For some reason those two shots of the Spire look like they are taken underwater. Like I said earlier it was blue, blue, blue the day with the silver rising against it. Love that piece it adds so much to O’Connell Street and gives a much needed hoof to the elevated males further down the row by the bridge.
Did I mention what a fine old time we had in Paris? And the conversations… the conversations surprised me the most. Varied and wide and my French even stood up to discussions on the political situation, and status of women in Iran. Who says the Parisians are snooty and rude, we enjoyed lovely interactions, perhaps it was the old 9 ’em quartier.
It helped that the small male was an absolute refusnik on the sights, fine with me since having grown up in Europe I’ve seen far too much stone and monuments, and we spent our time wandering and up at the counter watching footie. (Not so fine, but the philosophizing round the sport was fun, to say nothing of the cute smirking during “hand ball” discussions. Zero! seemed to be the verdict on the French team from the folks, men, who held forth behind the counters while the ecran blasted out Angleterre, Argentine, Mexico.
A fella, construction worker, on his break just anon-ish bought me a coffee at Max’s. Stood in the queue, extremement jetlag and out of it, fresh of the plane, having bumped into my good friend Ita (how lovely is that! Letterfrack on a Vancouver morning.) in my Catherine Deneuve raincoat he just passed it to me.
God bless him, you gotta love the navvies they understand fatigue. So whacked out I could barely thank the stranger, so Ita was left to remark on him “that was very nice.”
I think it’s the raincoat. I knew it would improve me. My small male assured me of it. My sis had been complaining that she did not like the old green MEC mac, so there was pressure to improve. Dublin-style an all. Molly was mad on style let’s not forget.
Vancouver is always lovely when I return, weatherwise, ever bright blue, just for that first hour of along the street beleagured wandering, enough to say bienvenue. After that it can do whatever it wants!
And the garden, or the patch of garden is a credit to that blue. Aside from the fox-got-the-beans drama.
Gardeners: my pototaoes are high with green foliage and white flowers, should I pull them now? They rather overshadow the tomato plants. Or does that only mean I’ve too much nitrogen in my soil and when I pull them will it be a sad affair below the surface that could lead to regret? Advice please.
Also there’s some white thing, root veg, might be a turnip pushing up, it looks fat but not as I imagine turnips to look since it’s long, fat looking. I’ve no idea what it is at all.
And why no lettuce has appeared despite a plethora of planting? Is it my soil? If spuds are happy and lettuce is not: what’s up??
Paris by soir. Chaud, chaud, chaudisimo. 32 degrees. Plenty of football. No matter which timezone we are in my son insists it’s a priority to obtain a football and is consumed with this undertaking in the shadow of Church finery and winding, dipping streets of Montmatre. The Seine is basically looking like a good spot to play tag for us.
We had fun hanging out up at the counter discussing handballs and Argentine goals in wonky French with dismayed Frenchmen and Fanta beer. Oh and pinball. Ace old pinball machines and bookshops bien sur. I think we might be busy enough without paying much heed to the taller and mapped stuff. We like the streets. Paris is quite the city of and for nattering…it invites it with all these tables dehors.
Passed a protest, small, tangled, poorly postered, outside Dail Eireann yesterday en route to try to see the Bog body exhibit (closed), the protest was a mixed up affair against the Green Party and the right to shoot whatever is shootable in rural Ireland. (Dog? Badger? your neighbour? My mother’s chicken thieving fox hopefully — somebody take that beggar out pls)
One sign read “I want to be like my brother but John Gormley won’t let me”
I had this image of John Gormley pulling the packet of Club Milks out of the child’s mouth and mobile phone from his grasp through the window of a 4 x4. Waving his hunting rifle naturally.
When we passed, a friend remarked that the country was bankrupt and what with the litany of problems she was astonished people would be gathering their britches over the right to shoot pigeon.
Jackie Healy-Rae was on the news later that night giving out about new drink driving legislation destroying the “Rural way of life.”