Notes Of An Uninteresting Event

At the airport recently, before boarding a flight to Brussels, I overheard a conversation between friends sitting at the next table. They were traveling to visit a friend of theirs in Amsterdam, whom one of them said they had been lifelong friends with, knowing him for over twenty years. These people looked like they were in their early twenties, so I guessed they had all known each other since primary school. One recalled how this friend was great when he would come “home” around Christmas or during the summer to meet up with them, but he wouldn’t really call or message regularly enough or respond to their messages outside of those times. They were concerned for this friend and were using the trip to reconnect. I had to leave to board my own flight before their conversation concluded, but I thought about it as I sat down for the two-hour plane journey, writing some notes on my phone about how it made me feel and considering the story I wanted to write.

Since beginning this blog, “Notes of an Uninteresting Event,” a title I borrowed and amended from a Deftones track, “Anniversary of an Uninteresting Event,” I’ve found that it helps me process my thoughts, concerns, and worries—a sort of therapy. Reflecting on that overheard conversation, I concluded that I was really putting myself in the shoes of the guy this group was traveling to Amsterdam to visit, while also considering the absence of childhood friends in my life. I often ruminate about the group of lads I grew up with when I was between the ages of four and fourteen. I played football with these lads in the ‘green area’ of our estate, explored the barley fields, rode bikes, played tip the can, built camps, climbed trees, and so much more that I still remember—all the things you’d expect to do with friends your own age.

However, when I turned fourteen in the mid-1990s, that friendship abruptly ended when they found out I was gay—right at the start of those formative adolescent years. I started this blog to encourage myself to think about that time in my life and to reach inward to my fourteen-year-old self, who I know felt betrayed, lost, and more, but couldn’t talk about it or understand why at the time. I want them to see me now, married to an amazing man and living a life I never thought I’d have. I want them to talk with my fourteen-year-old self, the part of me who still looks back at the time when I lost all those who could have been his lifelong friends. That’s why the conversation I overheard was so triggering—because yes, I would very much like my group of childhood friends to come visit me to see if I’m doing okay.

The week before last, my husband and I went to Oviedo in Spain to attend our friend’s wedding, and of course, I took along my film camera to take some photos. The city is in northern Spain and is very different from what you’d expect from the country. Plus, the weather was perfect for the happy couple’s big day. We’d been there before, but this time around it was great to see more of it, whereas last time it felt like no one lived there. Our small hotel was right in the city centre and had a cozy café downstairs, and the beautiful gothic Cathedral of San Salvado was within walking distance. We’ll definitely be going back in the future to visit our newly married friends again.

Growing up, my grandfather, who is the sole reason I take photos, used every family event as an opportunity to line his grandchildren up from youngest to oldest to take a group photo or capture wonderful portrait shots of us. After inheriting his photo archive recently, I’ve found those photos and more going back to the 1950s, which have provided me with tons of inspiration to advance my own photography. I had become comfortable snapping shots of cityscapes and landscapes and typically shied away from photographing people for years. However, until recently, I have included more people in my images, whether strangers on the street or people I know who have posed for me. It’s changed how I approach photography; I now seek out people to photograph instead of wasting film on random shots that I used to take. I’ve gained confidence, first in asking someone if I can take their photo and, secondly, in being able to compose the shot, which is a skill in itself. Below are a few portraits I’ve made of friends that I’ve uploaded to my portfolio: vsco.co/greentothebone.

On Wednesdays, I drive my husband across the city to attend a tutoring session with one of his students at their house. Oftentimes, I park the car and wait for him outside, using the time to listen to music, think, and write, just like I’m doing right now. I’m glad that I’m not doomscrolling or flicking through the bile offered up by an algorithm, but instead decompressing as I listen to Tilda Swinton reciting lyrics on songs from Max Richter’s “The Blue Notebooks” album, which is playing in the car.

I chose the title of this short post to be “I Love Us” to reflect on nearly a decade of being together. Ten years of daily life, adventures, family, cats, learning, jobs, sharing, sitting and watching TV, holidays, feeling safe, love, and so much more than I can write down. It’s very easy not to stop and appreciate what we have, but I feel very lucky and don’t take it for granted. It’s nice reflecting on how I got here, at this moment waiting in the car, listening to the song “On the Nature of Daylight,” outside a house where he’s working, and thinking about how I love our life.

During Mental Health Awareness Month, which runs through October, there is a Mindful Minute Challenge run at work that gives €Job& employees a chance to learn about and practice mindfulness meditation using the Happier - Meditation app.

I’ve signed up for the challenge over the last few years and found meditating via the app or using the Mindful app on my Apple Watch to do some breathing exercises to be really helpful. While browsing through the meditations last week, I found one title that was particularly triggering for me. The title of the meditation was “Loneliness and Connection,” and it got me contemplating about how I’ve been feeling over the last few years. The opening paragraph of the meditation, quoted below, contained the phrase that I think I was looking for to help me understand some of my thoughts.

Quote:There’s a difference between solitude and loneliness. Solitude is an experience of being alone and feeling connected to oneself. Loneliness is the absence of connection altogether. It’s ironic but sometimes we can feel the loneliest when we’re around others. It’s hard to be around friends or loved ones and miss the connection and belonging we want.

my.happierapp.com/link/cont…

With everything that’s been going on recently—from buying a new house to my job to our journey to begin a family, to a friend and my grandmother passing away a few years ago, and lately my mum’s cancer diagnosis and treatment—I’ve been wanting to talk to somebody, as I recognise that these events have been affecting me a lot. Beginning to concede that my attempts to resolve it on my own might not be working. I have very few friends, so not many with whom I feel connected with which is contributing to my feelings of loneliness, and the phrase from the meditation—“Loneliness is the absence of connection altogether”—really resonated with me.

I hope these realisations will help me take the step to reach out and talk to someone, a professional. My husband is really supportive but I’d really like to connect with friends, both old and new, and open up about what’s on my mind.

(Thanks for your practice)

We got a surprise last week when an article appeared in the local newspaper, the Echo, ‘Cork city factory had its own fire brigade’ mentioning our late grandfather. He had worked at the Harrington’s paint factory on the Commons Road in Blackpool, Cork, as an engineer and a fire officer. With this month marking the 20th anniversary of his passing in 2004, it was a joy for us, his family, to read an article about him in ‘da paper’. The author, Pat Poland, was, according to the feature, 18 years old when he did his first real “summer job” in the factory and was introduced to Jack Manning. He detailed many of the stories we’d heard growing up, like when my grandfather along with the Harrington’s team fought a fire at the old Opera House in Cork on December 12th 1955, which was the night my mother was born and the big Sutton’s fire on the South Mall. The author had interviewed my grandfather weeks before he passed away and noted how indebted to him he was for his insights into the origins and development of the Harrington and Goodlass Wall (HGW) Works Fire Brigade. Those stories helped Pat write a book accounting his time with Harrington’s fire team and later his job at the Cork Fire Brigade.

www.echolive.ie/corklives…

Jack Manning is forth from the right in the white lab coat and dark rimmed glasses

Last week, we called round to some friends house whom we collectively as a group all hadn’t caught up with each other for almost three years, although we would have seen each separately in passing here and there in that time. They’ve been super busy with their growing family, and we’ve been doing our own thing too, so it was great that we finally got to meet after so long. During our long conversation about everything and anything, our friend mentioned he was going to Riyadh in a few weeks, the capital of Saudi Arabia, for two weeks to work. Knowing that I lived in Al Khobar, a city on the eastern coast, over twenty years ago, he asked what I thought of the place. I didn’t have much to say because it’s been so long, and the place is probably unrecognisable from when I was there all those years ago. But it did get me thinking about me sitting in the old terminal at Cork Airport with my family in the very early morning around the end of October back in 2001, waiting to board a flight to Gatwick and on to Dammam International Airport in Al Khobar to begin work experience with an Irish-Saudi engineering company as a junior engineer. It feels like it was a different life, and in some ways it was because it was so long ago.

For context, I had finished my second year in an engineering course at a local college, and my third year required work experience. Through my mum’s friend, who was acquainted with a couple they had met while working in Saudi Arabia, I was introduced to a manager at an Irish engineering company that operated over there. Following an interview in their Irish office, I was offered the placement as part of my work experience abroad in Al Khobar. Then 9/11 happened, and I didn’t hear anything for a few weeks until the middle of October when I received my travel details. So, I, a twenty-year-old, moved from my parents' house to what I described at the time as “it’s like Ireland but the opposite; there’s sand instead of grass, sun instead of rain,” and so on. Thus started my experience and adventure of living far from home in a foreign country.

Day-to-day life was incredibly different from what I was used to back home, and living in an apartment with a roommate who was an alcoholic and recently divorced wasn’t something I was capable of understanding at that time. It was always hot and working in a fast-paced office environment with an Irish ‘expat’ boss who would regularly shout at his multinational staff definitely taught me a lesson on how not to engage with people. The majority of the food, from what I remember, was imported from America due to the presence of a large compound in the city with thousands of Americans working at the major oil company, Saudi Aramco. My food palate wasn’t as developed as it is now, so none of the local food from the region—dates, hummus, falafel, and spicy curries—appealed to me. Looking back, it is my one regret because I’d eat it all now. Big American burgers with fries, Domino’s pizzas, and heavy caloric foods were what I ate, and my twenty-year-old body’s metabolism could only work for so long to keep me skinny.

Having not lived away from home during college and being very sheltered up until that point in my life, the freedom of living on my own was amazing, albeit accompanied by bouts of loneliness. A few journal entries that I’ve kept were about missing home and trying to fit in with the way of life there. Visits to downtown Al Khobar and the Souk helped me better experience the Saudi culture instead of the typical American-style shopping experience at the Al Rashid Mall. As the months went by and into 2002, I became more confident and began enjoying my life there. The company I worked for had moved me into a new compound, where I lived with two guys around my age. I have photos of the many parties where we got to meet other migrants from all across the world who came to Saudi Arabia to work. It was great, but unfortunately it changed for me following the tragic death in a horrific car accident of my friend and roommate. He and the front seat passenger died in a head on collision, and the back seat passenger lived. It was the scariest thing to ever experienced and pushed me to want to go back home. I didn’t want to be there anymore and being back in Ireland for his funeral in his home village so soon after he died, I knew I wasn’t going to stay.

Looking back at my time living as an Irishman in Al Khobar, I know that I wasn’t ready for it. The tragedy of my friend’s death had a lasting effect, and even if it hadn’t happened, I still think I wasn’t ready to live on my own. I was too young, naive, and sheltered. Would I go back now? No. It’s not a place I would ever want to return to, but during my time there, I did have my first experience of freedom within the bubble created for me by the confines of where I lived and who I worked for, so I’m not too regretful about my time there.

I was on a walk with my husband the other night, and we started a conversation about school debs. As we were chatting, it dawned on me that this month marked 25 years since my own secondary school debs back in 1999. Besides the rapid passing of time and saying, “Jesus, that’s not twenty-five years, is it?” when we got home, I rifled through my phone to find any photos and discovered some that I had scanned years ago. Looking through the photos, I can remember bits of the day and night—probably more than others, I’d say—because I didn’t consume alcohol at the time (I was a teetotaller well into my thirties). The vast majority of the people I haven’t seen or heard from to this day; one is a friend I keep in touch with via Instagram, two I see on TV (a news correspondent and a sitting senator), and one woman is the editor-in-chief at a multinational online women’s magazine. I don’t really know much about where the rest of them ended up, except for those few.

Anyway, it was held in the old Jury’s Hotel on the Western Road; the River Lee Hotel and adjacent apartments are in its place today. The whole lead-up to it, days before, was very much like an American high school prom: who you were going to ask, what suit to wear, etc. Being a very closeted gay teen at the time, and with my school, let alone the entire country, not being as progressive as it is these days, I asked my friend, whom I had known since we were four years old, to be my date. She was incredibly awesome to say yes and looked amazing on the day. The suit I rented was from either Morley’s by the Queen’s Old Castle or Black Tie at the other end of Patrick’s Street. I had never worn a three-piece suit in my life, and as a skinny just turned 18-year-old with no shoulders, it fit fine.

It was such an event that all our family, friends, and neighbours gathered to see us off. When we arrived at the venue, there was a photo booth in the reception for couple photos, which I think I still have in a box somewhere. We were then ushered into one of the big ballrooms of the hotel to take our seats, but before any food was served, we had a big group photo taken of around 130 people from our year. I think it was one of the larger years to come through the school at the time, and still, a few people were missing from the debs. Mushroom soup was the starter, I remember that and still cannot understand why it would ever be served as the only option on the evening.

I was telling Harry when we were talking about it that, following the dancing and “Rock the Boat” at the hotel, a group of us went to the Coliseum for some bowling well into the early morning, and then we all grabbed a taxi to the airport to have breakfast in the old terminal. I had forgotten about that last bit, and he said you can’t do that anymore with the restaurant being after security. It’s nice to talk about and look back on that time in my life, wondering where everyone might be and funnily when I told my parents about it yesterday, the first thing my mother said was, “Jesus, that’s not twenty-five years, is it?” ^^

A job rotation I’ve been doing for the past few months is coming to an end this Friday. It’s been a total departure from what I had been doing for the previous fourteen years, and I’m really sad to be finishing up. The team has been so supportive, and it’s given me an opportunity to show the business what I am capable of, which is what I set out to do. I hope it will result in some upward movement, as I feel confident shouldering more responsibility.

I was standing outside Cypress Avenue on Caroline Street with my husband, brothers, and friend after our exit from a gig we had all attended when my friend commented on how nice it was that my brothers and I all liked the band we had seen. Adam, the brother, said to her that all the music he and our younger brother listen to had been influenced by me. He had mentioned this to me before and added how our mutual friend had brought up how, as teenagers, they would all listen to the music I discovered and how I epitomized the ‘cool older brother’. Back in those early days, I was into alt-rock and nu-metal, and we would sit through afternoons watching music videos on MTV2, Kerrang, and Scuzz in our parents' TV room. It felt really good to know that my brothers' and others' musical tastes were influenced by me in some way, and that I have continued to seek new music even today. We no longer hang out in our parents' tv room watching music videos, but whenever I see them, I share what I am listening to or post it on an Instagram story.

Today, I reminisced about the time I decided to get a tattoo following what I think was me realising that I’d wasted a lot of time procrastinating / doing fuck all. Looking back at it now, it was a sort of turning point.

It was around 2009, before ‘doomscrolling’ on Instagram or TikTok and before the word entered the lexicon, I would endlessly scroll through Tumblr, looking at anything from art and design to porn and photography. I lost a good chunk of my evenings and nights from that time through to 2013, a time which epitomizes ‘Peak Procrastination’ in my life.

Anyways, I’d spend excessive time online scrolling through photos of tattoo’s I really liked, super detailed snake skin designs, and full arm tattoos. I started to lean toward scripted tattoos, though, with some meaningful word or phrase. A guy I followed on Tumblr at the time had a really nice tattoo across his upper chest, just below his clavicle, and I liked how subtle it is (not on show on my arms or legs).

Around the same time that I was browsing for inspiration, I kept discovering some great new music, like I still do today. One band was a Zack de la Rocha of Rage Against the Machine side project called ‘One Day As A Lion’ that had emerged around 2009. Super funky sound, with amazing drum tracks and I was really into them for a few years up to that point. The band’s name coming from a quote by none other than Benito Mussolini: “It is better to live one day as a lion than 100 years as a sheep.” So, as a call to action, I thought it would be good for my tattoo to read “Live Every Day As A Lion.” I’m a Leo star sign, so at the time, it felt as if I was telling my subconscious that I didn’t want to be the way I was and that I needed to change, to be more like a lion.

Holy Cow, a tattoo place in Midleton that my brother had recommended, was where I got it done, and the rest is history. I got another tattoo a year later but none since, and I won’t rule out getting more in the future.

Last week, my husband and I went on holiday to Croatia for the first time, flying from Cork to Zadar. Our Croatian hairdresser had been recommending that we go, and upon disembarking the return flight plane last Monday into Cork Airport, we wished we had stayed longer. Zadar, a city on the coast, has a wonderful old quarter with narrow streets, Roman remnants, many churches, and the “Sea Organ,” where the waves flowing through compose a constantly changing melody. We traveled down the coast by car as far as the city of Split, the second-largest city in Croatia, and the amazing Plitvice Lakes National Park. All in all, it was a wonderful trip—very hot, but a place we’ll hopefully go back to in a few years.

A friend of mine recently got braces for his “gapped teeth,” and it got me thinking about my own experience with having correction done for my mal-positioned gnashers. I would’ve been put on a waiting list in primary school, as was the case for many receiving orthodontic treatment publicly back in the nineties. And when I eventually got my referral to the Cork Dental Hospital, located on the grounds of the then Cork Regional Hospital, I had just finished secondary school.

Due to overcrowding in my mouth, which caused my overlapping teeth, four molars had to be removed to accommodate the orthodontic appliance. In a follow-up session, I vividly remember sitting in the dentist’s chair, looking out at the car park opposite the entrance to the dental hospital, mouth held open with some sort of appliance, as the dentist applied adhesive to my crooked teeth and the bonding of the brackets. I can recall the feeling as the wire was being attached to each bracket, the metal taste in my mouth, and when all was complete, it being anchored on the four stainless steel molar bands wrapped around my four back teeth. The feeling of pressure on my teeth and the scratching of the inside of my cheek by the molar bands, using wax strips alleviated the latter but the former lasted for days / weeks afterward.

Regular visits to adjust the braces occurred for about eighteen months or so until they were removed just before I moved to Saudi Arabia for a year. A new mold was taken to create a retainer that I used at night for an additional year to ensure my teeth stayed in their new position. All in all, it took about three years for my teeth to get realigned, staying where they are to this day, and I enjoyed listening to my friend talk about his experience. By all accounts, not much has changed in the twenty-plus years since I had mine.

Back in the early nineties, in the estate where I grew up, three people had cancer at the same time over a period of about two years. It was a tragic time because one of my friend’s younger sister passed away, as well as an older neighbour who left behind his wife and three young kids. I was young when it happened, but my parents have recently spoken about how it shook everyone in the estate because they feared it might have been related to where we all lived. I vividly remember being in the local church for the young girl’s funeral, where her primary school friends sang Joan Osborne’s ‘One of Us.’

… What if God was one of us? Just a slob like one of us Just a stranger on the bus Tryin' to make his way home?

Since those tragic events over thirty years ago, unfortunately, cancer has come to affect those close to me. My mother received a diagnosis this past February, and although she’s responded incredibly well to her treatment, we all have a collective superstition that bad things come in threes. So, waiting for a second and third bad thing to happen, the news that cousin, who is only in their early thirties, was diagnosed with a brain tumour hit us hard. Finding a malignant frontal lobe tumour following a seizure she had, meant her doctors quickly removing the cancer but she has a long road of treatment ahead. Then to cap off the phase that bad things come in threes, only yesterday, I found out that a dear colleague of mine from work has a brain tumour and the outlook isn’t good.

At the time we found out about my Mum, I exclaimed to her and the rest of my family - Fuck cancer!

I want to shout it our as loud as I can :(

In the living room of a childhood friend’s home hung a framed aerial photo of their house taken from a plane. Their detached house stood alone on a large plot, separate from the rest of the semi-detached houses in our estate. Since the parents owned their own business, they had disposable cash to splurge on getting the image from such a height. Fast forward thirty years, and small battery-powered quadcopters with high-resolution digital cameras can create stunning aerial imagery, making a framed photo of your own house within reach of the average family. Note to self: frame the aerial photo of our house.

At 5 p.m. on Friday evening, as I was just leaving work, Kate from the solicitor’s office rang to say the sale had closed on the house we’d waited seven months for and that we were the new owners. I was jubilant and rang my husband to tell himself the good news, and that we were going to pick up the keys right away.

Opening the door for the first time was a curious experience because we’d spent most weekends over the last few months parked in the park across the river from the house and walking around the area. It was ours now, and the enormity of what we needed to do began to well up inside me. But it’s where our kids will grow up, when we have them, and where our families will visit for special occasions or anytime. Keeping an eye on that is going to help me get through and not be overwhelmed. One step at a time.

Watching Top Gun: Maverick a few weeks ago, there was a line of dialogue that Tom Cruise’s character uttered to himself in the cockpit of his plane during an amazing final scene toward the end of the movie, in reference to another lead character, he says, “Don’t think. Just do.” The character he was referring to had previously been paralysed by fear and unable to take action, but in this penultimate scene, he overcame his mental obstacle and triumphed. This got me thinking about my own fear. Around the time of the COVID lockdowns, I contemplated procrastination and whether my overthinking in my early adult years had inhibited my love life, social life, and professional life up until I met my husband. His support has helped me reframe my world, priorities, and sense of self to the point where I now say I’m a recovering procrastinator or that I’m able to better control it. I’ve read articles that outline how procrastination is a person’s way of protecting their precarious self-esteem, which I did, or that living in clutter is a sign, which I also did (photo from 2003), to humorously ‘Procrastinators: Leaders of Tomorrow.’ It’s also been linked to depression, which is something I’d never considered or fully know much about, but I’ll be digging into it. For years, I didn’t see any problem, but for an outside observer, it looked obvious. Now that I’ve been shown the mirror, I want to get better and be better for this next chapter in my life that I’m entering. Don’t think. Just ask for help.

One of my first jobs was working as a porter in the Cork Regional Hospital, helped by my mum, who worked on the switchboard, or “Switch,” and knew the head porter at the time. I remember starting during weekends in November or December 1999 whilst I attended college on the weekdays, but revenue records show that I officially started on the 2nd of February, 2000. Anyway, with zero training, I would ‘special’ people primarily in the GF unit (a ward for those experiencing brain injuries) or other wards of the hospital, which involved staying with patients all night so they wouldn’t move from their beds, etc. Oftentimes, it involved restraining them, and being 18 at the time, I had no idea what I was doing and regularly relied on the trained nursing staff on the ward. One person I sat with from 8 PM to 8 AM was Danny Walsh, who had been in a car crash in Cork back in 1999 when he was 16. He suffered severe head injuries, from which he has not recovered, and for those who are from Cork, today you’d see him around the city. I eventually transferred to work in the Accident and Emergency Department on the 9:30 PM to 2:30 AM shift on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays before I finished in the hospital. It was an experience I will always remember for both good and bad reasons (e.g., being present in Resus, seeing seriously injured people, and dead bodies at a young age).

When I was visiting a friend in the hospital recently, I came across one of the trolleys from the A&E department. It used to be my job to push, direct, and manhandle these trolleys with patients of all shapes and sizes, and clean them every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday when I worked there. I remember being able to get patients quickly to the X-ray department, if we were super busy, by almost using the trolley as a scooter (one foot pushing while my other foot was standing on the frame). There’s a foot lever on each wheel to lock the two front or back wheels in place, so I’d lock the wheels at the front so I could drift into and out of corners. They were heavy, so the pop-up handles were handy when a patient was on board. All that weight was in the base, so it lowered the center of gravity, and because they were narrow, there was no risk of toppling over. Seeing that trolley reminded me of how fun it was working there, the people I met, and with the department being un-recognisable today after undergoing renovations over the past 25 years, it was nice to reminisce.

Last week, a work trip took me to San Francisco, and for the first time, I experienced the 11 hour flight in business class. Spoiler, it was underwhelming to say the least. While in California, I worked, enjoyed the sun on my day off, got to try an ‘In-N-Out’ burger, and walked around our head office in stunned silence.

On the evening I’d flown in I got a burger from the 75-year-old Californian fast-food chain, In-N-Out Burger, that a colleague of mine had hyped up so much before boarding our flight from DUB to SFO, meant that I was expecting great things. I sampled the regular burger with fries from their eatery on Newhall Drive in San Jose. The burger was okay, and only because we’re so spoiled for great food, great burgers here in Cork. Instead, it reminded me of those burgers you’d get from a van at a GAA match or gig that just hits because you’ve drunk alcohol and need to line your stomach. The establishment itself, on the other hand, was proper Americana, with young people in paper hats and white polo shirts making hundreds of meals and shouting out completed orders over a tannoy to the awaiting public, ‘Order 95 please!’. It was a good experience, but I’d choose Bunsen, MK Burger, or Dacent Munch over the Californian chain.

San Francisco, on the Saturday was lovely and the beautiful California sun was very welcome on my very pale (factor 50 covered) Irish skin. The harbour, the Bay Bridge, the city skyline, the streets, the hills, Chinatown, and the Apple Store Union Square were all a treat. The famous fog had rolled in on Saturday morning that I took the Caltrain from San Jose, obscuring the view of Alcatraz and the Golden Gate Bridge, making me miss a photo opportunity. I was not dismayed though because the walk through Chinatown with its vibrant colours and people was a feast for my iPhone’s camera. I headed through the Stockton Street Tunnel to the Apple Store, where I got to experience the architectural marvel with its 12.8-meter sliding glass doors that opened the entire store to Union Square, and there were a few Vision Pros on display too, my first time seeing them.

On the last day of my trip, a group of us went to the Apple Visitor Center in Cupertino to buy some merchandise. I went up to the viewing platform to see if I could catch a glimpse of the spaceship among the trees off North Tantau Avenue. It was well hidden, so I needed to take a close look. Our group was escorted by our hosts through the reception center into the lush gardens with the ring building at its center. I spent the 90 minutes we were allotted slowly circumnavigating along the outside walkway, and watching the giant sliding doors closing the cafe to the outside. I then went through to the center area to walk on the thick grass that felt like I was sinking into it, and toward a rainbow in the middle. It was truly an experience I will remember.

vsco.co/greentoth…

Listening to the Fontaines D.C. song “A Hero’s Death” the other day, and this line from the lyrics, “Tell your mother that you love her,” made me reflect on how infrequently, or even how rarely, I would say “I love you” to my mum. In that moment, while sitting at work, I couldn’t understand why I had not ended every call or visit over the years with those three words. That has been one of a million things on my mind after my mum had her first treatment last week, with two more sessions in the next few weeks, followed by surgery in the summer.

I have been calling her more frequently to see how she is feeling, visiting her at home, and now every time I make sure when I leave or hang up the phone, that I say “I love you” because I want her to know how much I do.

Tell your mother that you love her ❤️