A Rathmullan Woman in Exile....

Tuesday March 31st, 9.15am. Most times when I sit down to do this I will already have left a few reminders jotted down to get me started until the natural urge to blather mindlessly kicks in. Other times, like today, I just feel a complete blank, a big empty nothing in my head. When I did a creative writing course with the ETB a few years ago, the tutor told us to just put something, ANYthing down on the paper and take it from there. This is the result of that advice… Nope! Nothing happening. Nada. Blank. Time to put the kettle on and play a game of Majong till the inspiration kicks in. 6.15pm. The writers muse must have been on a union fag break all morning, so I gave up and headed for the builders suppliers for some lengths of timber and a bit of a gossip with the lads. I love builder’s suppliers and scrap yards; they’re full of fascinating bits and yokes that can be re-purposed to get me out of a hoult. They’re a damn sight more inspirational than a clothes or shoe shop, as are most of the people you meet in them. I got lovely red deal for the inside corners of my planters and when it’s done with creosote and burnt oil it should last as long as me... which is about as long as a piece of string. Well, nobody knows, do they?