This Man's Life: The artist is born into one place, but puts blood and belief far beyond
It is easy to see why Freud believed the Irish were one of the few races in the world for whom psychoanalysis would do no good. We're a pretty messed up bunch, especially over First World problems.
I recently had a semi-serious conversation with a doctor who told me that my self-diagnosed tendonitis perhaps wasn't Tennis Elbow; it might be repetitive stress injury from opening bottles of wine. Rather than switch to screw-top wine bottles, I gave up the grape completely. And switched to beer.
My first non-wine outing was last weekend at a family barbecue in Foxrock. It was a fantastic party, even though at times it did border on a kind of Beckettian farce. Whenever my three sisters or their husbands picked up a steak or a drink in the garden, the heavens opened and we all scurried inside. Twenty minutes later our faltering spirits lifted again when the sun bravely re-emerged from behind the clouds. We all ran back into the garden and acted like nothing had happened.