Maybe it wasn't such a bad year after all

January
The year is kicked off in Iceland where I see all my old friends again for the first time in ages. Everybody is really rich and we whizz about in jeeps and drink cocktails with dinner and don't know how good we've got it. I decide to move back to Reykjavik as soon as I've finished my masters.

February
The boyfriend takes me to New York for Valentine's Day and I don't know how good I've got it. It is all impossibly romantic and I decide we should move to Manhattan as soon as I've finished my masters. I neglect to consult the boyfriend over whether or not this is what he wants, too.

March
I work on the set design for a student film and come to the conclusion that I'll be moving to Hollywood as soon as I've finished my masters.

April
The boyfriend takes me to Italy for my birthday and I don't know how good I've got it. It is all impossibly romantic and I decide we should move to Venice as soon as I've finished my masters. I neglect to consult the boyfriend over whether or not this is what he wants, too.

May
The boyfriend points out that actually he is quite happy living right here in Dublin. Except now he wants to break up with me. Uh-oh. A summer of heartbreak, pain, and soulful blogging ensues.

June
I finish my masters and end up moving to the suburbs of Wicklow. I am saved only by an exciting new job on a TV show.
*Unfortunately, that semi-naked picture of Jonathan Rhys Meyers up there was just stolen from the internet as I was too busy worrying about heartbreak and pain to take any of my own photographs.

July
I spend all my earnings on over-priced face creams and leather boots in a fruitless attempt to make myself attractive to the opposite sex. I fail miserably in pulling anyone; not even a desperate guy on a dating site who calls himself 'Bobo' and looks like a stuffed animal.

August
I make a new friend, Rosie, who saves me from myself by making me go out to the pub and stuff. Still, the pub just seems a bit depressing. So she lets me photograph her naked in a bath of milk instead.

September
The only way to truly get over being dumped, I concur, is to trek around the Wild West like a cowboy. I book a flight in a flurry and write an imaginative but entirely unrealistic blog post about America falling in love with me. Little do I know that it is all about to come true.

October
I put all the face-cream in the bin and head off to the New World, where Brian gets me a ticket to Grant Park to watch the election results come in. Later, Barack Obama gets up on stage and says something about a puppy, making a quarter-million people burst into tears around me. This is mega, I think, wiping my nose with my sleeve. This is bigger than The X-Factor.

November
I get my heart broken again in Michigan and so I head south to see if I can break it in Tennessee too, where I have a passionate fling with a hot Israeli. It takes me nearly two weeks to realise that boys and romance are completely overrated and actually I was much happier by myself. I get on a bus for Jackson the next day.

December
I run out of money in Texas, broke and exhausted but completely cured of any heartbreak, and so I head back to Ireland where I have no home and no job and everybody keeps saying there's a recession going on. I don't mind though. In fact, I am feeling pretty excited about the future, all in all.

Happy Christmas, blonkettes, with love from Little Pinch.

Loud and bad and happy

At the weekend I got back on a train and headed west to visit my outlaw brother and his family, who live their lives outside the law in a rambling old farmhouse in the hills above Galway.

Anne cooked a feast on the stove and the kids messed with the alligator feet from Mississippi and Fergus played the guitar and so we sang Jackson by the fire, loud and bad and happy, and I started every story off with "When I was in Nashville..." or "When I was in Memphis..." just in case any of them had forgotten where I'd just been.

It's cold, she says, and it's damp

Macy didn't sign up for Ireland, she tells me, grumpily, lagging behind on Pearse Street. It's cold, she says, and it's damp. And where's all this supposed singing and dancing?

It is ten o'clock on a Wednesday morning, Macy. What did you expect; Riverdance? This isn't Austin. Here, I say, waiting for her to catch up. You can wear my coat. It looks better on her than it does on me. Funny how a big old fur coat looked really fucking cool in Texas but just seems kind of silly here in Dublin. I think about the antique spurs I found in Nashville. Wow. They are going to look really dumb.

I'm shacking up for a few days at Rosie's place with her and her flatmates. It's cosy at Rosie's; fairy lights and Irish accents and hot rum. But these people can't sit around entertaining me forever; they have jobs to keep and work to get done. Don't you know there's a recession going on? Yes, and today I have to get up at a reasonable hour and start 'rebuilding my career' etcetera. What would it take to go back and live in America, is all I can wonder, pressing my nose up against the window of the job centre.

Macy says gay marriage is legal in Maryland, which makes me snigger. I can see myself walking up to the authorities: I just had a lesbian wedding with my imaginary friend. I think you'll find I'm now entitled to a working visa!

Master of the Universe

Today is my graduation day. Back here in rainy Dublin I'm now a 'Master of Arts' in filmmaking. Well are ya, punk? Yes, yes I am. When they handed me my scroll I climbed right up on top of the podium in my big black cape and threw out my arms. I AM THE MASTER OF THE UNIVERSE, I roared.

No, no I didn't. This ain't a movie, punks. Instead, I slept through it all. Woke up in Rosie's bed in the early evening and just lay there for a while staring up at the ceiling, wondering what to do next.

The world is my lobster, I guess.

America wouldn't be America without a go on a machine gun

Devin let me play with her AK47.

I think it might be time to go home soon

In a Mexican bar at lunchtime I teach the barman how to make hot whiskeys. I'm dying here, hombre! He says if I come back later they'll teach me how to drink tequila. Tell 'em Jesus sent ya. I actually hate tequila — I hate it with all my heart and soul — but anything is better than sneezing around town with no particular place to go.

Learning how to drink tequila involves a man called Felix pouring me shots and me not puking. Luckily, halfway through the lesson, I get kidnapped by a couple of girls from Austin and get away with not doing anymore drinking. I have an idea! Let's get up on the bar, let's tear it up! I love these Austin girls, with their bangs and their tats and their cowboy hats. This is how we did it in Nashville, cowgirls. But the bouncers don't care how we did it in Nashville, apparently. No more getting up on that bar, ya hear me? C'mon ladies, let's skip town. Y'know everyone's gonna be in tears once we've left.

Hey! I say, squaring up to a doorman and poking him in the chest. Have you ever seen a whole town cry?

No, ma'am, he laughs. But you have, I'll bet.

Nope, I say, skipping off down the street. It only ever happens after I've left.

Symptoms of sudden death and love

In Austin I start sneezing blood. This is terrifying, obviously, and in my rented bed I convince myself that it's a symptom of sudden death without even looking it up. Luckily, on the way to the bathroom for a frenzied last shower, I bump into a guy I'd met in New Orleans who tells me that everyone who stayed at that hostel now has the same thing. It's just a chest-cold, he says, and I feel better and decide to spend the entire day eating soft fruit with Macy in bed.

I miss the Locksmith, all of a sudden. But in a pathetic, needy way; now that I'm sneezing blood. Right, says Macy, pulling apart an orange. This is the nature of love.

On my last night in Nashville we'd driven down Second Avenue, all lit up with twinkling lights. Look at this! he'd said. Doesn't it make you want to stay for Christmas? But you're Jewish, I'd laughed. You hate Christmas and all that. Not if you stay. If you stay then we'll do all that jingle-jingle shit and I'll sit on Santa's lap.

It was tempting, Macy, to stay in Nashville for the winter: learning the guitar; taking our clothes off; talking about going downtown and ending up just staying in. That's what I wanted, right? The warmth of someone else's skin?

Macy laughs and hands me another piece of tangerine. I want to snuggle up to her, here on the bottom bunk. But she doesn't like it when I touch her, I don't think.

What you wanted was to be on the road. There are Christmas lights in every town; and this is just a chest-cold.

72 miles from Texas

Out on the freeway the sun burns in through the windshield and I wake up with my neck all twisted around. How long was I asleep? Couple of hours, maybe. Are we in Texas yet? Nearly. About seventy-two miles away.

Oh, okay, I say, stretching. I'm getting a ride with an oil guy I met in Louisiana, whose job is to drive through Texas checking rigs before any drilling begins. Can I come, too? I'd asked him. I have to get to Austin before my character is killed off in some kind of freak accident. He can take me as far as Fort Worth, he'd said, where I'm welcome to crash on his couch. From there I can pick up the passenger train the next morning, and head further south. Thank you, that sounds perfect. We must have been driving seven hours or more by now.

Want to stop in Dallas for a steak?

Outside, the land already looks like Texas is supposed to look: all washed out. It'll be the last state I see before I fly home from DC next week and I already feel blue about leaving. No! I don't want to think about leaving.

Sure, I say. Let's stop in Dallas, for a steak.

Next Exit

Fake Irish Dancing and the Sorry Dog

I've taken to telling the good people of New Orleans that I'm Irish. I feel vaguely ashamed of this, but it's worth it, I think, for these cheers that erupt around the pub. Anything is better than the truth and those indifferent shrugs.

My Welshness is a big old duffel coat that I drop in a puddle outside the door of every bar. Inside, I take up fake Irish dancing. They love that, here in New Orleans; any kind of dancing. Watch me go, clacking my heels right through this crazy bar! My back is straight and my arms are down by my sides. I don't know what my legs are doing, but I have a face like a smacked arse, so that's alright. I wish now I'd paid more attention in the Irish dancing classes we'd had once in school. But instead I'd spent the entire lesson concentrating on pretending that the guest teacher — my mother — was of no relation at all.

Outside, my big Welsh coat is still sitting in the puddle, whimpering like a sorry dog. What?! Didn't you see how many drinks I was bought? We're running out of money, puppy, and I still want to get to Texas. Don't you want to come to Texas, you sorry dog?