Finished the book that's been taking me forever. I'd read Frank McCourt's first book
Angela's Ashes years ago (I haven't seen the film yet), and this is what I suppose you could call the continuation of his memoirs. It's a fine, fine read for many reasons, and I savoured it and didn't race through the book like I normally do when I'm enjoying it. I love the brogue, and the Irish have a way with words. I readily admit, I have a fondness for them, after working with them, working
for them, living with them, dating them, drinking with them, and a couple of trips to Ireland, the most recent being one year ago. That's not to say I haven't met any Irish rapscallions, liars, or scoundrels. Oh yes, I have...
When my guilty feeling for indulging in my Work Avoidance Behaviour
TM of writing in this blog finally subsides, I will tell you the story of one of the strangest jobs I've ever had, working for an Irishman in the far north of Australia, and my first experience with being robbed right under my nose while I slept, also by an Irishman. My fondness for Irish people is not a blind, sweeping one fuelled by glossy tourism brochures, Enya, or the awful film "Far and Away" in which Tom Cruise sports the worst Irish accent in the history of fake Irish accents while Nicole Kidman plays second fiddle with a much better grasp of the dialect. No, this fondness is not a fairweather one.
