Went on a walk with a lovely colleague today. I just faffed around for 20 minutes or more to get the picture, thinking my phone wouldn't connect to the computer, but apparently it had done all along. Ah well.

We climbed a hill through the woods at a place called Devil's Glen, and at one point, looked through the trees, and this is what we saw. Not too shabby a day, after two days of raw, misty grey cold.

I love Wicklow. I like the wilder, tree-ier bits more, but a clear view to the sea over farmland from up in the woods is a pretty thing too. That headland on the right is Wicklow Town, where I went to school.

I drove home, heated of face from a 50 minute mostly uphill walk, throughout which my dog behaved impeccably. My redness didn't abate over coffee. We talked a lot about work, as we always do. Work as topic is such a treacle trap - yet what can one do? One must vent or explode, I suppose.

I drove home at some kilometres over the speed limit on the sunny, open road, and wished I could fly, and go as fast as I wanted. I used to imagine my little blue Peugeot 206 activating its wings, like Grommit's sidecar, and sweeping over the traffic into the sky. Then I thought about flying, and how cold it would be, the need for goggles, some sort of waterproof winged suit, how unsuitable the Irish winters would be for it. So obviously, a floaty bubble would be the answer. For me and the dog. I wish I could travel around by bubble. An Invisibubble, just to keep things simple.

That was what I thought about. And also, as I was listening to Bruce, I thought about finding Bruce broken down outside my house, and inivting him in (with a mixture of desperate fandom and traditional Irish hopitality) to have breakfast and play guitar with a shellshocked Axl. He'd love it, really, and would be so charmed that he'd let me take a photo of him leaning, arms braced, on my counter, all sexy, like he would. You know how Bruce would stand in your kitchen, right? Happy with his native encounter, mug of tea and feed of rashers. Assuming Bruce eats bacon, somehow I can't see him being vegetarian.

Thoughts on Springsteen songs: even if he just sang one line over and over (as he does to perfect effect in many of his choruses) his songs would still be seductively, beautifully right. Bodhi is loving Bruce too. And I'm reading him James Herriot, and it's so much fun. I read it by myself, and laughed and laughed, but really, it's more fun with two. Though I do tear up with the old man/terminally ill dog stories.