Opening your wallet in the morning after a night out is always a harrowing experience, especially when your memory kindly reminds you two hours later that to add to the empty space that had been a set of notes, you had also taken out numerous cash from an ATM. Which is why waking up on Sunday and realising that somehow I had gotten through…
4 Pints of Beer, 1 Pint of CherryBeer, 1 Glass of Wine, 2 Pints of Strongbow, 1 Bottle of Wine, and half a bottle of Jagermeister
all for under €15, makes you realise that this country is not going to do your health any favours. I can’t, surely, expect to be mature and control myself, can I? Money was the moral voice telling you not to buy any more drinks at the end of the night. I suppose this makes up for everything else being so ridiculously pricey. But good lord.
In other news, I am well and firmly grounded in writer’s block. I’ve become so consumed in research and history that now I can’t see the words for all the facts. Writing a fictional story set during a recent period of history feels too close to home and no sentence I construct can even begin to realise the magnitude of what happened. I write, and then read it back, and then promptly curse ever wanting to be a writer. With plays, I feel comfortable; I enjoy dialogue and feel like I’m actually getting somewhere. But with prose, I become bogged down with the weight of sentence after sentence, trying to create the world, engage the reader and be respectful to the time period from which I’m sourcing. Worst of all is that I find myself looking for distractions because then at least I can pretend that what’s in my head will sound good when on paper, but I’m trying to get over that.
Be right back, there’s a fly in my room and it needs to be killed.