The Baillie Bugle

I can't decide whether it’s best to post to my web journal in the morning over breakfast or at night, like Mork reporting to Orson at the end of each episode. What I do like doing though, is writing a post on the move with my portable keyboard and then uploading it when I get back home. Like this one, which I write as hurtle through Essex, at speeds often exceeding fifteen miles per hour, to Liverpool Street on what they laughingly call the Stansted Express. Once there I intend to run at a similar speed so that I can make it to London Bridge for an impromptu gym session.
And maybe a swim.

One of the best things about shaking off the day job is that when I go away I don't have to worry about losing money from not working, or using up precious holiday allocation. Every day is mine - and so I can fly midweek without worrying. As the t-shirt I printed last week said - Everyday Is Saturday.

This weekend I sampled the delights of Galway, Kilkenny and Dublin. Each one took its toll and at the same time offered different rewards.
I really like Ireland and I’ve been saying for years that I'm going to live there one day. My mum would be happy, she's been talking about visiting the country of her ancestors since I was knee height to a leprechaun.
(And no, smart arse - that wasn’t only last week)

So thanks to Conor, Mental Mike, Johnny, Pat, Eoin, Andy, Marilyn, Jane and especially Ang, for a fantastic weekend.

If only I could remember what it was I was going to look up in the dictionary when I got back.