The Grass is Greener

My sister and I went to Paris for the weekend and after a couple of days of cocktails at Hotel Costes and macaroons at Ladurée, we had become accustomed to our new luxurious and chic life. Our bubble was burst though as we arrived back in Dublin airport and harried Irish mammies scolded their sunburned children whilst drunken stags stumbled through passport control. As somebody who spends all of her money on mini-breaks to London and Paris, I’m all too familiar with that mix of dread and familiar fondness that accompanies a return to the motherland. The Irish accents at the baggage belt prompt the same sinking feeling that the first few bars of Glenroe’s theme tune did on a childhood Sunday night – it’s time for bed and there’s undone homework sitting at the bottom of your schoolbag. But at least we came home to St. Patrick’s Day, a day off in the middle of the week where one is expected, and actually encouraged, to do nothing but go to the pub and get drunk. It’s the perfect holiday – there are no presents to buy, no family lunches to attend, no relatives to visit. And whilst I’m not about to rush out to the nearest pound shop (or Eurosaver or whatever) to buy a green cowboy hat and a Kiss Me I’m Irish t-shirt, I do think it’s fun to incorporate suitably-hued elements into one’s wardrobe. I plan to get into the spirit by wearing my green patent Topshop shoes and an orange and cream Pepa Delight blouse, accessorised with a Shamrock shake in one hand and a glass of Guinness in the other. Wooh.