Oh, hard times, come again no more.

Irish songs are lovely, quite simply. I could listen forever.

Everyone tells me I look Irish; because I've got red hair, and that sort of nose, and I wear a lot of green. It's a strange assumption because I'm not at all; but I do look it, I know. And I can do the accent well also.

I'm excited about directing this play.

I'm sad about Little Bird; my friends told me she cried tonight, just in front of everyone there and then. I want to know why she's sad; is it because she's in this play that might flop (that probably will flop, and I encouraged her to audition for it, and even showed her it; that makes me feel awful, like I'm the one that made her do it). Is it because she's going through a tough family time? Is it because those boys are being horrible to her again? Degree worries? Conjecture does nothing really though.

I imagined her crying and wanted to gather her in my arms and stroke her hair till she felt better. I'd tell her, oh Little Bird, perfect as you are. You are fine when you eat, fine when you don't, fine when you want to sit and not to talk at all, fine when you talk far too much, fine when you are irritated. It is the world that is not fine to you; but it will be. And maybe you feel like you're trying as hard as you can, and the world isn't being kind. In that case, I would be kind to you. I would listen.