B e a utiful
To quote Jim Carrey, it was a ‘b-e-a-utiful day’ in Ireland yesterday. And I have to say, having managed to survive my first six weeks here, there’s nowhere I’d rather be on a glorious day than here.
The boys have started their new school, and although #1 has found it tougher than #2, initial forecasts are fair to bright, tentative new friendships have been made and they’ve both got a broad smile on their faces when I pick them up, so that’s okay then. Several Mums have smiled at me, and I’ve even attempted a short chat with one, who turned out to have a girl in #1′s class. Happy kids and the added bonus of adult conversation!
Since my initial posts, I’ve learned various things that I thought I should share with you:
Firstly, that everyone should own a greyhound. Nope, not getting all evangelical, its just a fact. There’s nothing like coming home from the school run (which is bloody long in my case) and being welcomed by a smiley, waggy and somewhat pointy bundle of adoration, who is very pleased to see you. We have a nice walk (quite short, or she starts lagging behind – gentle exercise too, you see?) and then she flops onto the floor and proceeds to blow flies off the ceiling until something interesting happens, or she smells food. And if I have to go out, she goes back to sleep until I come back. None of this undignified chewing of furniture or pooing on the shag pile (well, there was the hall incident on her first day, but that doesn’t count) stuff. And we get to laugh at her trying to get comfy in the beanbag. The perfect pet.
Secondly, that I’m really not the high-maintenance person I thought I wanted to be. I’m quite pleased with the hair, but I’m afraid it gets tied up more often than not because all that blowdrying makes me very hot and bothered. Also, I think it was the discovery that these posh white nails have to be refilled every two weeks at a cost of thirty Euro, plus you have to sit still for two hours while they do it. Also, being a bit of a fiddler, I’ve picked two off (I know, pathetic, but I can’t help it). Furthermore, living here surrounded by fields full of cows kind of negates the need to wear anything smart. Hubby and I are the same height so there’s no point in wearing heels, unless I want to look like Bernie Ecclestone’s wife – have you seen pictures of them? She’s about three feet taller than he is, I mean how do they have conversations? He must whip out a stepladder or something. So, I’ve decided to leave being gorgeous to people like my friend C, who is naturally good at it, and revert to being..well, me.
So. I spent the thirty Euro on some new trainers and decided to embrace my inner slob. And in the style of Yoda, ‘happy in my skin, I am’.
