I used to have my own blog, years ago. Dad used to give it props and send readers my way and it gained momentum and became fun for a while. I even won an award, once. I think that was my downfall, I began to feel pressure to write content for other people’s approval instead of for the sake of my own joy. The blog became an empty space, rarely updated, all motivation lost.

Then, after a journey into sobriety after decades of mistreating myself, creativity came back and I felt the craving to write again so I began a new blog, this time not hosted by dad and not shared to anybody I knew at first. This gave me freedom to write whatever I wanted, but funnily enough the content was dull and not up to potential. I shared the site’s address with dad after a while and he’d call me up, shocked at what I’d written or telling me he was worried about me. It wasn’t worth it, so I shut that blog down too.

Now here I am again, with an opportunity to write. I wonder if anything will happen, or if it becomes another neglected pet like a fairground goldfish which loses its shine once the weeks wear away. Dad used to tell me to write about the clients I work with. I’m a care assistant so the material is certainly there, like the lady with dementia who keeps giving out to me for repeating myself or the girl with cerebral palsy who curses like a sailor or the gentleman who lives in the 17th century house whom I’m pretty sure is a ghost.

I’d love to write a book, a horror story which incorporates some Irish folklore and dark humour with inappropriate exaggerations as is the storytelling way in Ireland. I want to write it about the Hellfire Club. This is an old ruin at the top of Montpelier Hill in the Dublin mountains, built by a chap named William ‘Speaker’ Connolly in the 1700s and taken over by an extremely amoral man named Richard Parsons who was known for his shady love for the dark arts and hedonism. A faery fort which originally existed on the site was used to build parts of this building, thus cursing it for eternity. People would go there to gorge on booze and sex and murderous black magic, servants and animals were sacrificed in horrific rituals and stories tell of visits from the devil himself to join the craic. It’s a real place, with a real history and is right up there on the list of Ireland’s most haunted places.

It’s always fascinated me, the Hellfire Club. My dog hates it. She won’t go into certain parts of that ruin and likes to sit and stare at a blank part of the wall in one of the upstairs rooms and bark at it nervously. It’s a nice place to bring children for picnics, but I’d love to visit it at night time, alone. I’m sure I could make a story out of it, involving a love-triangle, a few restless spirits and an upturned sod.

But life is busy and there aren’t enough hours in the day for now, the restless souls I deal with now are very much alive and in need of feeding and the bills won’t pay themselves and I have a lot of repeating to do.