·
My sister called me from a hotel room in Amsterdam. That was how she opened the conversation. ‘I’m in a hotel room in Amsterdam.’ No, ‘hello.’ No, ‘how are you?’ Just a slurred, lost-weekend whisper down the line, while I sat in a room an ocean away, and tried to think of something to say
·
The guard at the Leopold Museum does not trust you. He follows you around the room and hovers in the corner, watching as you make your way to the bench and position yourself in front of the painting. It’s his job, you understand that, but all the same, you have to suppress the urge to
·
On a special occasion, or sometimes just because the mood takes you, make linguine alla vongole. Stand over the simmering stove and try to get back to that summer on Capri. The slurp and sip as you ate. The clack of shells on porcelain. Oil and garlic oozing from your pores for days. You could…
·
This was the energy in the room that day. The contagious energy of one hundred and eighteen girls all wanting the same thing. We sat there and thought of Jimmy Dillon and Sinéad Fahy together. Jimmy leaving his mark, staking his claim.
·
The dark-eyed pick pockets were children really, but old enough for you to shout at them and slap at the hand you felt as it reached inside the bag on your shoulder. It was a stupid thing to do. Your own fault. They are trained to spot the opportunity and there you were, imagining you’re…
