I do not bat an eyelid.

Bursts of conversation.

«My stomach is a little upset, I don't know how good a sauce sounds. Maybe pizza...»

Sauce is carbonara, which I agree it's not good at all in such cases.

«Pizza then!»

Some people just deserve to crawl in their own pain and sorrow.

Lovely... Surprised.

There I was, every time someone asked me about what I was going to do on Christmas, I rolled my eyes to the sky and dressed with a smile I just answered «Home, I work on 24th and 26th too. Going to cook something, all done with pressies.»

If there's something nobody can change on me it's my pessimism. 

Actually it's most likely my motto: be prepared for the worst.

So, while I was there, ready for the second shitty Christmas in a row, here you go, Fate surprised me breaking the bad chain.

Or maybe it was my attitude.

I decided to have a really good time and no matters who was going to ruin it and how, I fucking had it.

Christmas tablecloth, red candle in the middle, a load of cakes, turkey and ham, salmon, salami, cheese and dips, tons of chocolate, this year I spent a fortune.

All worth.

Two relaxing and funny days with Lolly and my partner. I was so into the festive spirit I even wanted to go seeing the mass on Christmas Eve, regardless I'm not religious at all. Amazing. I even liked what the priest said, beyond the lord-stuff. I don't really recall if I've ever been on a mass like that. Just a bit disappointed there was no gospel and no children outside the church singing carrolls.

But everything has been sweet and pleasant, even the 4 hours and half game at Risk! on St. Stephen's Day where I miserably and shamelessly lost. I'm calling for revenge, sweet revenge, tho.

But, above of all, me and my Camera received the most beautiful gift we could: a bag. Now she's protected and safe from the Irish weather.

Yes, what a lovely Christmas!

A matter of accent.

Honestly, even if I record me, I'm not sure if I'm able to tell what the hell of an accent I got.

Clearly, must sound foreign. 

Each time I open my mouth with someone new, the question "where are you from" comes out.

I've been told a lot of nationalities and (fortunally) Italian has never been mentioned.

Scandinavian, French, Dutch, American, an old drinking-friend and my auctioneer say I'm getting the Wicklow accent but... weirdest of all...

Today, a regular customer told me I speak like a Dubliner.

WTF???

I swear, I don't frequent any Dubliner. There are no Dubliners at work. I don't know about any customer from there.

What I simply do is carefully listening to my co-workers (the most of them from Wicklow), Chef (who's Welsh, his accent deserves an award) and (surprise surprise) British shows (speak like Tim Roth and I'm gonna marry you!) and I try to repeat the same sound.

But, seriously, even if I spend 10 years trying over and over again, after 39 speaking Italian as first language, I won't ever, ever, ever be able to speak with that lovely London accent.

I just can say I coined my personal one: The Claire's Accent.

My lovely Christmas hat.

Last month I got a knit Christmas hat at Heatons. I found it at the men compartment and I paid it just €5.

It has been love at first sight.

I didn't care it was for men, I just must have had it.

I didn't even expect all this success, honestly.

Whoever I meet, compliments me for it.

Collegues, bosses, customers, even the man I spoke with at the bank.

Everybody loves it as much as I do. Best purchase ever indeed.

But the sweetest has been Chef today. I call him "Grumpy" cos he has this arsehole mask, always pissed off with everything and everybody. Like that once I asked him how was going and when he said "grand" I asked who was dead... You get the typo.

«Santa helper,» he said, «You look like an Elf!»

«I'm cute!» I said back at him.

«Yes, you are!»

*melting*

Lil things 2.

I'm an insecure. Fact.

I don't want words, I need actions.

When I get a message late in the night from my boss that says I'm not a pain in the arse after I threw the stone, I know he's genuine and he really likes me. Expecially if I already know he's drunk at that time.

When I see the light in the eye of the new manager who wants me to join him in his new plans and events, I know he's sincere.

Body language.

Unless you're a psycho, you can't lie with your body.

That's what keeps me in this job, regardless I can get more and better elsewhere.

People.

Sincere feelings.

Not everybody can understand that.

Sometimes, money doesn't matter.

Letter to Santa.

Dear Santa,

I have no many things to ask, but I understand it's not easy to please me.

So...

This year, can you just bring me someone who looks after me and really cares? I'm tired of being alone...

Like a child on Christmas.... Time.

I remember when we were children, the teacher at school made us draw something for Christmas to bring it home and give it to our parents. A kind of child-hand-made Christmas card that Ma' and Da' hung on the wall or on the fridge, ready to be shown to whoever visited the house.

35 years later...

My digital child-mouse-made postcard is hung at the bar!!!

Off the World.

This morning I was having my usual break, mug on hand, crunching butter cookies and one eye at Sky Sport News.

I must live out of the world because just today I realised the World Cup 2014 will be placed in Brazil. 

I know, if Jay could, he would slap me on the back of my neck. He's so into sport stuff. 

Sorry, Luv, if we were in touch as before, I'd probably have known it a bit earlier than the 3rd December 2013 :P

Anyway, suddenly all the news I read before about disorders in that country on the cost of tickets make sense now. 

Italy and Brazil are so similar about football. The World Cup is the only event that make Italian people patriotic. It's the only time, every 4 years, you can see the tricolour flag everywhere: roofs, balconies, cars, shoulders. It's perfect if you have to get home after work during a match in 1/3 of the "normal" time cos nobody is on the road. They're all with their noses tacked on telly.

Ha, the World Cup.

Let's hope France won't be helped again against Ireland from some gobshite referee as it happened the last time.

Now, pardon me, I have to press the flag.

Little things.

Little beautiful things, the ones unexpected. Those ones that warm your heart.

«Why you weren't here last night, Claire?»

Because I thought nobody cared.

I was wrong. Happy to be wrong sometimes.

Thanks W.