For the umpteenth time this morning, Susan O’Neill trails off mid-sentence. “Sorry, the wind caught my eye,” she explains. “It was whirling across the river.” We’re sitting down to 11 o’clock tea at the Falls Hotel in Ennistymon, Co Clare.
Sinéad Gibney still remembers the dinner she ate on the evening she told her parents she was pregnant. It was 2000 and she was 23, in her first proper job with Carr Communications and recently returned to living at home with her parents and grandmother in Blackrock, Dublin. The announcement threatened to derail the promising career that stretched in front of her. She was “terrified”.
It’s funny to learn that Henry Winkler, the Fonz himself, had an Irish childhood. Or not Irish exactly, but with many of the classic elements: poverty, a difficult parent, a long climb out of low self-esteem.
Sinéad Gibney still remembers the dinner she ate on the evening she told her parents she was pregnant. It was 2000 and she was 23, in her first proper job with Carr Communications and recently returned to living at home with her parents and grandmother in Blackrock, Dublin. The announcement threatened to derail the promising career that stretched in front of her. She was “terrified”.
La Calima blows a Saharan sand storm through the resort, like nothing we’ve seen before. At midnight it’s 34C outside, 10C above Gran Canaria’s benign average temperature.