronise Dublin’s arts and culture scene and keep me abreast of what’s hot and not.

I keep house, after a fashion. Filed my book review on Monday, wrote another Indo piece coming out tomorrow. Fired off my own book today to three publishers, deciding I couldn’t wait for agents to get back to me.

Since the weekend, the cul de sac is enlivened for two weeks while neighbour husband returns from Sydney for the young fella's communion. Rumours that there is a job shortage in Australia are not exaggerated, he has been searching for 5 months and only came back because he's starts a contract in June. Harmony restored in Lara's house, and a happy communion boy to boot.

I sat in the Dáil Bold Room on Tuesday, loving the news being made by the minute, the Shatter Wallace carry-on, then came the tweet about his censored steamy novel. I read other peoples books for research, to see how high the bar is for publishing, or how low, as is often the case. I just had to check out Minister Shatter’s novel. Of course all copies were taken off Amazon, but I managed to find a second-hand one in the USA, I’m distraught at having to pay 30 dollars, but hey, it's a collector’s item.

By Thursday I discover 'Laura, A story you will never forget', by A Shatter is for sale at £165.00 and there are only two copies left, I fear my relatively cheap copy could be intercepted at the Customs courtesy of Garda insider surveillance, don’t know why I get that feeling. But I want to do a book review. I feel it deserves it. Anyone?