On Friday morning I jolted awake at 5.45am, startled by a door slamming behind me in my dream. Unable to get back to sleep and irritated by a new clicking in the rotation of my ankle, I started to think about my body and how it’s held up in what has been its thirtieth year on this earth.Continue reading “Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath”
Scotch has never really been my cup of tea. It doesn’t exactly come naturally, being Irish. When I do pick up a bottle of whiskey, which generally only happens when the weather turns and there’s a threat of flu on the horizon, it’s always Jameson. And even then, it’s hot, with ginger or not at all.
It is a sunny, blue sky Saturday morning and the living room window is open out so wide that from where I sit on our giant sofa, I have a bird’s eye view of passers-by three floors below, reflected on glass which is mottled now after weeks without a decent rain shower to clean it. It feels like the first Saturday morning in forever that I have had the time and luxury of sitting down with a pot of tea and an avocado something, Saturday Morning Kitchen in the background.
When it came to choosing a poem for the month of May I wondered if I should seek out something Portuguese to compliment the ramble to Lisbon, and I did spend quite some time pondering over a bilingual collection of poetry in Ler Devagar, an utterly wonderful bookshop to be found in Lisbon’s LX Factory.