The Curse of Molly Malone

Classes finished last week, much to everyone’s chagrin. We’ve been paired with our portfolio advisors and still have 10,000 words to submit for two classes, but all anyone can talk about is What’s Next After the M.Phil? Good question. For most of us, it’s back to work. Some are heading back to school for MFAs. Others (ahem) are plotting the Next Big Thing. But until the answers are clear, it’s a whirlwind of most excellent class activities. Wine mixers at the Oscar Wilde Centre-turned-boozefests at Kennedy’s, where no one leaves sober. Boozy lunches with lecturers at The Porterhouse. Most recently, an extra special Class Night: drinks at Neary’s, a 3-course dinner, more drinks at Neary’s, the Glór open mic session at the International Bar, and then as an extra special treat, a run-by flashing from a pack of boys in track suits. Good night, Dublin.

But first, some snapshots of the delicious dinner we shared.

Mussels, alive, alive-o. Swimming in green curry, chili, and lime. Come to me, my white hot flames.

Trout over shrimp risotto. Spinach topped by a golden sunburst of butter.

Looks beautiful, doesn’t it? It was, and utterly delicious to boot. Too bad that, 36 hours later, I’m in the vicious grip of a violent bout of food poisoning. I’d unfairly blamed my slapdash dinner of carrots and chicken – anything, anything so as not to blame my beloved mussels – but another member of my course has come down with the cursed affliction as well. Suckling a bottle of Gatorade like an infant all day long, and if there was ever an excuse to avoid writing a 5000 word essay, this was it. Molly Malone, you couldn’t have hurt me more if you’d tried.

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