Czech Inn - get it?

After that, well, it was all we could do but drink. "God Save the Queen" sung in Croke Park. 43-13 to Ireland. I even drank Guinness in my patriotic fervour. But where did we end up carousing? In Eastern Europe. See, we started out in Keatings. Then the Hop House. O'Connell street was mental, crawling with little folk with big bellies in green jerseys, wrapped in tricolours and carrying foam hands and jester hats. Then we went to the Sackville Lounge where we met a self-confessed twat from Surrey. He even wore tweed. And then, well, after much meandering up and down the quays, we ended up at the Czech Inn.

Entering this particular establishment is a bit like rushing through platforms nine and ten to end up on three-quarters. It's a whole other world. As the only Irish people there, it was buzzingly like we were on our holidays. Dancing strange feet-twisting dances to the beat of a red-jumpered drummer (special mention to this tiny stick-wielding rhythm master with his carefully parted hair and expression of faint surprise every time they made contact with the drumskin). Drinking Czech beer and eating Czech crisps and chatting to George and Joseph (not their real names - the English equivalent of their real names because we were having such a hard time pronouncing their real names after so much Czech beer). Boy those lads can drink. And do. They even put us Irish to shame.

So there we were. On our holidays in the mini Czech Republic. As all of Dublin was awash with all things Irish and green and comeallye, we managed to celebrate the historic moment by going abroad. Folks, it was quite a trip.

And that, I think, is worse

The Neurotic Philosopher and I wailed down the phone at each other in the lonely wee hours of Sunday morning coming down. "Why don't we match anyone?" he asked. It was my question too as I clamboured gracelessly out of another budding two back into one again. I just don't match anyone. On brighter days, I add the yet. But sometimes, when the shared shards of all those almosts, all those sweet but also rans, chime against my ribs, I wonder if I ever will.

Audible sighs

OK. Now I'm just sad. Because not only is Miss Tickle having theatre troubles, but now they're closing Andrew's Lane Theatre. The cretins, whoever they are. Only weeks ago, I was back in its blacked-out belly with a box of hand-made chocolates on my lap and an all-singing, all-dancing cast at my feet. And I thought to myself - how nice that despite all the changes in brand-spanking, go-getting Dublin a little shelter for old-school arts like Andrew's Lane can still nestle contentedly on a city centre sidestreet. But no more, we were cruelly informed on Valentine's Day, of all days. It was too much for a drama queen like me. Hence the sighing. But the sadness, folks, is genuine.

It takes all sorts

The SAIB and I made pizza on Thursday. He put banana on the pizza. I am still getting flashbacks. I don't want to talk about it.

Bring on the rain

The sky is the underside of a frying pan, blistered and black. It's been spattering rain on me all morning, and I am grateful. I've had some week, the kind where one big-full emotion smacks you in the head and then steps aside to make way for the next. I am glad of a grey day to wrap me up in clouds as I curl inside its slate comfort and let things unfurl in the shadows.

Buy a word

Go on. Buy a word. You never know when you might run out.

Vorsprung Durch Technik

The Eco-ranting Pregnant One requires an immediate name change. In the blink of an eye, she is no longer pregnant, having given birth to Racing Baby. In the car. In about one second. Germans, like the artist formerly known as the Eco-ranting Pregnant One, amaze me.

The Eco-ranting Speedy Birthing One has constantly astounded me with her ability to do things right after she thinks of them. I mean, she makes plans and then she CARRIES THEM OUT. Un. Be. Lievable. No vacillation, no prevarication, no procrastination. None of the ations to which Irish people like me, who still have their pyjamas on at 2 p.m. when the LoM (see below) call to the door, are so attached (and don't get me started on libation). The E-R-S-B One just does things. And now she has outdone her own doingness, by giving birth in about one second. This is the German way - no time-wasting. So having experienced a slight twinge at around 5.30 a.m., she called the babysitter for Bilingual Boy and, ushering his father out the door, she got into the back of the car to have a bit of a lie down on her way to the hospital. But then, having set the whole thing in motion, she just decided to finish the job and be done. Next thing, and I really mean next thing, BB's (and now RB's) da heard a baby crying in the back seat, and it turned out that Eco-ranting Speedy Birthing One had given birth in the back of the car while he was busy figuring out how the wipers worked. Most characteristic of her, I have to say. She probably did it to save petrol. She is most efficient and ecologically sound. I am astounded. And still in my pyjamas.