I’VE become a creature of routine; a routine that’s been shaped and formed by living in the same house, with the same people, for a long, long time.

MY CAR is parked, hazards on, up on the kerb in Cork.

THERE was a time when it was difficult to predict the course of post-pudding conversation at a dinner party, regardless of whether the guests had drunk the bones of a distillery or not.

BEING saddled with the slogan “West Brits Out” was not the best start to Martin McGuinness’s presidential push.

MY FRIEND has an air of innocence, which sits at odds with what happens when she opens her mouth. Double entendres come out of nowhere and I’m never quite sure how artless this double entendre business is, precisely.

WHEN your squalling, perfect fiends burst into your life demanding years of nurture, you hit the ground running and pretty much maintain that pace — give or take the odd sprint — for a couple of decades.

I’M STUFFING an onion up a chicken’s bottom. My husband’s sitting at the kitchen table, surfing for bike gadgets online and peeling potatoes.

I’M STUFFING an onion up a chicken’s bottom. My husband’s sitting at the kitchen table, surfing for bike gadgets online and peeling potatoes.

A FRIEND of mine — a strapping man even at his leanest — announces recently that he’s put on the bones of a stone.

I’M in the cinema with my husband.