Getting liberated from spending 45 minutes every early morning and late afternoon staring at the brake lights of the car in front of me is definitely a bonus feature of the new apartment. I love driving. I just hate traffic.
These days I take the train with my son. It’s the part of my morning routine that I enjoy the most and the one I’d find the hardest to give up. As autumn crept into winter we walked out into mornings that gradually got darker and darker, we hoped that frost meant snow but were disappointed every time. Soon it will start to go the other way. Spring mornings will arrive with their clean, fresh scent and gentle warmth and we won’t walk in darkness anymore.
As we walk, we skip from topic to topic, lingering on whichever ones take our fancy. It makes a change from three years ago when all he and his friends talked about was the Illuminati. Even their teacher got sick of hearing about it. This morning it was cake, why the early American settlers seemingly dropped the letter “u” somewhere in the Atlantic (maybe they needed to lighten the cargo?) and why school sucks right now. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it doesn’t change much. Even when you’re studying something you’re incredibly passionate about there will be pointless assignments and professors whose only function in life seems to be to send you to sleep. When we got to the station he mentioned that he’d like to learn Gaelic one day. I considered that once. Maybe we can take a class together. Which led us to the Irish part of the family, Michael Collins and the IRA.
The only thing I know about my great-grandfather is his name, Oliver, and that he was one of Michael Collins’ soldiers. If I’d been a boy, I would have been an Oliver. I’ve been looking for a book on Irish history for a long time but I have yet to find one that grabs me. My Ph.D. supervisor told me once that I was a rarity, being an historian who could actually write. As he put it, ‘Most of us can’t. That’s why the majority of history books are unbearably boring.’ If anyone can recommend an engaging book on Irish history I’d be ever so grateful.
And if someone can help me find the unscrupulous person who went into my bag (the standard office issue that looks like an 8th grade Home Ec project) at some point between yesterday afternoon and this morning and ate all my liquorice, I’d also ever so grateful. Who goes into a person’s bag to eat their candy once they’re past the age of five? At least they left me the box.
Hmmmm … I organised a celebration yesterday for the project I’ve been managing for the past 18 months. Of the 35 people who accepted the invitation, only about 15 showed up. Kind of an anti-climax but it does mean I now have a locked cupboard filled with cava. (Now I’m sorry I didn’t get the good stuff.) I could booby trap the cupboard, leave the key in my bag and when they sneak in and grab it, then I catch the liquorice thief!
Feel like I’ve wandered into a spoof spy movie.
Just another day at the office!