Festooned.
Try saying that a few times. Now have a sip of whiskey (yes, with an E). Now say hobbledehoy. Blink a couple of times, have another sip of whiskey (yes, with an E). Now try saying "Agonising Christ, would that not give you heartburn on yer arse!"... go on.
Have another sip of whiskey (yes, with an E).
Now, I have no reason to put you through that little exercise other than whim and, if you did it, good on you for playing the game - you may just like Irish literature (and whiskey, yes, with an E) as much as I do.

I've been guilty of occasionally crapping on about how I love the lyrical and inventive style of Irish writing and I also love its depth and its confrontation when it gets dark and weather-beaten. Often I wish I was Irish. I have no Irish blood that I know of and you won't find me decked in lime green and struggling back the only Guinness I'll drink every year on St Patrick's Day - Guinness, after all, is my blood-type and Paddy's Day is when the plastic Oirish come out to ruin the pub with their amateur drinkers*. But if you are Irish, then you have a literary, artistic and musical tradition that makes me step back in wonder and gaze thoughtfully.

So anyway, Colm Tóibin wrote a book on the fathers of Oscar Wilde, WB Yeats and James Joyce. It's a bit of a must for anyone with a passing interest in literature, amateur psychology or books with red covers. It made me think of my relationship, for better or worse, with my own father and how creativity in its various forms can run in the veins. A thoughtful book that provokes late night contemplation with a whiskey (yes, with an E).

*apologies to genuine Irish people who genuinely want to celebrate their Saint's day. I'm not a fan.