If you want to outrage an Irish person beyond the bounds of any reasonable expectation, then shorten the name of St. Patrick’s Day to Patty’s Day. We’re fine with Paddy’s Day, but hearing the 17th March referred to as Patty’s Day is liable to turn even the most rational, quietly-spoken Irishperson into a fireball of unalloyed aggression.
I have come up with a solution to this. I’m not going to side against our American cousins, who can’t be blamed for their inability to distinguish between Patty and Paddy. Obviously, I can’t go against my countryfolk either.
So I have decided that I will, from now on, refer to the 17th March as Tricksy’s (or possibly Trixi’s?) Day. That way I will avoid offending anyone.
This Trixi’s Day weekend, I’m going to Leitrim. Leitrim was the last county in Ireland to get traffic lights, sometime in the 1990s. It is the European equivalent of the Deepest Amazon.
The three-bedroom house we’re renting is cheaper than a dormitory bed in a Dublin hostel. Paying a deposit by card wasn’t possible. I had to send a postal order in the actual post. To an address with two lines and no numbers.
I’m looking forward to lovely Leitrim. I’ve been working myself far too hard, depriving myself of a social life. My PhD has become simultaneously more rewarding and more draining. And I’ve been sorely lacking in Quality Connortime. And sleep.
So this weekend I’m going to rediscover my inner peace. I’m also strongly considering getting arsefacedly drunk.
And then I’m going to bring Sexy Back from Leitrim.