Rambling thoughts on cultural identity. Oh, and Pinterest

National identity is a funny thing. My parents came over here in the sixties and I was born in Birmingham, along with my sister a couple of years later. Like many, my parents went back home a few years later and that's where I grew up until I came over to Wales in 1998. I love living over here and have no intention of going back to live until the onset of my dotage, but I am, most definitely, Irish. A couple of months ago the fact that I was born in Birmingham came up in conversation with friends.
'I never knew that,' said one. 'So you're not actually Irish at all?'
Wrong thing to say.
Short version: 'You're not truly Irish unless you've been an immigrant at least once, and I've been one twice, so FECK OFF.'
Longer version: 'I was born in an Irish community in England, I was hauled back and reared in rural County Cork in the 1980s (the most benighted time and place for formative years, and SO BORING I made up stories using the little black flowerheads of plantain), I spent university summers in London in traditional Irish student fashion, I got married in a church and I emigrated again in traditional fashion. I've got the ancestry, the accent and the Catholic guilt complex; all the hangups and the history except for having been born in the place. I say again: FECK OFF.'
It might be the 'feck off' that clinches it.

Let me recommend a couple of Irish authors. I'm in the middle of Dara O Briain's Tickling The English, an attempt to pin down the English character - if there is such a thing - in his stand-up tour around the country in 2009.  It's great to read someone else observing the English; I find myself nudging my English partner and reading bits to him. I've also resolved to catch Dara next time he's on tour.
I've also just finished Marian Keyes' new novel, The Mystery of Mercy Close. She's done it again, this time dealing with depression. I can't recommend it highly enough. While you're at it, read her last novel This Charming Man (domestic violence and alcoholism). And Rachel's Holiday (drug addiction).

On the Kicking and Screaming front, I recently joined Pinterest. It's easy to join, and then it's simply a case of uploading pictures or of installing the 'Pin It' button into your bookmarks (easy to do) so that you can pin pictures of pages on the web onto your Pinterest page. I rather like it. The major thing to watch out for is copyright; the pinning button (as I understand it) automatically links back to the source page of your pins, but apparently it is possible not to include this, which means of course that the source is not credited. It is easy to be responsible, but presumably not all users are, so on the flipside it makes sense to be sure that you're happy for any personal photos you upload to be repinned all over the place. I've read that the security isn't up to Facebook standards, so it's recommended that you login every few days to make sure your account hasn't been hijacked. That being said, I opened the account and then forgot about it for a couple of weeks, with no dire consequences. I've added the link to my account here.

I'm still delighted with Twitter. I probably check it only three or four times a week, but it's always worth it, just to hear the chatter and chaos, but also to pick up writing news, tips and occasional competitions that I wouldn't have known of otherwise. I'd like to give back a bit more, but I'm still in the shy and retiring phase, just occasionally retweeting interesting stuff.

Finally: I am still blogging! Occasionally late, but it is, at last, becoming something I just do. The world doesn't need another writing blog, but I'm going to stick with this.