some time can be such a drag

This has to be the longest afternoon in History. The sun is shining brightly outside with only a faint breeze to stir the air; the window next to my desk is open 'cos the aircon went on the blink earlier so I can hear the sounds of summer outside. Have you ever noticed how Summer days sound different? It's almost like you can hear the sunshine.

(Don't get the wrong idea here; when I say Summer I only mean it's not grey, cold and wet outside. This is still Ireland, after all. For us 14° Celcius is genuinely pleasant after our long, dreary Winter, though I realise this is hardly rush-out-and-get-a-tan weather.)

So here I sit inside at my desk with nothing to do (it's been really quiet here just lately, I'm pretty sure it won't last, though) and all I wanna do is leave now, get out there in the sunshine and... well just be anywhere except where I am.
Tick-tock Tick-tock
I'm sure my impatience to get started on my holiday is not helping matters.
Tick-tock Tick-tock
Did I mention I'm on holiday for a week starting tomorrow?
Tick-tock Tick-tock
Ugh, if the minutes were going any slower I'd be getting younger...!
Tick-tock Tick-tock
Not that I'd complain about that, though. Maybe I'd get my old butt back then. I'm not so very fond of the new one, I gotta tellya.
Tick-tock Tick-tock
45 Minutes to go.
I doubt I can drag this post out that long though. I just don't have that much to say.

homesick?

I dreamt about home last night. Home as in my home town in South Africa. Only, it wasn't really my home town - it looked completely different - but I knew I was home because it felt like home and I knew where everything was. Plus, I knew it wasn't Ireland because the sun was shining and it was warm.
I've dreamt of that place before, the same as it was in my dream. It must be the way my brain has put images and scenes from home together in my head. There is a long promenade running along the beachfront, lined with seafood restaurants, bars and cafés. Further out there is a big cliff overlooking the sea, where I like to park the car and take photographs of the sunset; from there I can look down and see a large cultivated park where people walked their dogs and take their children to play. Further inland dense green bush hides camping grounds and game farms; places people go for long weekends, reached by red-gravel roads.
In my dream I didn't want to leave but I had to; I guess you don't have to be Freud to figure this one out..!

Coincidence? Or shared consciousness?

I overheard a conversation between some of my colleagues this morning, in which they were discussing George Clooney. It was nothing new: the same tired argument - the men were saying he is gay, the women were arguing. In my personal opinion the only reason men say this is that they are all horribly jealous of M. Clooney - and why wouldn't they be?!
But that is not the point here.

The point is the weirdness, and that is that this conversation pinged something in my head and I suddenly remembered that I dreamt about the man himself last night. Yep, George Clooney, large as life, was in my dreams. It wasn't one of those dreams either (unfortunately); it was far more realistic. I was in jeans and a T-shirt, he was in a group of people obviously pandering to his every need (secretaries, publicists and the like) but for some reason we started a conversation and he ignored all of them for a few minutes. It was then that I told him I'd always known we would meet each other, which he found very amusing. We got along really well, and then he had to go, which was a little sad but sure, I have a husband you know and I have no desire to be part of the whole Hollywood scene. Far too many fake people there for my liking!

Yeah, kind of boring, I know.
Makes you wish it WAS one of those dreams, doesn't it.

The thing is, though, it's not as if dear George is a regular topic of conversation in our office. Nor do I dream of him every night (more's the pity...!) So what's up with the timing?
It's like when you think of someone, out of the blue, who hasn't entered your mind in ages and then the next day you bump into them on the street. That happened to me a LOT, with one particular person, actually - the ex-boyfriend of one of my sisters. If it had happened once, OK I can put it down to coincidence. Twice, maybe. But we're talking about maybe up to 10 times, spanning a period of something silly like a decade.
(And then one day we moved into a new house only to discover a few months later that this guy was one of our neighbours!)

There comes a point where I have to start wondering: Is there such a thing as coincidence? Or is there something going on in our subconscious that creates these things. Some might even play the 'psychic' card.

I figured I would put my own theory in here, but when I tried I realised I don't have one. At least not one that is a fully formed idea.

So what do you think? Psychic? Shared consciousness? Or just plain coincidence..?

Top o' da mornin' to ye..!

Ireland is a mass hangover today courtesy of that ancient serpent exterminator, Saint Patrick.
It's quite funny to look around the office; pretty much everyone has an ever-so-slightly gray pallor and the drone of voices is a little huskier than normal. It's a funny aul' place, this. Every year on March 17th traffic across the country grinds to a halt around midday as St Patrick's Day parades take to the streets not only in Dublin but in pretty much most towns. Even the little town I live in had a parade; apparently about 1000 people turned out to watch which is actually pretty good (you haven't seen the size of the village I live in!)

In my 8 1/2 years in Ireland I have only bothered watching the parade in Dublin twice. The first time it was bitterly cold and lashing rain outside, but being our first year in the country we kind of had to go, really. The second time we went because it wasn't lashing rain and we wanted to see if the parade was any better. It wasn't. This seems something of a tradition here: Mobs of people watching a mediocre parade that has been advertised as the best thing since they discovered the Bog Man.
Only, you don't get to see anything except the back of the head in front of you and to do this you have to be trained in the Art of Fighting for your Space in a Crowd, else you get elbowed and pushed and shoved until you pop out of the back of the crowd like a champagne cork. So most people forego going into Dublin for the parade - the onlookers on the streets are mostly tourists. The locals are all in the pub, eating and drinking waaaay too much and perhaps watching the Parade as it is broadcast on the small out-of-focus TV mounted in a dark corner above the bar.

This was the tradition we followed yesterday, Hubby and I (after going for a breakfast run on our bikes in the morning because it was one of those rare St Patrick's Days when the sun was shining on the Emerald Isle). For the rest of the afternoon pub grub and too much beer was the order of the day, in an old country pub filled with locals from the area thirsty for a pint after the parade.

'Twas a grand day indeed :-)