Er. Well.

I'm off to Dublin at 5am this morning. I should probably be asleep, but I'm not, surprise surprise.

I'm a bit concerned. Not just because this will be three days of my mother and me. Not just because the last time that happened it was New York in 2000 and she didn't want to spend the money to go up to the top of the WTC or to Liberty Island (figure that: spend hundreds on flights but begrudge a few dollars for that). At the time I didn't mind quite so much because I believed I'd be back one day. Not only have I not been back to NYC since, but, well you know what happened.

More than that, I'm 22 and on a genetic level, 100% Irish. On a cultural level, almost as much. As much as any English girl can be Irish when she's 22 and hasn't been to Ireland. I grew up with a grandmother from N. Ireland and the knowledge that I was, in fact, as Irish as Paddy McGinty's goat. I'm more proud of my roots than you can imagine, and Ireland has been drawing me to herself for a very long time. My dream is to retire from rock and roll music to a house on the Co. Galway coast, where the Atlantic winds would whip around the house and the rain would bear down. So... what if it turns out I don't like Dublin? What if it turns out Dublin doesn't like me? I'm terrified that I'll be disappointed or outright hate the place. I've always dealt with my life by creating fictional future refuges. When I was at school it was 'wait until sixth form, when you'll be reunited with Richard and Louise and your other mates.' When I was at university it was 'wait until you get to California'. In California I didn't need a refuge because I had Natasha, sunshine and hardly any work to do. For a long time, my mythical refuge has been Ireland. Not a particularly romanticised, misty version of the place, overrun with fairies and a thousand Colin Farrells. Just Ireland herself, with her people and her history and forty shades of green. My heart has been tearing itself away from me towards this place for a long time, so what if I don't like it?

And to add to this, I'm off to Dublin and my darling mama doesn't want to go to Glasnevin Cemetery. Hardly a loss, you may say. It's 1.2million dead Irish Catholics and it's November in Ireland, you say. Better off to go somewhere nice and warm. Well, Philip Lynott is there, and so I don't want to go somewhere warm. She's made it perfectly clear she doesn't want to schlep all that way (OMG! One bus ride!) and so we shan't. Because HEAVENS FORFEND anyone do what she doesn't want to do. I appreciate that she's taking me and basically paying for everything, I really do, but she does not, will not ever, understand the depth of feeling I have for my rock and roll boys. At the moment, I am living and breathing Thin Lizzy and little else. How can I go to that place, that beautiful city and not see my Philip? Or for that matter, Michael Collins or the other revolutionaries who fought for the freedom of what I think of as 'my' country? There's no way I'm going unless we get into some big argument (likely) and I get the opportunity to storm off. Of course, that'll just make her even madder and I'm sure I'd end up homeless or something. So I shall go to Dublin and I shan't see my dear Philip or my hero Collins. I shall go and I shall do what she says when she says and I'll have to do it with a smile over my gritted teeth. What other option do I have? She feeds, clothes and keeps a roof over my head, and Her Word Is Law.

When we were in New York, she walked off from me in Macy's. I spent the next two hours looking around that fucking shop for her, although she maintains she remained right there in the shoe dept. I ended up walking all the way back to where we were staying, some 10/15 blocks away. When I got there, I had to apologise to her. Never mind the fact I was just turned 18 and all on my own in fucking New York City. Never mind that I'd walked back on my own, not terrified of gangsters but of her and what she'd say to me. Now I'm not 18 and I won't stand for her treating me like shit, which increases the chances of me being made homeless by Monday.

Here's hoping I like Dublin. I might be staying for a reaaaaly long time.

Er. Well.

I'm off to Dublin at 5am this morning. I should probably be asleep, but I'm not, surprise surprise.

I'm a bit concerned. Not just because this will be three days of my mother and me. Not just because the last time that happened it was New York in 2000 and she didn't want to spend the money to go up to the top of the WTC or to Liberty Island (figure that: spend hundreds on flights but begrudge a few dollars for that). At the time I didn't mind quite so much because I believed I'd be back one day. Not only have I not been back to NYC since, but, well you know what happened.

More than that, I'm 22 and on a genetic level, 100% Irish. On a cultural level, almost as much. As much as any English girl can be Irish when she's 22 and hasn't been to Ireland. I grew up with a grandmother from N. Ireland and the knowledge that I was, in fact, as Irish as Paddy McGinty's goat. I'm more proud of my roots than you can imagine, and Ireland has been drawing me to herself for a very long time. My dream is to retire from rock and roll music to a house on the Co. Galway coast, where the Atlantic winds would whip around the house and the rain would bear down. So... what if it turns out I don't like Dublin? What if it turns out Dublin doesn't like me? I'm terrified that I'll be disappointed or outright hate the place. I've always dealt with my life by creating fictional future refuges. When I was at school it was 'wait until sixth form, when you'll be reunited with Richard and Louise and your other mates.' When I was at university it was 'wait until you get to California'. In California I didn't need a refuge because I had Natasha, sunshine and hardly any work to do. For a long time, my mythical refuge has been Ireland. Not a particularly romanticised, misty version of the place, overrun with fairies and a thousand Colin Farrells. Just Ireland herself, with her people and her history and forty shades of green. My heart has been tearing itself away from me towards this place for a long time, so what if I don't like it?

And to add to this, I'm off to Dublin and my darling mama doesn't want to go to Glasnevin Cemetery. Hardly a loss, you may say. It's 1.2million dead Irish Catholics and it's November in Ireland, you say. Better off to go somewhere nice and warm. Well, Philip Lynott is there, and so I don't want to go somewhere warm. She's made it perfectly clear she doesn't want to schlep all that way (OMG! One bus ride!) and so we shan't. Because HEAVENS FORFEND anyone do what she doesn't want to do. I appreciate that she's taking me and basically paying for everything, I really do, but she does not, will not ever, understand the depth of feeling I have for my rock and roll boys. At the moment, I am living and breathing Thin Lizzy and little else. How can I go to that place, that beautiful city and not see my Philip? Or for that matter, Michael Collins or the other revolutionaries who fought for the freedom of what I think of as 'my' country? There's no way I'm going unless we get into some big argument (likely) and I get the opportunity to storm off. Of course, that'll just make her even madder and I'm sure I'd end up homeless or something. So I shall go to Dublin and I shan't see my dear Philip or my hero Collins. I shall go and I shall do what she says when she says and I'll have to do it with a smile over my gritted teeth. What other option do I have? She feeds, clothes and keeps a roof over my head, and Her Word Is Law.

When we were in New York, she walked off from me in Macy's. I spent the next two hours looking around that fucking shop for her, although she maintains she remained right there in the shoe dept. I ended up walking all the way back to where we were staying, some 10/15 blocks away. When I got there, I had to apologise to her. Never mind the fact I was just turned 18 and all on my own in fucking New York City. Never mind that I'd walked back on my own, not terrified of gangsters but of her and what she'd say to me. Now I'm not 18 and I won't stand for her treating me like shit, which increases the chances of me being made homeless by Monday.

Here's hoping I like Dublin. I might be staying for a reaaaaly long time.