Is iomaí athrú a chuireann lá Márta dhe

I warned the daffodils, but did they listen? This is the Midwest, where it can go from 60 and misty to perfectly clear and freezing in the course of an evening. Oddly, though, the ice was mostly gone from the lake last night. No idea about tonight because I took the el for change, straight to LaSalle street to meet the man who'll be preparing our taxes. monshu described the building, a lovely old survivor with a dim first-floor bar, as "very noir". If not for the Alonti on the corner below the el tracks, it would make a choice shooting location (as long as you managed to hide the reflection of the shiny granite Metra station across the street).

Since we were already in the South Loop, we figured we might as well walk the six blocks or so to Oysy. (We did consider Custom House in Printers Row, but it seemed far too spendy after we pledged several hundred dollars to a clean-cut preppy we found through our Chicago Irish Mafia connexions for "peace of mind".) What a disappointment! Our server was nice to look at but terribly inexperienced. Rearranging the dishes to accommodate each new arrival was left to us, she never offered to refill our drinks, and only after I told her to cancel the tuna steak did she inform me that it was delayed due to a mix up. The food was decent, but I remember it being more than that, and the less said about my cocktail the better. At least my curiosity about Zen green tea liqueur has been sated and I'll never make the mistake of buying a bottle.

On the way back, I swung by the old place for the usual weekly chores, but also to pick up some more books. It being March and all, I felt the lack of Irish literature at the new home. Now, with my copies of Synge's Complete plays, Yeats' Fairy and folk tales of Ireland, and a Penguin anthology of Irish short stories that I'd completely forgotten I owned, I feel ready to face another Lá Fhéile Phádraig.