Where did the time go?

So Son number two is twenty one next week and is home from London for a few days, thereby ensuring a watertight alibi for the time of the death of the King of Pop. He's being exactly what every young person should be, a political activist. He was a very long baby, according to all the expert mammies twenty one years ago, and remains long today, about 6'3" (don't know what that is in euros)in his fundamentalist sandals. He has long hair and a sporadic beard giving him a look of one of the morte commercially successful apostles,(due to lack of obvious ribs). He still knows everything, which is good, because i started to lose that particular skill when i was about 18. It's nice to have him around have him around the place again, pottering about and playing a few bits and pieces on the piano or guitar, interacting with the other kids, who haven't seen him for six months or so. he's off into town shortly to man some stand complaining about Shell or Iran or the government or riverdance. Fair play to him!

The Weshtern Wampire and the Walwo Race

So the Volvo Ocean race, or the Walwo race as it's called by my Spiddal friends has proved a remarkabe happening. The city looks great the beaches spotless, the buzz is definately pre-recession decadence, the craic and music first rate. the place is wedged all day and night even by Galway standards, even by race week when the fianna Fail Tint was the place to be standards. Massive Sailing craft in the bay flanked by dozens of hookers and gleoteogs, ribs, dinghies and everything else that floats (apart from human turds, God be with the days) but Oh Lord what weather! Unimaginably wonderful sunshine for the past week! yes! A Whole fucking week of it!!! In Galway!!!! the whole experience has been surreal. The vast majority of Galwegians would have probably assumed it was going to be a flop that would be a further slap in the face to a country deflating quicker than a really quickly deflating baloon. But it's been glorious. The experience is as if someone told you that the real Santa only starts coming to you when you're forty. Everything in the previous thirty nine year's life experience tells you that it's just more bullshit designed to break you're spirit, until you wake up that morning to tjhe most wonderful (insert fantasy here). Fair play to ye walwo People of Galway, each and every one.
Unfortunately the bit of decent weather has me shuffling indoors to my dark smelly crypt for large periods of time due to the emergence of a shitload of pollen which is almost as irritating as canvassing politicians, or the people who canvass for the politicians who are too scared shitless to canvass themselves. Every year sees me snuffling and feeling my way along walls to my doctor's surgery for the annual steroid injection, fearlessly running the risk of arse puckering in the quest for relief. Hot yet this year however. I've been following advice I got from a nun and eating mostly radishes. I know, I know, it sounds like yet another chapter in the clerical abuse report, but so far the jury is out. This week has been the first week I've suffered with symptoms, which is about a month later than usual. now it's also been the wettest May in 14 million years which may be the cause. We'll see (or not as the case may be)