After what seems like ages, I’ve finally managed to get writing again. I won’t bore you with the details but, suffice it to say that, my pre-Christmas workload, combined with atrocious weather in Sheffield and Dublin over the Christmas and a car that doesn’t like icy roads so much conspired to keep me far too busy to blog.

Last week we had our annual graduation ceremony here in Sheffield where we get to see our students off, wish them well and wear ridiculous robes inspired by medieval priests. I’m almost ashamed to say it but I love the pomp and pageantry of a good graduation ceremony: the robes, the processions, the trumpets. Okay so in England I have to sit – I mean stand – through the English national anthem, something that doesn’t really sit right with an Irish person but I’m a guest in their country so I’ll respect their ways. As long as they don’t expect me to sing it. My mother once told me of various Irish patriots who, when required to take an oath of allegiance to the Crown in order to take up their seats as MPs in the British parliament, would cross their fingers so that they could avoid any crises of conscience or general feelings of dirtiness afterwards. Childish? Perhaps, but the rebel in me likes it.

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