I am writing this from the Metropole Hotel in Cork, where I was invited to be their writer-in-residence for January, writes Louise O'Neill.
Not that I actually stayed here for the month. I’m saving such eccentricities for when I’m rich and old and can act out my Eloise of New York fantasies, living in the “room on the tippy-top floor” of the Plaza Hotel with her nanny and two pets.
To be honest, when the Metropole first asked me to be the writer-in-residence, I wasn’t sure what that would consist of. A part of me felt as if I should live up to all the clichés, barricade myself into my room with a bottle of Jack Daniels and throw the television out the window as a way of, I don’t know, protesting capitalism or something. But a) I was on the fourth floor and what if the TV hit someone on the way down and killed them and I had to go to jail? I’m too much of a scaredy cat to go to jail. And b) I hate whiskey.
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