On Sunday, I was walking around the small harbourside town of Howth, saw a pub named The Red Herring, and thought, Wouldn't that make a great title for a one-act play?

I am apprehensive about the movie Sylvia. Whatever it is and however it's done, it can never be completely accepted, and not everyone will be swayed. And do I want to go because of my own inherent voyeurism? Or is it just that I want to learn?

What can I learn, anyway, from her mere biography? Biography is the striptease, but poetry is the body underneath.

I seem to be mining a short story vein at the moment. Yesterday, I edited one that I wrote about three years ago but never published, and submitted it to a competition. Maybe it will catch the judge's eye — who knows? I like this paragraph:

I am awake. The yellow plastic mosquito net hangs over our four shapes. It inhales and exhales with our combined breath. I listen to my uncle snuffle, my auntie grind her teeth, my cousin sleep with his mouth open, drool soaking like a shadow on his pillow. I hold my breath in my chest. I don’t want to wake him up.

I am pleased with this because the telling detail does not go overboard. Hurray for subtlety!