Next time my sister pops into The Wine House in Trim – it’s temptingly close to the cathedral – I hope she picks up a bottle or two of St Patrick’s Extra Dry Gin.
Earlier this year I thinned out my filing. One disposal, written in my mother’s hand on Barmeath writing paper, listed my childhood vaccinations. Except for blogging purposes, surely I could not need that?
A few years ago a friend’s son thought the future lay in coconut milk. It didn’t, at least for him. He picked himself up, dusted himself down and started all over again. If I remember I’ll tell you what he’s doing now at the end of this.