Erin

Erin was born today. Some time a little after three o'clock in the afternoon, she came into the world. I was in Dublin quaffing a coffee at the Stephen's Green Centre when Doctor Barn's text beeped onto my mobile phone. I rang him immediately. He told me Fiona was fine and the child also.
Dublin was rainy but imbued with an odd poetry. Some sexy ladies smiled at me in Easons and again later in the library. I favoured each with an unusually respectful smile. I was thinking: "Whoever you are, you're somebody's Erin."
Back home the Dad cooked me a brace of chops. He was exultantly happy although he did quibble about the name.
I liked the name the moment I heard it. Bianca phoned from Napoli to say they should call the child Tara.
Not bad.
But Erin.
Erin is perfect.
The day Erin was born started with a wind storm. The storm had rifled the fields overnight, continuing after sun up, and only easing off some time in the afternoon. The day Erin was born I was conscious of how rich I was. The day Erin was born I didn't bother writing news articles. The day Erin was born I visited Aunty Marie. The day Erin was born I savoured the rain. The day Erin was born I put my trust in God.

Dances With Snurds

I'm at the stage of life where I feel my conflicts should be spectacular. The Head Idiot and the Flying Haggis, aka the editor and the Managing Director, are mediocre enough as enemies go. A writer as brilliant as me deserves better villains. When scholars consider my life during this period, they're probably going to focus at least a little on these two buffoons. I am giving them a place in history. Let's face it. The most interesting thing either of them will ever do is to cause a mild inconvenience in the life of Ireland's greatest living poet. What else will Sneeran or Stalwart be remembered for? Nothing.