Times Square

This is my favourite pic from the trip, even though it was taken in my least favourite part of the city. I was expecting the whole of New York to be like this — tower blocks and adverts — but luckily we stayed in the much smaller Greenwich "Village". Which wasn't actually a village, right, at least not by a Gog's standards.

Anyway, I think I like this photo the best because of the lengths I had to go to to get it. I mean, I was kneeling in a New York gutter with yellow taxi cabs whizzing past my elbows: a little alarming for somebody who usually has trouble crossing O'Connell Street. Afterwards, Bjarni told me that another tourist had taken a picture of me while I was down there. I like that: a picture of a person taking pictures of pictures somewhere they'd only ever seen in pictures before.

The Weekend Picture

One of my best friends, Wies (on the right), came to visit from Belgium this weekend with his boyfriend, Jeroen (on the left).

Belgium and Wales have a lot in common in that nobody knows anything about either country. Could I name five famous Belgians? No, I couldn't name one. Could my lovely guests name five famous Welshies? No, they couldn't name one. But it's okay, national identity doesn't have to come down to celebrity. They have Tintin and chocolate on their side and Wales, well, Wales will always have cheese-on-toast.

The sooner these kind of misunderstandings are cleared up, the better

I've been particularly emotional lately, bursting into tears at any given moment. Usually while I'm watching Obama speeches on YouTube — which is perfectly understandable, I like to tell myself. Less understandable, though, is crying at everyday text messages, like the one I got from Anna today:

"Conor's phone died, he says he'll miss the meeting later."

Oh my God! I think, reading it as "Conor's FATHER died", my lips beginning to tremble on cue.

"Oh God, poor Conor," I sniffle back via text message. "Look, tell him not to worry about the meeting and give him my love. If there's *anything* I can do just let me know."

Anna and I have only recently gotten to know each other, and she finds my reaction to her boyfriend's phone running out of battery a little over the top. She ponders it for a moment, realises I am less stable than I had previously made myself out to be, and decides it's better not to text anything too complicated back:

"Thanks Annie, will do!"

Trying to be cool on the London Underground

Trying to be cool on the New York subway reminded me of trying to be cool on the London Underground for the first time; back when I was six years old, from the countryside, wearing shades, and with my mum. So, not cool at all then.

Back then, getting through the turnstile was a task in itself. I remember my mother showing me how to put my ticket into the slot and then how to quickly take it out from the top so you could push through the gate.

"So where's your ticket, then?" she asked me from the other side of the barrier, when it was my turn.

"But I gave it to that man," I blinked up at her, pointing to a homeless guy who was quickly gathering up his blankets and hurrying through the gates.

"Why did you do that?" she exclaimed.

"I thought he was the ticket collector!" I wailed, promptly bursting into tears.

Somehow, Tom is always right

"I've been left out of the personal category at the Irish Blog Awards," I squeal to my imaginary friend, Tom. "I didn't even make the very long shortlist!"

Having an imaginary friend at a time like this is important. I can't talk about it with my real friends, who would just roll their eyes and point to the design nomination, and I'd never complain about it to my bloggy friends — I find whining on your blog about not making "award" shortlists distasteful.

"Hmm," says Tom, skimming my archives thoughtfully. "It's no wonder you didn't make the list. The award is for the best personal blog, not the most personal."

Things I'm going to do in New York

Have hilarious conversations about sex
I've been warned never to ask a New York woman, "So, which one are you?". But still, I hope I have hilarious conversations about sex with three sassy women around a bar at some point in the trip. I expect I'll meet some in my pilates class.

Go to a pilates class
A friend of a friend runs a dance studio in Manhattan, so I've been told, and I'm going to be all local and go and join in. 'Mat' pilates, it's called, and all the diagrams I've seen are of people lounging around on the floor. Really, how hard can it be?

Buy a funky hat
As everybody knows: all hats are inevitable mistakes. What is it about being in other countries that makes us feel we can wear whatever the hell we like? But I'll need something to cover up my unfortunate New York haircut.

Get a New York haircut
Haircuts are the best souvenirs. "Where did you get your hair done?" people will ask in awe upon my return. "Oh, New York" I'll reply, flippantly. I expect I will hate it.

Take a picture of a crazy person
Not a wide-shot from the safety of the other side of the street, but a close-up, y'know, as they stare deep into the lens while a pigeon nibbles on their earlobe. Or whatever.

I have a feeling I'm spelling 'naval' wrong

I've done nothing to prepare myself for my trip to New York on Tuesday. Nothing except pluck my naval hair, that is. For some reason I absolutely do not want to have naval hair in New York City. I guess this is in case they make me wear a bikini — I mean, it's America, isn't it? It's always sunny.

The Weekend Picture

Don't call it a cello
This is Ursula, playing her 'viola de gamba' at home in Reykjavik. Ursula is one of my dearest friends, and I've written extensively about her before. And by 'extensively' I mean a couple of blog posts — this is all supposed to be about me, right?

If you click to enlarge you'll see it's quite a grainy shot, as I used a fast film speed to avoid having to switch on the overhead light. And Ursula very patiently kept her hand still whenever I asked her to — even though it messed up the French sonata she was rehearsing. Yes; a French sonata: she really is that hot.

Barack Obama is a wonderful orator

Barack Obama is a wonderful orator. Hmm. I'd never heard the word 'orator' used in conversation before, and now everybody's saying it. See? He really can change the world. Another word that hardly ever gets used is 'id' — have you ever noticed that? You'll only ever see it at the end of Scrabble games and on difficult second pop albums. And as for 'asinine', well, it must've been dictionary.com's Word of the Day, because it's popping up all over the blonkoshpere at the moment.

Anyway, scarcely used words aside, I'm rooting for Obama. He'll make a fantastic US President, and yes — he's good at the talking bit too, isn't he.

The Blonk before it got its boob-job

The blonk has undergone a lot of surgery this year — it hasn't always been wallpaper chic and illustrated blog-rolls, y'know. Do you remember what it used to look like? No, I don't expect you do. But don't fret, I saved the templates under my bed, along with all those other useless bits of junk that I haven't had the heart to get rid of over the years.

Looking at my previous layout makes me want to cry. Which is why I must never, ever get a tattoo. Um, grey text on a grey background? What was I thinking?



Then before that was the sardine can, which I actually quite like and might bring back one day — though I think I'll skip the grey and yellow colour scheme:



Anyway, thanks to everybody who nominated me for Best Design at this year's Irish Bloggies. I won't go on about it — I don't want anyone to think I want a prize or anything — but it really means a lot to me that I was able to nag you into it. Cheers.

The Weekend Picture

Camper Van in County Mayo
I took this last year in Mayo. It was the greyest weekend of the summer, I think, and then the clouds broke up for a minute or so. I don't think I ever really grew out of liking primary colours the best.