While we were in Ireland, we did an awful lot of walking. Every day, we left the house for at least three hours, and went tramping all over the county, dragging out my brother and his new wife, my mother, any dogs we could get our hands on - and when we couldn't persuade anyone else to come with us (when they all selfishly went back to work), we ended up walking up and down the two piers in Dun Laoghaire. We decided the old pier was the best one (where this photo was taken), and we're going to buy the old lighthouse keepers house at the end of it, do it up and live in that, watching all of the boats coming in and out of the harbour and waving at the seals.
All of my photographs, by the by, are taken by my camera phone. It really is excellent.
We're home now, all the decorations have been taken down, and I've spent the afternoon trying to find different places to hang all of the calenders we've gathered together (there are now three in the bedroom, one in the kitchen and one in the bathroom) and tackling the secondary problem of how to hang things on the walls in this flat, since it is beyond the capabilities of both of us to get nails into the walls without chipping off vast swathes of plaster. He Who Only... has spent the day asking me what the date is, trying to make the point that five calenders in a flat the size of a shoe box might be a little extravagant. I am valiantly ignoring him.
I have unpacked everything, tidied up, thrown out half of the things previously stored in my wardrobe, put up some new photos, rearranged the bathroom to accommodate all the pretty new toiletries we got for Christmas and generally started re-nesting, and settling back to life in London, stopping only occasionally to attempt to cough my lungs straight out through my mouth. For the record, I haven't managed to yet, but I am starting to regularly taste blood.
Back to work and back to real life tomorrow, and I'm not particularly pleased.