I have been struggling lately to write anything for Sober Paddy. There is no electric prose blasting from the page. I am a field mouse hiding in a field of burnt corn on the cob. I am the head of a hiding turtle when the sharks are shooming by. I am a Donegal forward, trapped by the masochistic restrictions of a system that works insofar as it stops others from working. I am Prometheus with the rain pishing down on him in Connemara with no flint, no matches and not even a glint in my eye. I am a forty something woman messed up with years of IV treatment and not a kid to be seen. I am an alcoholic whose head is being turned by the saucy satin panties worn by the svelte bottle of Pinot Noir in the kitchen. [Read more...]