‘Who did they come crying to when that young nun got pregnant 1000 years ago?’

It’s Brigid’s day. We found a diary which reveals her innermost thoughts on everything from virgins to Shepherd’s Pie to alcohol

Weight: Wispy, am actual goddess, after all.
Alcohol units: Well, as am in charge of beer and brewing, loads.
Calories: As many as want, forging swords on an anvil burns them off.
Cigarettes: Zero. Am goddess, not idiot.

Dear diary, so today is meant to be my day. Haven’t got a thing to wear. Disaster as everyone will be looking at me, asking if there are larks in the clear air today and whether it’ll be nice weather from here on in. Am goddess, not Jean Byrne. Can’t believe another hundred years have flown by.

Lots has changed since I started doing this. First, they started calling me a saint, which I’m not. I’m a freaking goddess, for goddess’ sake. Being a saint is much worse because you have to be good all the time and where would that leave me and my beer? Of course, I do still have my gaggle of virgins. If you want a good night out, ask a virgin. They know all the good places. Me? Don’t have time to check out Tripadvisor due to healing commitments.

Do like a bit of flame-tending, and the virgins are experts at it. I’m glad they’re still doing that for me, whatever they want to call me.


Got a bit overwhelmed yesterday at the pressure of having a feast day named after oneself, and ate whole shepherd’s pie in one sitting. Felt a bit ashamed, but impolite to turn down a shepherd.

Feel am letting the virgins down, not to mention the bold girls. Sorry ladies. You’re being treated terribly by the Powers That Be, hereafter referred to as PTB, for brevity. Have been trying desperately to give them signs that they’re treating you terribly, but PTB are ignoring them. The nonexistent summers? That was me.  Conor McGregor losing? Did that too, and I had a bet on him, sodding flip. The powers that be on this island must have lost their sign-reading abilities, because can’t be clearer on this, short of sending up a flare, and that would be dangerous as gossamer floaty dress highly flammable.

Wonder if Patrick will show up? . . . Will go barefoot, just in case. He likes that, kinky sod

Am goddess of outlaws and the displaced. Of all society, all classes. That means have to take stock of all those having to travel, or being ignored. Keeps me pretty busy I can tell you. Have seen it all now. Not pretty. Believe me, the ones who are the outlaws and should be displaced aren’t the ones PTB want you to think.

Am goddess with power over conception, pregnancy and labour. Who did they come crying to when that young nun got pregnant a thousand years ago? Only old muggins here. And I ended that pregnancy for her on the spot, because she was troubled.

It suited PTB then. They called it a miracle. How soon they forget. It wasn’t easy, you know. Have no intention of humblebragging but you’d think people would talk about it. Am more than about making reeds into things.

Wonder if should wear white today? Is what people expect but so hard to wear. It used to be all you had to worry about was avoiding cow pats, but now there’s smog and pasta sauce to contend with too. Nightmare. Still, at least have my long, flowing red hair. In a pinch, can just wear that.

Wonder if Patrick will show up? Of course he’s busy, with his own day only a month away. Will go barefoot, just in case. He likes that, kinky sod. Needless to say, will be going barefoot for me. Just for me.

The walking around the wells ceremony? Am glad it’s gone. Was dangerous AND boring, if those two concurrently possible. Do wish, however, they’d let me heal this little island. Used to love a good healing. Do hope they remember. Am here soon as needed.

Can be inspiration. Can be hope. Not to boast, but am symbol of what Ireland can be. Am woman. Am mighty. Am hungry. Now where did I leave that shepherd?