When I left Paris this morning it was grey and pouring with rain. When the plane started it’s descent to Ireland, far from the duvet of thick cloud I was expecting, the country stretched ahead in sun soaked satiny greenness.

After a huge ‘mammy meal’ of chicken and spuds, I went to visit my new nephew who has to be the cutest little baby since, well my last nephew and niece. I am currently eating home made apple pie at my parent’s kitchen table. So all in all the landing home after six weeks in Paris has been relatively easy and straight forward. For now!

By all accounts Ireland is in the midst of one of the worst depressions of its history. I will have to take heavy precautions not to join it. There used to be a joke, ‘what’s the difference between Ireland and Iceland?…3 months!’ It’s not funny anymore. Having spent most of the year in Paris I’ve managed to avoid the grimness, some might say like a rat deserting a sinking ship, and they’d be right.

Even now I’m wondering how long I can keep my lovely Parisian induced oblivion bubble from bursting around my ears. How am I going to transition from being a foot loose, fancy free and dating singleton in Paris to an utterly broke boomerang 30-something dosing down at her parents house in Cork for at least the coming month?

Denial! Hard core denial!

For a start I’m going to avoid the news channels and general media. Even in the airport I couldn’t help learning by almost osmosis from magazine covers that Kerry Katona’s nose is dissolving from too much coke and surprise surprise, Jordan is missing Pete. If I have any foreign readers and you have no idea what I am on about, count your lucky stars. I’ve also decided I am going to avoid news of the recession like the plague. Hell, I’m a writer, I’ve always been in recession, I refuse to get sucked into the national gloom game being played out in all the media and at every Tesco’s meal deal dinner party.

Instead I am going to watch shiny happy American tv series with the French language options switched on. I am going to go for long meditative walks in the countryside. I will work on the Paris tips section of this blog, returning to Le Fumoir for lemonade in my mind. I will tend to my little plot of internet men on my dating site in hopes of sowing the seeds of a few good rendezvous when I hopefully return to Paris. Basically I am going to cultivate an Irish oblivion bubble, made of reinforced steel.

But for now I am going to go in and argue with my father for control of the tv remote. Yup, I’m home.

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