A couple of days ago, I went to the Ruby Sessions at Doyle's, a pub across the street from Trinity College frequented by students and normal human beings alike. The Ruby Sessions consist of four acts (this past Tuesday only three, alas), in a quiet, jazzy setting with candles and couches and couples.
It's the perfect place for a date, really - low lighting, booze and something to talk about built into the setting. I was pretty miserable. I had just started antibiotics to shove out this sinus infection that has been ravaging my face and chest for the past month. That, companied with a complete inability to take any of the performers seriously, had me in quite a state. Although, it proves that I was on a date with the right person, because we were both equally miserable.
I don't think I could really bear to describe the scene in any detail, so just a few words:
Spoken-word poetry. Love songs...about dead people.
"Could you make the guitar more oceanic?", says the musician to the sound man.
Let it suffice to say - the biggest sin in my book is taking yourself too seriously. Sinners, all.
In other news, I spent St. Patrick's day asleep. Saw the crowds from afar, sea of green. Maybe it was the drugs, or the sickness, but I was completely uninterested. It was all the craziness you would expect, in a completely dull way. Big crowds, lots of beer, yelling, skipping, puking. Facepaint on babies, on trashy girls, fat men. Blah.
Currently, exiled to the living room, due to my flatmate's night going exceptionally well. Love you, Julia!
Headed off into the day to learn about Trinity's sculpture collection, and hopefully regain some of my will to live.
Though, despite my miserable state, I am dreading leaving this city. Where will I get a proper pint?