Caption: My ticket for Anne Enright.

Yesterday wasn't as cold as the day before. I spent all day reading the papers...if you see how chunky they are you'll understand: The Observer, The Irish Times and such.
In fact, I don't know when I last read so much with the recent exception of London and Ireland.
In the evening, we went to settle my accomodation.
I'll be sharing a cottage with an American playwright and poet.
I'll be seriously writing.
She and I are at the same crossroads in our lives; at the moment she's buried in other projects; fiction and a screenplay with which to shape her language, to look for that perfect form and structure and to seek her own success.
The difference is that she has already staged a play in Dublin and published a book of poems in the States.
I'll be working on my play or a novel. Either way, I shall finish one of the tasks. And I also have my poems that are being looked at by Des.
The cottage is pretty. It has animals and a back garden with leafy trees and a wooded lane. Nature hints at a delightful read in the outdoors, come the summer.
A short walk brings me to the Liffey River. There, I shall see swans.
Later, the 3 of us, celebrated with Christmas wine.
I listened, elated, while my friends talked poetry.
I became instantly merry. I felt cheery and heady.

I remember laughing a lot.
I have re-connected with the dreams of my childhood when even then I tossed up a surreal realm in which to write and read. My time here may be seasonal and momentary but the effect I suspect, to be monumental.