Hilary Fannin

Are all the characters in Hilary Fannin’s new play toxically self-involved or has our national plummet from prosperity left everybody isolated?

The sight of big, naked, depilated turkeys sitting up on the countertop like ghostly jurors makes me feel kind of crushed, but, shag it, all in all I’m grateful

The shoes are more orthopaedic than elegant, big blocky black things that cost a lot of money

I would like to think I no longer foolishly aspire to youthful comeliness

Five people compose letters from Ireland to the wider world. Read theirs, write your own, and we’ll publish the best ones on St Patrick’s Weekend

Let’s ditch Mr Hallmark and have an alternative Valentine’s Day celebration

’Tis the season to hurl our grubby cushions on the bonfire, to stand in front of the dusty mirror holding our midriffs in our capable hands

And that dirty word ‘detox’ will play about your lips like the tingle of aged Stilton or the rosy kiss of a Turkish delight

Apparently Sarah Palin has written a book about putting the Christ back into Christmas. She should drop in to my place. He crops up a lot

Guest psychologists on radio at this time of year tell us to lower our expectations of Christmas. They’re right, of course

My addiction to ‘I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here!’ started around the time my husband was being prodded and probed and diced and spliced in hospital

In my childhood days, couscous was a whispered song, uttered to entice stray cats into a sack

The friendliness of Westport helped rescue me from that November feeling

When my brother was diagnosed, I momentarily felt like I hadn’t been invited out to play

Comedian and mindfulness advocate to be interviewed by playwright John Breen

Battle with a blocked wastepipe plunged me into thought: I don’t really understand the varied tapestry of this country at all

She came of age among tribes of girls wearing furry boots that cost more than a well in a desert, but she came from a different world

Katie Price, the babe who launched a thousand implants, now appears anachronistic, almost antique

I admire Helen Fielding’s nous but I never much bought into Bridget’s world

Fiftysomething: The sheer tedium of Gone Girl, ‘the thriller of the year’, will obliterate your critical faculties