I'm one of those people that's always fashionably late to the party. It's a thing of pride. This time, I was two years late. Imagine my surprise then, as I nonchalantly twirled a bud around my nostril, dropped the liquid onto the landing pad only to find, 10 minutes later, two evil little lines staring back at me. A double take and several stomach turns later I had put out the obligatory warning bells into my various Whatsapp groups. My flatmate got the memo and hightailed it home (though not before leaving me with a pile of goods on the table. She knows me and my 'vegetarianism' so well that she even got me a pepperoni pizza--v grateful).
Once again, a solo lockdown forecasted. One, two skip a few and I sit writing this now on my freedom eve; though late to the party, my timing is impeccable with release date scheduled for St. Patrick's day--as I say, a skill.
The other excitement that comes with my parole is that I can see a friend; this friend is someone that I met whilst my only concerns were:
a) Creating questions pertinent enough that a conversation could last for the duration of a class period
b) what streetfood to sample that night
and sometimes...
c) Was that a rat?
We met in Saigon whilst both staying in a homestay and working as volunteer teachers in return for bread and board ('bread' is misleading here, the reality was sweet coffee and lots of it). This friend now sits in a Limerick bus station awaiting her transport back to Dublin. I sent her on an enforced sightseeing tour around Ireland planned to last until safety once again reigned in the gaff i.e. the plague was quashed. She is now safe to return and the planned reunion can happen. I am incredibly excited as I now have a partner who will willingly, if not, enthusiastically partake in the most annoying 'cheers' ritual in the history of drinking. Usually I have to suffer eye rolls from friends and family corralled into shouting.....
"MOT. HAI. BA. YOOOOO"
....before taking their sips. It is the Vietnam cheers and, very much, I have learnt, a "be there" thing. Well, this friend was there and now... she is here.
Before re-entering society however, here behold documentation on my week of rest and relaxation.
Day 1: In giddy excitement and anticipation, of what I had long decided was a Covid rite of passage--to get the damn thing-- I have an hour long phone call with a friend, drink wine to ensure taste buds work fine and order pizza. Taste buds work.
Day 2: Spend several stressful hours trying to find cover for work, feel sorry for myself, watch Derry Girls.
Day 3: Arrange dried flowers in moulds, drown them in resin and attempt to scrub said resin from table top (Vinegar is the solution)
Day 4: Get taken for a ride by new bike, her name is Daisy. She is fast- the equivalent of a strong dog taking its owner for a walk. Minimal effort required.
Day 5: Try on resin earrings, a resounding success and photograph them in lieu of an in-person exhibition. Decide earrings need more visibility and cut my hair. Cut my hair again in order to fix mistakes from previous attempt.
Day 6: Clean the bathroom, scrub the shower, make Ramen. Work. Get taken for another ride by Daisy, this time to Dún Laoghaire. Return home-- sea salt still in my nostrils --order fish and chips. Am sorely disappointed by chips with no vinegar and fish that tastes like cardboard.
Day 7: Work. Make and eat more Ramen (manifesting 'health' prior to antigen). Take antigen, Callooh Callay only one lonely line appears. I don't care that it's lonely as I don't have to be anymore. Write blog, the other rite of passage.
xoxo
Right, rite, write
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