In Ireland it happens rather rarely that the sky is blue and the sea shines blue too, but yesterday this exactly has been the case and I took my first bath in the Irish sea. The water even if it looked like a very mediterranean water, was ice-cold, something around eleven degrees.When I came out of the water, my lips were blue. Blue are the blossoms of the hedge in front of my window, while I don’t know how they might be called, they are still named blue flowers, but obviously they don’t mind. In the train today, a man with blue eyes, but of an intense polar-bear like blue stood in opposite to me, when I finally succeeded to look away from his eyes, I noticed that he wore a dark blue suit, blue shoes, had a blue bag and his ear-phones were of course metallic-blue. The official color of Ireland is called St. Patrick’s Blue, but not only on St. Patricks Day you see an awful lot of green around here. Someone told me once the story of women living behind the blue lakes, who were famous for producing blue silk. But out of the blue I can’t get the story quite right. Blue ware the horses Franz Marc painted who died so soon in a war not that long ago. A friend told me when he visited Iceland , he saw ships whose flags were white with a blue swastika on it. I felt a blueish, cold anger.Blue is the smoke of the neighbor’s pipe and blue are the socks on the clothesline next to my door, two packets of blueberries says the grocer’s wife to me as I enter the shop, for 6 Euros, but I buy a carton of glenisk organic milk, of course the carton is blue.