Part Of Your World...

Two weeks ago, I was lucky enough to be visited by the most fun, kind and gorgeous pirate (yes, pirate) that I have ever met. I loved having him here; not only because it gave me the opportunity to catch up with a fab old friend, but also because for the weekend that he was here, I was reminded of how....simply wonderful Ireland is.

We had breakfast in Bewley's, took the walking tour of Dublin, saw spontaneous theatre on Grafton Street, wandered around the beautiful grounds of Trinity College, ate dinner in the tiny, hidden pizza place that is now famous for being Imelda May's place of work, and went into a lot of pubs and bars. We then took the luas back to the Prince's castle, and spent the next day wandering through the Irish countryside, feeling like Gerry and Holly in the Dun Laoghaire scene of p.s. I love you.

All in all, a fantastic weekend. And a brilliant reminder of exactly why I chose Ireland to move to.

Now it wasn't just the days that reminded me of why I love this little country. The Pirate himself got me thinking when he asked the casual question that I'm sure has crossed your mind as you've been reading this.

'Surely living in Ireland is just the same as living in England...isn't it?'

No.

I'd like to begin explaining by telling the story of what happened to me several weeks ago....

It was New Year's Eve. In keeping with our hopelessly romantic tradition, the Irish Prince and I were in a gorgeous restaurant in Stepaside; looking back with the kind of bittersweet nostalgia only acceptable at that time of the year, and looking forward with the kind of hope for the future that only lasts until Epiphany.

By the end of course number four and two hours of discussing...well, everything, I was certain of three main things: 1) 21 was definitely the best album of 2011. 2) Even the Olympics would never beat the excitement of the Royal Wedding. 3) I would never need to eat again.

Which meant that when the waiter came over to take our order for course number five, I, in my prim and proper English way, politely refused with a small smile and a sip of my water, and waited for the man to nod and disappear.

He didn't.

I wasn't in Chelmsford anymore.

Instead, the waiter (or 'yer man' as the Irish Prince would say), pulled a shocked face, and exclaimed 'Ah you will! Go on, you will! You can't not have dessert! It's so good! Just have this one! This one's SO light! But SO good! Go oooon! I'll bring you that one. Fantaaastic.'

And was gone.

In my experience of Ireland so far, this is normal. Staff are happy. Customers are happy. Even the most miserable of all creatures- bus drivers- are jolly and friendly here. The other day when I didn't have my exact fare ( a stupid rule that does, unfortunately, travel across water), my bus driver smiled and said 'Ah well I'll just drop you up the road then will I? No worries about the money.'

That's amazing.


So following the Pirate's question, I started thinking about all the little things that remind me every day that I'm not in England anymore....


*Green postboxes.

*Every sign/notice/tannoy announcement is translated into Irish.

* Having an Irish TV channel.

*Fair City.

*Chocolate Kimberleys (the BEST biscuits/treats in the world).

*Butler's Chocolate Cafe (if you don't know what this is, book a flight NOW. Trust me, it'd be worth it.)

* Everyone knowing EVERYONE. Seriously. I met someone on Saturday night that was surprised when I didn't know his friend Annabel even though 'she's from Essex too'.

* The way everyone speaks. And I don't just mean the accent (although if that's not a reason to move to Ireland I don't know what is...) It's the words they use, and the way they use them. Now I'm not claiming to be an expert in this, in fact I'd say at least 50% of the time I have no idea what's being said. Unless I'm with the Irish Prince's friends. In which case I'd rather they spoke Spanish. At least I have a GCSE to help me out with that. But for those of you who may be venturing to this glorious island in the near future, here's a handy dictionary....

- Grand:         cool/brilliant/fantastic/fine/ok. General positivity on a wide scale.
                
- Give out:    Tell off.
                   
 -Bold:            Naughty. In the child-misbehaving sense. Could be embarrassing if you tried it in any other sense.

- Hot Press:  Airing Cupboard. Unlikely to come up but good to know nonetheless.

- Yer one/man/woman: Any person, at any time, anywhere. Unfortunately I think the knowledge of who each person means when using this phrase is something Irish people are born with. Those of us not blessed with Irish genes will never know who they mean.

-Will: Used instead of shall. As in 'Will I stop singing now?' Advice from experience: resist the urge to answer 'God I hope so'.

-I'd say: Used instead of 'reckon'. Far nicer in my opinion, and one I hope to catch while I'm here.

-In: Used instead of 'at' or 'went'. As in 'I'm in Lakeside' or 'I was in St. Patrick's School'.

Now I am very aware that so far I have done the very British and very annoying thing of moving to another country and preaching back to everyone at home how much better my new found home is. Trust me, not everything is better. Here's my list of things I don't love about Ireland...

*Every single website is useless. Even the ones that we get in both countries like Ticketmaster or Vodafone are pointless here.  'Does nothing work outside of London? Hm?' (Little Bridget Jones reference for the film fans amongst you.)

*Buses don't run to a timetable. It's impossible to find a timetable online. If you do manage to find one, the locations are written in Irish, and even once you've translated them, the happy little drivers don't follow it AT ALL.

*It's SO COLD. All the time. August Bank Holiday weekend was possibly the coldest I've ever been.

*Radio stations do HALF the show in Irish. And not 10.30-11.30 in Irish and the next hour in English. Oh no! They actually just change language every few words. I had to listen to the news three separate times before I could work out exactly what Beyonce had given birth to.

* Everything is ridiculously expensive.
3€ for Glamour magazine.
5€ for a smoothie.
13€ for a Malibu and pineapple.


Seriously.


*Saying pardon 400 times a day and spending an unreasonable amount of time nodding and smiling vaguely.


Despite everything I've said I think that it's safe to say that I love Ireland and everyone in it.

So what exactly is that special difference that I see and the Pirate couldn't?


I was once lucky enough to meet a well-known, certified genius, who told me that the reason Ireland is second only to Disney World on the happy scale, is 'because they work to live there. We live to work. We've got it wrong.'

Perhaps we need to take a shamrock out of their book?

Something to think about :)

Alice finds her (Winter) Wonderland...

So here I am, curled up in my much-longed-for window seat, Chris Rea blaring, watching as a series of dads fall out of their front doors, attempting to untangle themselves from endless strings of lights; their children running excitedly in circles around the garden, and their wives leaning cosily against the wall clutching hot chocolate. The street is a sparkly red and gold blur, and the only thing brighter than the O'Connors' front lawn is their jolly Grandad's red nose.
This can mean just one thing.

IT'S CHRIIIIISTMAAAAS!

And it's not just December anymore, oh no. I opened door number 10 on my bright pink princess advent calendar today. Which means it's only 2 weeks and 15 sleeps until parents the world over are woken up at 5am with squeals of 'He's been, he's been!'

 Which, in turn, means that all you Scrooges that have been rolling your eyes and telling me 'It's too early' can go back into hibernation until next November thank you very much.

I am officially allowed to be excited.

Anyone that knows me will tell you that I can get ever so slightly excited about my birthday. By anyone that knows me I mean anyone that was in the West Midlands around my 20th, Dublin around my 21st, France around my 22nd and...well, you get the idea.

But Christmas is different. I love Christmas for way too many reasons to list here. For a start, it's the only time of year that even Primark feels as magical as Disneyland. Everywhere you go is buzzing with Christmas spirit; children and adults alike snuggle under hats and scarves, couples ice skate, lights twinkle, trees sparkle, not to mention always being within hearing distance of a Nat King Cole hit. Elf is on television again, the X factor final is looming, and there's the annual suspense of Whether It Will Snow On Christmas Day.

However. The main reason that I love Christmas is that it is the one time of year that the whole family come together. No excuses. I have spent most of the last four years away from home which, for someone who actually enjoys her family's company, and is lucky enough to call the world's most beautiful, intelligent and funny girls her best friends, is no easy feat.

Don't get me wrong, I have loved every second of my time away from home and wouldn't change it for anything. But I honestly believe that the reason that I am able to do this for 362 days of the year is that I know that for these three days a year, I will definitely be back in the company of the four most important people in the world.

This year I was presented with a multitude of offers to be away for Christmas. I could have been skiing in the Alps, frolicking in Lapland or sunning myself in Egypt.

What would you have done?

This decision was one of the hardest I have ever made. Do my dream job abroad for potentially a year, or be at home for those three important days?

Except, it's not three days, is it? As pointed out to me (oh so many times) by my friends The Scrooges, the build up to Christmas starts far earlier than Christmas Eve. There's the shopping, the pantos, the Santa-meet-and-greets, the fake snow, Disney on Ice...the list goes on. Then there are the memories. The faces when they open the presents you painstakingly chose and wrapped. The time you had to read the joke five times to Grandad before he heard it, and ten times before he understood it. The time Grandma played Butt Head and forgot to take the hat off before she took the bins out and bumped into Mary-Next-Door. The tradition of arguing over what to watch on tv then falling asleep in front of it anyway.

Butthead: Classic Christmas Day game

There was no way I could allow all that to happen without me.

So instead, I came to freezing cold, struggle-to-understand-everybody, buses-may-as-well-not-run Ireland.

And I am lucky enough to be living with one of the kindest, funniest and most entertaining families on the Emerald Isle. Not only that- but they love Christmas as much as I do. Which means that I am spending the all-important build up with this wonderful, warm, super-excitable family, New Year with my handsome Irish Prince, and those three special days with my favourite family of all.

So as I go along with my beautiful host mum and her gorgeous two boys to visit Santa, take a ride on the magical train at Dundrum, and squeal every time we see so much as a bauble, I know I made the right decision.

Maybe I'll go to Egypt for the Summer, but for the minute, Alice has found her Winter Wonderland just here.

Merry Christmas :)

A whole new world....

Over the years it has often been suggested that I start a blog. On meeting me, people tend to find out fairly early on that I love to write. Mainly because, having studied English, I must, surely? I must love to write. I must love to read. I must want to be a teacher. I must read Shakespeare over breakfast. The vows that all English undergrads are made to recite every night before bed.




If you're sincerely nodding your head in agreement right now, I'm afraid you are sadly mistaken. It's true, I do love to read. I love to read anything that involves a wedding or Cecelia Ahern. I do know English students that know and love Shakespeare like a favourite big brother, and I know plenty of English graduates who are now in their element filling young minds with all they know about the glorious language. But to the utter disappointment of my tutors, I am neither of those.




I do, however, love to write. In all capacities. I note things down, make lists, skype, facebook, tweet, email, text, write stories and keep a beautiful silver diary.




Despite all this, I am ashamed to say, when it was first suggested that I should start a blog, I vaguely nodded my head and muttered something along the lines of 'mmm lovely', before preceding to change the subject (undoubtedly to something Disney related) and forget it was ever mentioned. For some reason the thought of a blog was....self-indulgent. And boring.


Now I'll be the first to admit- it is self indulgent. That's now become part of the attraction. But the last thing it is is boring. Having finally decided to take a sneak peek into this mysterious world, I read blogs written by people in London, Birmingham, Florida, China and Minnesota and, just like that- my name's Rebecca and I am addicted to blogs.


It's like having your own personal key to the world's diary.


As I sat there, curled up in my mum and dad's cosy corner sofa, reading about the ups and downs in the life of a Japanese teacher, I made an executive decision. To join this wonderful new world that I had discovered, and offer the world the opportunity to peek into my life.


So, as I make my way around Europe as a cowgirl, pirate, giant mouse or whatever else may be on my agenda (you'll have to read my future blogs to find out what that's about), I will attempt to keep you entertained with my wandering thoughts and random adventures.


How exciting.