The definition of 'working from home'

Chris Cope tells me that, all going well, his finished book should be at the publishers 'later today'. Eh? Later today? Chris Cope is a blogger, he's not supposed to actually write a book, he's just supposed to go on and on about it, in between checking the hits on his stat-counter all day.

I started 'writing a book' last year. Did you? Mine started back when I was working from home. I use the term 'working from home' loosely, as this mostly involved 'tidying up a bit' in the mornings and 'masturbating' in the afternoons — plenty of time for writing three chapters of a poorly-plotted novel and randomly googling myself, then. Reading back now, I'm not sure where exactly I was going with this 'book'. I think I was depressed. And confused. It included an Icelandic dwarf character who had once been mauled by a dog:

At seven years old, when Oli Magg’s proportions still hadn’t developed, a farm-dog mistook him for another dog and tore half his face off in a rage. He had his cheek stitched back together but there was nothing they could do to save his eye. It seemed unfair to Anna that someone like Oli should have to go through that. How much bad luck could one person take?

Needless to say, I gave up after that chapter and went back to university, which turned out to be more productive than tidying the house and playing with rabbit all day.

But Chris's book, which actually has a point to it, is called "Free Beer: And other reasons to learn Welsh" and is about his experience as an American abroad. "I was quite excited about moving to Wales," he told me, when we were discussing my imminent trip to the USA. "In my journal, when I finally got to Cardiff, I wrote: A new era in my life has begun. It is hard now to look at that and not feel tremendous cynicism. And there in you have my book. You don't have to read it now."

If you want to read it anyway, you will find it published in Welsh later this year. See? Welsh. Not only is he going to have at the publishers 'later today' but he has written it in a foreign language, too.

The Weekend Picture

I'm getting some business cards printed for my trip to the States, partly because I'm going to visit some production designers in Hollywood on a quest to be a movie star, and partly because I'm a twat. Above is one of the photographs that I'm using, which shows Bjarni's dad on the left, filling up the jeep, and Bjarni on the right, about to fill up his imaginary jet-mobile.

It only occurred to me last night, after I'd sent them all off to print, that I have ordered business cards with pictures of my ex-boyfriend on them. Hmm. The last time I checked, a few weeks ago, I was still feeling a little bit sore about my ex-boyfriend — and so I take a moment to see how I feel about things today.

*a moment*

I decide that the only thing I feel is kind of hungry, and so I pad into the kitchen and poke around in the fridge to see if there's anything to eat.

I take everything back

I am taking all the useless shit I bought this summer back to the shops. If I can earn a living forging old treasure maps then I can probably make some genuine-looking till-receipts, too.

I'm bringing these back! I'll say to the orange lady in the department store, emptying a backpack full of face-cream all over the counter. I only wanted them because I was trying to get laid.

But you've used nearly all of these, she'll say, opening up a half-empty pot and wrinkling her nose.

And guess what? I'll say, pausing for dramatic effect. They didn't work!

This is the truth. The closest I got to rebound-sex this summer was one ill-timed kiss with an old classmate, and quite a long snog on Grafton Street with the hot Australian chef from my favourite Tapas bar. I know that sounds too good to be true, and if you could buy a face-cream that gets you a snog with the hot chef from your favourite Tapas bar then yes, you'd pay 40-quid-a-jar for it too. But unfortunately it was too good to be true. It was like he was trying to gobble my throat. Is this what kissing is like? I thought, standing there frozen in horror. Eventually I had to turn my head away so he could gobble my ear instead. And then I turned my head back to explain that this was not good kissing, but he just gobbled my throat again. Ugh. I could still taste my own ear-wax the next day.

I've had it with the rebound, I'll tell the lady, pulling more useless gels and liquids from my pockets, out from underneath my hat, and from the secret compartments in my shoes. I'm over it! I no longer feel a need to validate myself as an attractive human being. Not by smelling exactly like a watermelon in an attempt to have casual sex with random strangers, anyway.

The orange lady will understand, and give me a full refund in a fit of empathy. I won't tell her everything though. At least, not the part about the ear-wax. There are some things in life that I just don't want total strangers knowing about me, thanks.

From the heart

David and Arna seconds away from marriage, 200 miles from the nearest pub

David and Arna's wedding in the mountains was beautiful, even though I spent most of it worrying about the speech I was supposed to give. I'll write it on the plane, I'd thought. But then on the plane I got drunk and fell asleep, so I'd miss the crash. I'll write it tonight, I'd thought. But then I ended up getting drunk in the pub. I'll write it in the highlands, I'd thought, but then I got drunk on the bus.

I still haven't written my speech! I squealed at Thóra after the ceremony, hoping she'd save the day and whip one out of her pocket for me.

Oh, she said, worryingly anxious for me. Then I guess it's going to have to come 'from the heart'.

I just looked back at her bleakly and drank another glass of wine. In other words: I am fucked.

By the time it was my turn to speak I was so emotional that it couldn't have been anything other than 'from the heart'. It might have been all of twenty seconds long, but I made all the Icelanders laugh, and one rugby player cry.

Friday afternoon in Reykjavik city library

I spent Friday afternoon with a cowboy in Reykjavik city library. Cowboys don't usually bother with libraries — I'm aware of that — but we needed to look at an atlas and so it had to be done.

I love the way he describes America. Ever since I told him about my trip it's like he's been as excited about it as I am. He traces a line across Montana and I lean in a little further; I like the way his arm feels against my skin. I'm sitting too close, I realise that. I watch him from the corner of my eye and he just studies the map. I wonder would he notice if I edged my way onto his lap?

He jumps to Chicago and I zone back in. I pull myself together, run a finger through Illinois. See? I've been concentrating all along.

Look, there's another Springfield, I say, pretending nothing's wrong.

Iceland, I love you

I thought there might be some kind of welcoming committee waiting for me in Iceland. Nothing too over the top; just a handful of people on the runway holding up a couple of helium balloons and a banner: 'We missed you Annie and we're glad to have you back'.

But there wasn't anybody. Just a cluster of tourists on the edge of the endless volcanic rock, watching the Icelanders speed off in their super-jeeps, and wondering what to do next. I ignored them, of course, in case they mistook me for one of them, and went back inside the terminal to ask about the bus.

'When's the next bus to Reykjavik?" I asked, flatly, in bored Icelandic as if I didn't care.

'HA?!' barked the woman behind the desk.

'I know that sounds a bit abrupt,' I explained, helpfully, to the German standing behind me on his tip-toes. 'But what it translates as is: "We missed you Annie and we're glad to have you back".'

Spiritual Mentor

I'm flying back to Iceland this week for my friend David's wedding, after he emailed to ask if I'd be a 'sort-of godmother' to his new baby, Herdís Hekla. He and his lovely wife Arna named her after a local volcano, which, shortly afterwards, erupted and destroyed their entire staircase. Can you believe that? Me?! A sort-of godmother?

I'll be the best sort-of godmother in the world! I thought, immediately bursting into tears. I'll rock her gently in my arms, and I'll buy her a pair of those tiny little Puma runners that always catch my eye in shop windows, even though her parents are hippies and don't really like that kind of thing because they grow out of them too quickly and are manufactured by malnourished seven-year-olds in pitiful working conditions in India.

We'll call you her 'spiritual mentor', rather than her godmother, continued David's email. 'Godmother' is a bit religious.

Yes, of course, I think. I'll be her 'spiritual mentor'. Yes, I'll be very good at that, too.

I decide not to buy her those tiny Puma runners, after all. They seem a bit shallow all of a sudden. Instead I buy her a really cute denim dress which is probably quite uncomfortable and completely the wrong size, but that she's sure to fit into in just a few months.

A bit like the one I have in my own wardrobe, I think, feeling a strange flush of pride that me and this kid already have so much in common.

All about the good times

Me, Gaelick, Aisling, Redmum, Grannymar, Homebug. Pic by Brenda Fitzsimons.

That was a very favourable article about blogging in the Irish Times yesterday. Not once was I called 'self-obsessed' (The Daily Mail) or 'common' (GQ magazine) — even if it is true.

Also, I was very excited to be in the same issue as my all-time favourite author Linn Ullmann. I hope she's not miffed that her interview was further back than mine. But Jenna pointed out that importance isn't necessarily measured by page number; it's just that Ullmann's interview is in the 'books' section — because she has actually written a book — and mine is in the 'space we need to fill' section.

But I want to clarify one thing from the interview: I didn't start blogging because I once took a naked shower at a swimming pool with my boyfriend. That would be 'common'. I started blogging because I once took a naked shower at a swimming pool with Björk, the international pop pixie, and I just felt that was something I really, really needed to share with the world.

I know what America has to offer

If I continue to think of America as a giant movie set, worries Chris, I can only be disappointed. And Chris would know all about disappointment, being the man who left Minneapolis for a life in Wales. But this is America we're talking about, I argue. How could I possibly be 'disappointed'?

I know what America has to offer. In the abscesses of my mind, late in the evenings, I've visited every single state. In California I'm invincible: my thighs tighter, hotter, racing towards danger on the road ahead. An oil spill: an elderly couple tipped over in their car. I tip it back up again. In Idaho I'm a man: large forearms, dark stubble, and no feelings whatsoever. I walk into a bar; I drink a whiskey; I walk out again. In Dakota I ride a horse bareback in my denim cut-offs. Somehow, this doesn't irritate my skin. Somebody help! A herd of buffalo caught in the current at White Rapid Falls! I wade in and, one by one, lift them over my head and back out again.

That evening, down at Billy's cookout, I'll be surrounded by men. Won't you stay, Annie? they'll beg. Won't you stick around a little longer, see the New Year come in? I'll shake my head and swig from my drink. Maybe men do have feelings, after all, I'll think.

Rosie in Milk

Thanks to Primal Sneeze for the bathtub and to Rosie for looking so hot in ice-cold milk.

Fergus with Apple

No wonder all my luck ran out

Wouldn't you be better off, says the cobbler, holding up my boot and examining the sole. Wouldn't you be better off just buying a new pair? These ones are wrecked.

I stare back at him over the counter. Wrecked? Is he crazy? But these are my lucky boots! They have to get me from Los Angeles, through California, and all the way up the coast to Seattle. These boots have to take me right across the Old West (which turns out to be, rather confusingly, in the north) through the mountains of the Glacier National Park and across the flat plains of Montana. These boots need to take me through North Dakota and Minnesota, and down to Illinois in time to shake Barack Obama by the hand. And then these boots are going to take me around Michigan and over to the East just in time for the winter, when I'll fly back home.

Wrecked? Are you crazy? But these are my lucky boots!

He rubs his beard; shifts his glasses down to the end of his nose. Watch this, he says, cracking a can into my boot and holding it up as five fountains of Coca-Cola shoot out of the toes.

Things keeping me awake at night

My biggest problem at the moment is deciding whether to invest in a sensible coat and sturdy footwear to get me across the American West, or if I'll be alright in my battered old boots and leather jacket? This terrible quandary, while it troubles me greatly, comes as a welcome antidote to last month's worries — which were basically 'what the hell am I going to do in October when my job ends?' and 'will anybody ever love me again?'.

I guess what it comes down to is this: do I want to spend my journey warm, dry, and comfortable; or do I want to look and feel exactly like a cowboy?

No contest.