It’s snowing again, so what, things could be a lot worse.
A welsh boy renamed Patrick might never have been captured and bought as a slave to this green (partly white today) isle and there wouldn’t have been any parades yesterday or any rivers turning green or dogs being forced to wear green ribbons left over from Christmas (ours…not my idea though).
We were always going to win the Grand Slam so I’m not even going there. ‘Ireland, Ireland, together standing tall…’
It’s March, April is around the corner and T.S Eliot got it wrong: November is the cruellest month.
Tonight is the semi-final of Dancing with the Stars…come on Deirdre!
Oh, and I’m glowing a bit inside because I had a story longlisted for the Fish Publishing (very international) short story competition. How Bad.