Today I'm

I slopped out of bed with a wee fire in my belly, ready for a long run. After a few stretches, the tightness of my back reared its contorted head and I duly unlaced my shoes. Something something my run up in smoke. Despite the physio and the rest, my back continues to pinch every 3rd or 4th thought. I can’t shake its grip. Equally irritating is the fact I discovered, much to my genuine surprise, that I’m 32 and not 31.

It sounds absurd, but I genuinely forgot I was already 32. It was only during a conversation with Dad and Séaron, over a cup of tea, that the penny dropped and now the thoughts are bubbling up. I imagine I’ll dwell on this today, for better or worse. I also know this sounds dramatic. But when most mates are turning that first-home key, or getting down on one knee, it’s impossible not to compare.

That being said, certain things need to be done and now that I’m a year older than I thought, it’s a case of acting now, or regretting it later. Ah, there’s the belly fire once more. 

Update: 4 hours later, I asked the lads if they ever forget their age. They do. They also helped me realise I'm 31, not 32. So, in summary, I've now gained a year.

Armed with my concepts and a detailed shot list, I entered the premises and, as it sometimes happens on productions big or small, I kind of ignored the list. So, what else happened? I was asked, with venom: “What the fuck are you looking at?” by a snarky teen who, perhaps unbeknownst to him, was sitting in front of the bus timetable. Sir, I was not looking at you. You fucking imbecile.

Anyway, I moved around the roastery like a forgetful ghost and shot my TikToks and cupped some coffee and did other first-time things with friendly folk. After doing that for many hours and forgetting to eat for the same amount of hours, I beelined for the bus; I was asked the aforementioned question by the aforementioned fucking imbecile, and then I headed home.

Friday night with the family was chill. I haven’t drunk booze this year and I’m laying low to minimise spending. The evening’s starter was the blood-boiling and downright sad cornering of Zelensky by Trump and Vance. The main course was homemade pizza and the dessert was none other than Ben Fogle’s: New Lives in the Wild. It’s probably my favourite TV show. It’s eternally interesting, thought-provoking, relaxing, family-friendly, inspiring, alienating, funny, poignant, everything. I love it and I highly recommend it!

 I’ve never done dry needling before and as he prods into my contracted muscle fibres, I feel nothing. It’s not until 20 or 30 seconds later that a pulse reverbs up the muscle. And again. And again, but this time it jolts. Tsssssszzzt. Tsssszzzzzt. My quad involuntarily fucks around - and finds out - that these needles are friends, and not foes.

The session continues for 45 minutes where Martin kneads me like flabby dough and needles me like a tattered doll. There’s relief and my muscles frenzy knowing goodness is a pinch away. I imagine them gasping for a poke like unopened tennis balls gasping for air. 

When I leave, my right glute is reluctant to walk but it soon relents. The underlying message, physio to patient, is that I’ve a poor posture and this has sprouted my back issues. Additionally, I’m weak af. This fragility (core, back, legs, everywhere) will actively object to any ultra-running ambitions. 

Tl;dr - It’s time to build some muscle once my back is sorted. 

The last time I sank into these chairs was 13 years ago while studying for my leaving cert (state exams). It was a time of nerves and giddiness and hypothetical career choices and dawn-to-dusk study days and first forays into nightclubs and spraining ankles while evading security because you weren’t allowed in said nightclubs. It was coming-of-age 101.

 It was here where, every Saturday, our 7- or 8-person group queued in front of the unopened doors, nose against glass, ready to dash in as if a new drop had, well, dropped. We barged up the stairs, reefed back the chairs, and duly took our respective places. We sat and studied and swiveled in our seats whenever our brains grew bored. We looked up and down and up again when hearts took a fancy. Questions would be asked to whomever you wanted to hear from, even if you already knew the answer. It was a coming-of-age in the sense that studying was the prerogative, but the socialising was invaluable. I grew into myself in 1st year of college, so this period felt somewhat like a triage.

So now I’m back. A lot has changed, clearly. Affixed at eye level are friendly reminders about phone usage and social distancing, to the rear wash in waves courtesy of the beach. The desks are quite literally a stone’s throw from the water. Now here I am, writing this, thinking of those friends I’d see every week and have now not seen in 8+ years. There’s not much more to add other than I’ve been here for 20 minutes and I haven’t done a single iota of work.

Old habits die hard.

It’s a momentous day. I’ve always been intrigued by the hobby and how this group, a bunch of men ranging from 65 to 90+, congregate in a field in the foothills of the Wicklow mountains. They stand there - necks craned, mouths open, fingers twiddling - fully in the zone. The pilots then mosey back to their shed and take the piss out of each other while their thermos flasks hold both heat and conversations tightly. 

My dad has been flying as far back as I remember. Back to the days of Newcastle Airfield (it was quite literally a field), where the long grass stretched well beyond my thrice-upturned jeans and little legs. His planes have been, and will forever be a permanent fixture. In more recent years, I’m more curious as to why. How this club provides an outlet, a return to juvenility, or a place for old dogs to learn new tricks. If you snoop around my dad’s shed, you’ll find petrol and electric RC planes hanging from the ceiling like a baby mobile, a chandelier, or through whatever lens you see their much-loved passion.

For years, I’ve wanted to document their social club through photography or via a short film. What I captured today, my first day of shooting, is nothing special. Yet I think it’s a HUGE step in the right direction. Just like this rambling blog, I’m creating and publishing rather than simply consuming. 

Will we see a magical short film or will it be a nosedive? 

Time will tell.

I’ve been a copywriter since 2017. My job has nothing to do with legal cross-checking. In a nutshell, the role involves coming up with ideas and creative campaigns, followed by writing scripts and general advertising words. You work on this with an art director and designers, and then you see it on YouTube. After five seconds, you click skip.

Under the whole campaign creating thing, it’ll more often than not cover social media meaning coming up with wee ideas for those channels, like TikTok. This current gig, however, is focused on launching a local brand’s TikTok so I drafted up a content strategy, many video series to fill said strategy with some structure, and 50 video ideas. I’ll be shooting them soon. 

Anyway, that was what I was doing today. 

Today I also admit that I’ve never watched Blade Runner 2049 in full. I’m a little Denis Villeneuve fanboy so this brings me moderate-great shame. Yonks ago, I watched the first half but, if memory serves me right, I cancelled my Amazon Prime and thus never finished it. So here, I am, with my laptop on its side, my back wallowing in futility, and my eyes wide open at *art*. 

Denis Villeneuve’s track record should stop you in your tracks, hurl a screen 3-6 ft in front of you, and force you to watch. Clockwork Orange style, albeit less macabre. His work sells itself, but if you’re looking for recommendations, check out Incendies as well as the more famous Arrival and Sicario.

More specifically, I’m heading to DTwo’s ‘nightclub, bar, garden’ to watch Ireland v Wales with my college pals, Gary, Lyno, and Cian. I haven’t been since college. Its main room has a carpeted, elevated dining section, where its walls are lined with leathered sofas. It doesn’t feel elevated. There’s a waft of bygone to it. As for the lads, they’ve known each other for 20+ years. I entered their lives in the first year of college, some 14 years ago. More on that later. 

Generally speaking, we’re living through a truly miserable deluge of weather. Today, Saturday, is the first clear day of sunshine in nearly 2 weeks. Tomorrow, Sunday, looks to revert to the norm and get wet once more. I take the opportunity to run up Bray Head and my strained back yaps back with every stride and gasping breath. I make it half way before turning back. Tail firmly between my legs, I book an impromptu sauna/ice bath combo to heal my ailments before the trip to town.

I arrived at The Yard, Greystones, and immediately stepped up to the barrel sauna. The door is finicky. There’s already a couple there, sweating and smiling, beckoning me in. I get in. Ollie and Niamh have just returned from 4 years in Portugal and are scoping out Greystones for the month. We chat, Ollie gives me tips for my back, and I plunge into the zero-degree water to heal and to much fury.

I wasn’t there long before I had to skedaddle to the train into town where I’d be meeting Gary, Lyno, and Cian. Edit: I actually couldn’t be fucked writing more today, so I’ll stop it here. Ireland won, DTwo’s dished out free chips and sausages, and we had a great day out. 

I don’t have the words to describe my financial illiteracy. Lol. No, but seriously, my university lecturers would be ashamed.

My money is wrapped up in a German private pension (its value today is equal to my contributions since 2022. Tl;dr not great), meme stocks (minimal), Pernod Ricard shares (down 37% in 1 year, yay), Vinted share options (a great perk, but non-liquid), and the dreaded current account. I know. Shame. In terms of a state pension, you have to work in Germany for 5 years to nab it and my Irish one is, well, I haven’t been living here. 

I know enough to know that the current account is where your wealth dies. It’s the equivalent of digging yourself out of a sandy hole while wearing stilts. You’ll continue to sink. There are dozens of us out there. Thousands. Millions! Anyway, now it’s time for me to do some more digging. 

I’ve spent more time than I’d like starfished on my living room floor. Having put off a run for 3 days, largely due to our leaky Irish skies, I saw a break in the clouds and let loose. 

I started too quickly but the wind was slapping me around and I wanted it to be over already. And I like running. Once I exited my road, I headed for Belmont Desmene (pronounced: Duh-mayne. This was news to me when I found out 2 years ago. It doesn’t reflect well on my French. See Feb 18.) and did 1.5 loops over roots, between trees, and past the nervous sheep. Now turning back onto my road, I felt my upper back hunch and seize. Think a startled cat. Or a corset too highly placed. Whether corset or cat, I called it quits and waddled back.

So that’s the story of how I pulled something in my back. It’s no big deal, it’s just annoying. I’ve got an inkling it has something to do with my newfound tendency to sleep on my front, squished like how I imagine a vole squishes in its burrow. Or it could be how my neck hangs off its shoulders as I T-Rex my laptop.

In any case, I’ve been very fortunate with injuries and I’m in good health. My appendix and I amicably split years ago, my twice-fractured tibia (suffered when I was sidestepped while playing tag rugby) is in good form, and my shoddy knee is all in my head, according to the German orthopedic doctor. 

To be honest, I think he’s right. In any case, carpet crucifixion beckons. Ciao for now. 

Right now I’m doing bits of freelance work to recoup the many monies I spent over the past 8 months. Simultaneously, with my chin planted into my palm, and my spine slouching as I scroll, I’m looking for a permanent role. While I’m open to many locations, I’m picky about the position. I’m lucky to have that opportunity. To no surprise, updates are infrequent or non-existent. Yesterday, however, 2 rejections landed somewhere between my inbox and lower stomach –– and I went a bit blue.

So today I went into the nearby town of Bray and got the ball rolling on job-seekers benefits. On my shoulder sits a parroting concern. It relates to ‘older me’ –– the one who’ll pay the price of present me. The question they’ll ask? “Why didn’t you settle down?”. Firstly, I’ve issues with that expression because ‘settle’ conveys negativity. I’m jealous in many ways of the lives many of my friends are living. I’m also annoyed by the “living *the* life” statement. You’re living *a* life. We all are. All different. The less we compare, the happier we’ll be but fuck me, it’s a battle.

Anyway, in Bray a cheerful “Can I help you?” drew me to the counter. I was met by a woman whose crow’s feet radiated from her eyes, much like my own, dare I say. They’re not wrinkles, they’re, eh, smile lines. I skimmed through 3 community leaflets before she found my PPS number. She reckons it had hidden itself while I lived in Germany but “not to worry, all is fine”. While the computer did its thing, we spoke. She asked questions hurriedly, one after another, each time curtailing so she, herself, could propose a solution. We both turned our heads to marvel at the sun, appearing for the first time in 11 days. And then, for whatever reason, we spoke about routines and rituals.

The woman spoke of how she orders takeaway every Saturday morning. Naturally, I was intrigued. I never order takeaways, even less so for breakfast. Without fail, every week, a driver drops off a breakfast for Tonya and her elderly father. She’s taking care of him and she described how that takeaway wins her time back. Time for her. What she’s doing is utterly selfless and yet, of course, it’s expected. It’s family.

I asked what she ordered, what he liked, and what he’s like. As I was asking about him, her scanning eyes shot up and her crow’s feet relaxed. She had found my PPS number. Hooray. I exist. Tonya then walked to the room’s 4 corners to retrieve 4 forms.  She handed them to me, I thanked her for her time, and I left. I left with greater questions - and answers - than I had before. A time comes when your time is no longer yours, and I’m not ready.

To clarify, the news is terrible. The most positive story so far is that Takata is recalling its cars due to dodgy airbags. Do with that information what you will. Unless you’re one of the 17 victims of its exploding airbags and, in that case, this news comes too late and this story can no longer be deemed positive.

I don’t always listen to the news in French. Or the news in general. But I’m trying to build a routine of plugging in this 18-minute newsreel every day. This is day 3. I studied International Commerce (with French), meaning I, alongside many of my mates, scraped through modules like French Literature with a D-. In reality, it was an Erasmus in Bordeaux, where we studied through French, that gave us a level above that of complete and utter disgust. 

In 2015, a few months after graduating, I moved to Brittany to flog Paddy Irish Whiskey to anyone willing. I was 22 and the job tossed me out of my comfort zone like a cat with its mouse. The role was primarily through French and I lived with 3 locals (and a cat, Cléo, who hated me despite me loving her) so, sooner or later, I became competent and comfortable. However, Paddy Whiskey’s owners then sold up shop to a Canadian buyer. Again, do with that information what you will. Did I do a terrific job, or was I terrible? Either way, I packed my bags and returned to Dublin 1 year later.

So here I am, coming on 10 years since I spent my days popping into rural French bars, restaurants, and petrol stations-cum-nightclubs. The type of bars where the owners are a 50-year married couple, and when they leave that bar for the very last time, their name-brandished stools will stand pride of place, off-limits to all. And for the curious, the type of petrol stations-cum-nightclubs where I hosted cocktail nights unaware such an offering was a thing. What a bizarre time that was.

I fantasize, a wee bit, about returning to France and setting myself up in a coastal city where the weather is better than Brittany’s and where my job is more ‘me’ than before. For now, I’ll keep listening to the news and see where it leads. 

In 2013, aged 20, I flew to Biarritz, bussed to its city centre, and took a train to the small yet meaningful Pyrenean town of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. Hyphen lovers rejoice. It hugs a river, hoards history, and marks the start of the Camino Frances for thousands of pilgrims every year. When I walked across the river Nive, it marked the beginning of my first solo trip and my first long-distance walk, hike, however you want to call it.

What brought me there was ‘The Way’ (2010), a soulful (albeit cheesy) film I had stumbled upon 3 months prior. I knew nothing of the Camino and I vividly recall the moment I, lying with cushions like lovers, cricked my neck upright to better eyeball the thumbnail. I clicked play and the rest, as I say, is kinda how my life changed.

In those 2 weeks that summer, I walked 220km from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Santa Domingo de Calzada. My 70-litre (!) pack carried 3 pairs of jeans (!!!) and I wore cheap flip-flops for the entirety of day 5. All in all, it was mildly to mostly moronic behaviour. And yet, once I finished, I couldn’t stop. As I’ve gone longer and walked further, from the Annapurna Circuit to the Pacific Crest Trail, my pack has grown lighter, and, due to my fairly fossilised toenails, I’ve barely touched a flip-flop since. 

My luck is beyond measure. I can trace everything back to my Camino decision. Hell, the reason I moved to Berlin 9 years later is a direct consequence. I can trace my life highlights and lowlights from the past 12 years back to the moment I pressed play on a 6/10 Netflix thumbnail. 

That’s why I’m asking questions about walking from Ireland to Spain. I know what long walks can do. In the immediate, they buy me more time. It’s an opportunity to commit to no commitments. In the long run, such walks stick with you. It’s my comfort zone. The by-product is that these trips are self-centered, I’m crippled with fear about ‘growing up’, and I’m rapidly trying to earn money so I can maybe, possibly set out to walk from Ireland to Spain and therefore return to where it all started. Then, maybe, and possibly, I’ll be able to finish it and find my answers.

Hmmm, probably not. But it’ll be good craic.

I’ve spent the past 48 hours tab-flicking between the 2 available (and on-sale) colours –– black and nasturtium. I’m quite frugal, I don’t buy a lot. I’m also colour blind, so I’m sceptical of colours. BTW, nasturtium is a new word for me. Google tells me it’s a flower, my eyes tell me it’s a neon orange highlighter clinging onto its dying colours. Anyway, here’s the dilemma. Pros: nasturtium is reflective and reduces the risk of death. Cons: It’s hideous.

Black, on the other hand, is, well, black.

I follow my gut on just about everything. It’s every single life experience bundled into a faff-free repository. Little planning, lots of privilege. Though, recently, I’ve found a flaw. It’s an inherently regressive and insular approach. My gut draws upon every known experience, so, I’m blinkering myself to what I don’t know.

The point is, how do I expect to develop as a human being (yes, I know this started with a jacket) if I don’t get out of my gut? Right now, and since forever, following my gut has been doubling down on who I am. That’s a brill move, Cotton, assuming you know who you are. I don’t think I’m there yet (are you?) and to assume otherwise would indeed result in both of us, you and I, making a gigantic arse out of ourselves. 

So, in conclusion, and with much procrastinating, we return to my jacket-buying conundrum. Motivated by my sister and stepmother’s opinion, the nasturtium stakes its claim as the leading option and eventual winner. I’m hoping my colour blindness is acting the maggot and/or the true colour isn’t translating. Either way, my cart is relieved of its weight, my mind of this frankly ridiculous level of overthinking, and the jacket is ordered. I’m told to expect this highlighter cosplaying as a jacket sometime this week. Alas, with highlights come lowlights, and with today comes tomorrow. Talk then.

Update: Today, 24 February, I received the jacket. It is indeed hideous. 

I cannot find a stream to ‘A Complete Unknown’. Nominations hang off it like a bad fresh-to-death minty smell (here’s looking at you, Tim), but all the streams are in-theatre, hand-held recordings. This isn’t the start I was hoping for.