Oh. Wow.

[trinityofone]

I just realized: with the three essays I turned in today, I've officially written all the papers I'm ever going to write in college.

*speechless*

So, um. What do you think I should do to celebrate?

Comments

[siria]

Hee! Though admittedly, it was the only place I could think to put John so that he would have an accent that wouldn't hurt my head. Rodney's definitely from Dublin yes - all that rapid, quick-fire talking, hands moving everywhere - so John kind of needed to be a culchie. *g* The idea of John with a Cork or Kerry accent made me wet myself laughing, I'm not overly fond of the Northern accent, and my own isn't drawly enough (I'm a Laoiswoman; rural enough, but a bit too clipped in ways). So the City of the Tribes it was!

(And you just know that John's father had some tiny little farm somewhere up in the back of beyond, all stone and a thin scatter of soil. Even if the land had been better, it would have been too small to turn much of a profit; Bill Sheppard farmed there til the day he died, but the only things he made his living from were small EU subsidies and smaller government grants.

John knows he should have sold it on when his father passed away. He's lived abroad for years, in Dublin for several; and there are plenty of people who want to build holiday homes in the area now, people who would pay him obscene amounts of money for a ramshackle old cottage and a couple of acres of lands because they think the harshness of the land, the vastness of the sky, is picturesque and pretty.

He doesn't, though. He tells himself it's because of laziness and an opposition to yet more ugly new-build concrete bungalows on a land that's meant for stone and sky and open air; he tells himself that because he doesn't want to admit that it might be because of sentiment.

He doesn't want to admit it to himself, but he brings Rodney there anyway. The drive back is longer than John remembered it, the traffic even worse. Rodney sleeps through most of it, four and a half hours of bad roads and worse drivers, only waking up once they leave Galway City behind them, muttering something about leaving the last vestiges of civilisation behind them. John just grins to himself, enjoying the expression on Rodney's face as the roads they take get narrower and rockier, become lanes, become bohreens, as the landscape gets wider and the sheep get more abundant. "Christ," Rodney says, "I woke up and found myself in Peig, didn't I?"

Rodney's less than impressed with the cottage itself; John admits it could use some work, but at least there's indoor plumbing now, and electricity, and a tv that picks up all four channels (There's only four?), but no, Rodney, there's no broadband, there's no phoneline.

John's rarely seen Rodney speechless, but being mostly cut off from the outside world apparently manages that; it's kind of nice, and he takes advantage of it. He wrestles Rodney into his coat, coaxes him outside, striding off across the fields that John loved as a child and hated as a teenager. The air is clear, wind so cold that it stretches John's smile tight across his face, burns and fills his lungs. The Atlantic is a blue-grey slash in the distance, the ground rocky underneath their feet; and when Rodney catches his foot and stumbles, he grabs John's hand to steady himself, and John doesn't let go.)

Or something. :)

[trinityofone.livejournal.com]

Dammit, you're making me cry again. (It's okay. I don't mind.)

He wrestles Rodney into his coat, coaxes him outside, striding off across the fields that John loved as a child and hated as a teenager.

I think this is the curse of anyone who grows up in the country (which I did, Siria! Really!): you love it, then you hate it, then you move away and miss it for the rest of your life.

I love this story, every piece.

[siria]

Dammit, you're making me cry again. (It's okay. I don't mind.)

Oh noes :(

anyone who grows up in the country (which I did, Siria! Really!)

Hee.

I hope your you-know-what is coming along okay, and that you have a chance at enjoying that big orange thing in the sky that's, you know, warm.

[trinityofone.livejournal.com]

Actually, can you read the you-know-what, do you think? It totally sucks!

[siria]

But of course!

[trinityofone.livejournal.com]

Shall I send it to you? I suspect it will make you go, "bwah?"

[siria]

You can send it to me, or I can go over to you; whichever works best.

[trinityofone.livejournal.com]

Are you bored and do you want a break from whatever you're doing? Because I'm happy to have you over, always, as long as you don't mind dirty hair and general spazziness.

[siria]

Currently, I'm just watching the cricket, because the library's closed. There is minimal pretty-boy action to hold my attention, and I don't understand the game. Be over to you in five?

[trinityofone.livejournal.com]

Okay. I'm intrigued by the cricket, though...

[gurrier.livejournal.com]

And once again, eeeeeeeeee! That's lovely and makes me want to head straight to the airport. I could be home in 8 hours...

"Christ," Rodney says, "I woke up and found myself in Peig, didn't I?"

Waaahhahahahaa! Rodney suffering through Irish classes. Sweet suffering Jesus, there's an image.

He'd definitely be a Dub. Northside, somewhere old and middle-class, like Drumcondra or Clontarf. Went to a rugby school on the Southside, maybe Blackrock. The Dart, every morning, past the striped towers and the broad flat strand. And well done, now I'm missing Dublin too!

John has to be from the west somewhere. He's got that mountainy look, like he had a grandfather who had an old overcoat held closed with a bit of string, who'd lift John up to sit on the top bar of the gate and lean in beside him to watch the new calves in spring.

a tv that picks up all four channels (There's only four?)

Stop stop stop. Now I'm wondering if John watches TG4, knows all the announcers' families. And Rodney groans every time he turns it on, but secretly enjoys Ros na Rún. And ok, the rugby on Saturdays.

*heads to the Aer Lingus website*

[siria]

Waaahhahahahaa! Rodney suffering through Irish classes. Sweet suffering Jesus, there's an image.

I know it's bad form to laugh at your own stuff, but I swear, the thoughts of Rodney learning Irish - and probably being taught by some ancient harridan of a Sr Concepta or a Sr Majella - made me giggle so much to myself I started hiccuping in the library. He would just bitch so much about declensions and an Modh Coinníollach; but he'd secretly love it because he could use it to insult foreigners on those rare occasions when he didn't want them to know exactly what he was saying. (Good for note taking, too; because while Kavanagh was forever going on about his Irish heritage, all he could do was mispronounce sláinte; Rodney delights in ostentatiously leaving research notes around the labs, where he knows Kavanagh would steal them if he could just understand what they meant)

He'd definitely be a Dub. Northside, somewhere old and middle-class, like Drumcondra or Clontarf. Went to a rugby school on the Southside, maybe Blackrock.

Oh lord. That's so amusing. He'd have the entitlement thing, definitely; I'm just trying to imagine him in one of the rugby schools with the rest of the D4 crowd. That's too funny.

Now I'm wondering if John watches TG4, knows all the announcers' families. And Rodney groans every time he turns it on, but secretly enjoys Ros na Rún.

John probably does; I'm sure deep down, he's still a bit of a Gaeilgeoir. And I have a deep suspicion that Rodney knows every plot twist and character relationship that's ever happened on Ros na Rún. He's probably even got a bit of a sick thing for Fair City; but then again, we can't expect him to have standards in everything. ;)