St Patrick

I'm far from my children and I have an ex Irish husband who's just frustrated because the Newry St Patrick's parade blocks the streets to the station.

I ring him to wish him well (he's called Patrick after all) and he harrumphs and toots his horn and complains that Gabby will miss the train to Belfast if the crowds don't shift a little.   He passes the phone to Mu in the passenger seat who complains that it's not yet 11a.m and there are already bouncers outside all the pub s and everyone's already walking round as if it's the morning after.  

Gab got to Belfast and spent the afternoon and evening toting drinks amongst the students in the Holy Land around Queen's.

I rustled together a coddle for an ever expanding and eclectic group of friends and family, wondering why I'd married an Irish man called Patrick who couldn't get a wee bit into the spirit of things and why I had produced a daughter who was probably spending the afternoon scratting the kitchen. 

Meanwhile it was 25° here.  Coddle was not the right kinda food.  The Guinness was ice cold mind and went down well.

A slainte to Jeano!