fourth floor feminism | sociable speculation

During my Honours year I was the first person to introduce myself in the Irish History seminar, and I told the class that my father’s family was very proud of its Irish heritage. That fact, surprisingly, resulted in two small problems for me. One was that I had already been exposed to the Irish Diaspora history, which meant that reading any kind of Irish history made my heart pound as well as my mind. And secondly the rest of the class, not of Irish descent but still aware of Irish pride, started deferring to me as the ‘Irishman’ in the class. Considering the topic of the first seminar – Revision of Irish history – these two problems really brought home to me the challenges of looking at Irish history. One historian said that ‘in Irish history myth is part of the reality’, and in each seminar of the semester the myths of the Irish Diaspora turned me into a slightly emotional speaker and my audience into deferential listeners. Even though we weren’t Irish nor in Ireland. Our tutor p

I only just got home from my Twenties and I’m trying to sort out the contents of my bags into three piles; one for laundry, one for souvenirs and for gifts. There are packets of postcards everywhere, strings of gaudy plastic beads slither into cracks in the furniture and I have brought back too many pairs of stockings for the climate here. Perhaps I should consider the parallels between my frequently indulged impulse to buy anything I like in every colour available and the hedonistic whirl of the decade only just finished? With the washing machine going and the pasta boiling I sit cross legged on the floor sorting the piles of items to keep and things to give away. Some are handled quickly lest the resentments of their time rise from the depths with their touch, some are held for a time to enjoy the pleasure of associations and memories triggered by their weight in my hands. The most important objects tug a corner of my mouth up in a smile while I tap buttons to find the song that co