prolific.org

Having wasted most of my week off last week (I guess I needed the downtime, I did feel something approaching ‘human’ by the end of my break.), I intend to fully make use of the next one coming up: May 5-8.

I’ve been trying to book something, anything, anywhere, but can’t make up my mind. Or my mind is made up for me, when the mini break I pick is for couples only.

Flights anywhere seem particularly expensive that weekend, so I’m looking at something a little closer to home. Belgium. Germany. The Netherlands even.

Paris is out, since I’ve got that slotted in for June.

Aer Lingus is offering 6 Euro flights to Dublin if you book before Thursday and fly before March 16. Return plus taxes it ends up 65 Euro.

Someone gimme a reason.

Update: Got one. Declan O’Rourke plays the Olympia on March 6. Booked. Wish me luck. Got two tickets and… well. Yeah.

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We’re dependant on the network’s reach.

It’s been a while, a week, or more, or less. My head’s been killing me and my shoulders ache in synch. I got a signal outside, he says. How are ya? OK, I say and pause. Continue: moody, up and down like usual.

He says I need a break. I know, I say. I’ve got one coming up in August.

What are my plans, he wants to know. I stretch out on the sofa and listen to his footsteps and the wind blowing as he walks the road to Mizen head. Any further out West and he’d be in Americay.

Marseille, ’cause I like harbours, I proclaim, or maybe Nice, the flights are cheaper. I don’t know and I’ve no money either. It’s tough on your own, I confess.

That’s life, baby.

I remember Mizen head and the journey home — how that man and I listened to the radio as they took Diana to Westminster Abbey. That was the end of that, the golden girl and our tryst laid to rest in one sad week.

Take a train, he says, like he’s read my mind. Like he always does. (“Why don’t you move to Amsterdam?”) I might just do that. Take a train. Travel.

There’s no train to Mizen head.