Look Good In My Steel Machine

My feet danced a lazy two step, accelerator and clutch, as I inched my way along Griffith Avenue this morning. 1km in 17 minutes. I should measure in centimetres. I should get the fucking bus. It was a fitting crawl towards what I knew would be a slow day. I spent my morning rephrasing the redesigned forms so that they no longer referred directly to the department's lettered and numbered forms as their procedures and processes are currently under review, with no provision made for the provisional. It made as much sense to me as it does to you. I ate a joyless lunch and then I went back to passive-aggressive pencil pushing. And here you find me, poking holes in my afternoon until the light falls and I can climb back into the car.

I tuned out for those 17 minutes on Griffith Avenue this morning. I listened to the Redneck Manifesto's Cut your Heart off from your Head and threaded my arms through the wheel, like sticks shoved through spokes. Ten to two position be damned! It's fine for the mid afternoon, but this was early fucking morning. Knees akimbo and happy out, I sang along to the wordless music. I like sitting with my legs spread in the car, parting them to push the pedals. It's liberating. In company, I keep them crossed at knee and ankle, afraid to look inelegant (or fat). This morning I sat there, all thigh in a dowdy buttoned tea dress. And I felt sexy. Black tights hid the dimples that dent my flanks and a smile creased my cheeks. A job is a job is a job. They pay me. I waved to the lollipop lady and rock n' rolled on in my Mitsubishi Carisma.

This Little Piggy

My brother had swine 'flu some weeks back and I joked about calling down to Kildare to lick his cutlery. I fancied a few weeks off work. I had romantic notions of staying at home with Andrew, snug on the couch with the Gilmore Girls and a touch of the sniffles. Then I remembered the 'flu I caught last February, the subsequent chest and sinus infection, the antibiotics, and the subsequent yeast infection. The Gilmores are a lot less fun with fever and a dose of galloping gee-rot. So I asked my brother if there was anything I could do for him, knowing he'd say no, and then left him to rot. Or recover. Whatever. He's fine.

I wish I'd sent a fruit basket.

On Wednesday morning I tipped along to see nurse Margaret for my biannual blood tests. "Dr. Murphy!" she hollered. Not to greet me, but to alert her backup. She sighed at me, and smiled with the kind of patience I reserve for when I catch small children chewing crayons. I'm her most difficult patient. I know this because she has told me so, numerous times. I'm calm and compliant, but I have deep veins. I think Margaret thinks I've done this on purpose. Once Dr. Murphy had done Margaret's dirty work and drawn enough blood, I tried to placate her with smalltalk about H1N1, except that I called it something else and further fuelled her suspicions that I was trying to show her up as a Bad Nurse. I asked about the vaccine and she told me that I couldn't have it. "After Christmas" she said, in a placatory tone. She'd have patted me on the back but she doesn't like to touch me. Happy to have avoided further mutilation, I made a joke about laying off the swines this side of Stephen's Day. Hardy har har.

By 5pm I was burning up with a fever. I'm not saying I blame her, like. I'm just saying.

I arrived home in tears and Andrew put me to bed. He calmed me down, warmed me up, undressed me and stuffed me into some flannel pyjamas. I spent the night crying and shivering. I spent Thursday and Friday night crying and shivering too. He spent them mopping my brow, holding my hand, making me meals I pretended to eat. The fever broke on Saturday, and I celebrated with a new pair of pyjamas and a hacking cough. He blowdried and ironed my hair. On Sunday, he took me to Farmleigh and we had a cup of tea. I went back to bed again when we got home. I stayed there on Monday. He snuggled in beside me, my Nurse Ratched, visibly relieved to see me on the mend.

And he asked me to marry him.

I Could Totes Be A Fashion Blogger

As the bus slung itself around the Green this morning, I saw a middle-aged man standing at the lights. He was wearing sensible black shoes and slouchy grey socks and his tufty grey hair was topped with a jaunty leather cap. He checked something on his phone while he waited for the lights to change, then strode across the road, his bare legs and knobbly knees bristling in the breeze and his hands stuffed into the pockets of his gooch-length cerise pink ladies coat (with bracelet-length sleeves, black buttons and trim).

He looked gorgeous.

And How Are You Settling In To Your New Job?

It's not that I spend a lot of time in the bathrooms at work. But it's nice to get away from the desk now and then. To sit somewhere quiet, to pick my nose in peace.

We have two bathrooms, one with two chipboard stalls and a liver-spotted mirror and the other with a picture of a wheelchair on the door. I use the latter. It's roomy and sparsely furnished; a sink, a toilet and a low mirror, perfect for admiring how your knickers sit just so under your bellyfat as you button up your jeans. It has a toilet roll dispenser that dispenses institution-grade toilet roll, stiff enough to scratch your arse and soft enough to put your finger through. There's no toilet brush or air-freshener, but on the shoulder-high sill sits a bottle of perfume labelled "Age & Opportunity". It smells like something a gamey oul' wan might go for.

I'd been there two months before I realised that "Age & Opportunity" is the office upstairs. To pass them in the hallways, you'd think their shit smelled of currant cake. Turns out it's Ralph Lauren's Glamourous. It contains a rich blend of pearl flowers, plumeria, lily, ginger flowers, tuberose, Siam wood, Cashmere musk, clementine and an extra U in the spelling to confuse Americans. "It's a perfume to get you noticed by women, men, dogs and children!" enthused one online reviewer. "It's a scent stronger than shite and a sight more expensive than Glade!" enthuses this one.

Review: (500) Days Of Summer

It's been hailed as the best romantic comedy since Love, Actually. And that should tell you all you need to know.

An Cion Go Dtí Seo

I left a vase of roses to rot on my kitchen table last Tuesday. I should have thrown them out once their petals drooped, but I was drooping with them and I hadn't the heart. Or the stomach. I hate the smell of dank water and my skin crawls at the thought of touching their slimy stems. I sat for a few minutes, looking at them, wondering how I might fold them so that their stalks wouldn't tear the bin liner. I didn't want to touch them. I thought I might smother them with a paper bag.

I didn't realise that I was crying until a tear tickled the side of my nose, making it itch.

I wasn't crying about the flowers. I'm not sure what I was crying about. I left them there and went for a walk. I stole a cigarette from his sock drawer and stuck it behind my ear, then spent ten teary-eyed minutes searching for it before leaving the flat.

I had calmed down by the time I reached the Rathmines Road, but I smoked it anyway. When I got home, I made tea and took it to bed with me. He called and said that he was sorry not to be there, sorry that I was alone and feeling so low. But I was glad. He shouldn't have to hoosh me arse-first out of every ditch.

He was home and elbow-deep in dishes when I got in from work on Wednesday. The flowers were still there, looking like a prop of Miss Havisham's. He hadn't wanted to throw them out without my say-so. I wondered, for the 385th time, what I have done to deserve a man so considerate. I worried, briefly, if I deserve him at all.

On Thursday evening I sat staring through the snot-smeared windows of the 128, taking in the misery of the North Strand road and a city clogged with taxis. I'd finished my book. I'd forgotten my headphones. I was running late for Fat Fighters and edging closer to that dangerous deadline whereby you have to wait til the meeting's finished for your pat-on-the-back weigh-in. The bus driver dumped us on Hanover Quay. It had taken us twenty minutes to cross the bridge. "But I need to get to the far side of Rathmines!" I hissed as he hurried us off his bus. He didn't give a fuck. His day had been long enough.

I had blisters biting at my heels by the time I reached Camden St. I stopped at a stall to pick up some strawberries for tea. She was finishing up for the evening, plastic packing crates and slim black buckets filled with flowers. I thought of the roses, and asked her for four sunflower stems. And for the first time that day, I smiled from the soles of my shoes.

"How did she get them already?" he wondered, seeing the yellow bloom against my red coat as I came down the cast-iron stairs to the front door. Inside, on the kitchen table, he'd laid a bouquet of lus na gréine.

Caption Competition

Photo taken by Annie at the Taming Light exhibition in the Lighthouse Cinema.

I Don't Watch Winning Streak

"So, does Rosie have any bad habits?" Apparently his friend's ladyfriend watches the soaps. All of the soaps. I estimate that to be about 47 hours worth of shite telly a day, though I'm not great at maths. It might be more. The Jaffa Cake paused to consider his answer and then, loyal to a fault, lied to his friend and said no. "She watches Nationwide" -he said, and paused for effect- "but I don't really mind it".

I can imagine the uncomfortable moment's pause. Tuchus lingus is probably a more socially acceptable pastime than watching Nationwide.

"Is she from the country?" his friend asked, aghast.

I'm not. I lived for a few years in Kilkenny and another few in Kildare, but that's neither here nor there.

Nationwide, for those of you not familiar with it, is a magazine-style programme broadcast thrice weekly on RTÉ. It's full of fluffy stories about rescued animals and old people and is designed to appeal to old people who enjoy stories about other old people and rescued animals. I think it's the bee's knees. It's community television with a budget, if community television was elegantly upbeat and presented by Michael Ryan and Mary Kennedy. I think they're the bee's knees too. Mary's sister was my primary school principal - information I impart with such pride and regularity that you'd swear we were friends, or something. We're not, which is just as well because her natural grace seems to appeal to the Jaffa Cake's baser instincts and I'm not sure I could have her over to dinner without him trying to mount her leg, or worse - compliment her on her blouse. And Michael, with his fondness for the definite article, his dapper dress and his gentlemanly air! I didn't write his Wiki, but I could have.

Everything about the programme and its presenters is genteel, a quality all too rare in teatime television. Its features are well-constructed, informative and engaging, it showcases local craft and social enterprise. I wouldn't buy the box-set, but I might rent it from Xtra Vision.

[Having written the above, I stopped to read and review my post so far and thought "shit, if either of them ever read this, I'll get a restraining order in the post". But they don't seem like blog-reading types. Then I thought "That's it! That's my in! I'll get them to do a feature on blogging!" But I suspect that if they did, it would feature {insipid blog I don't like} and {other insipid blog I don't like} and they would prate on about Twitter and Mary would start a Tumblr and Michael would join Facebook and I would pummel the television and cry. But I digress. I'm not sure how to conclude my post now. It's like that one I wrote once about ducks.]

This post isn't really going anywhere either. Sorry about that. I just like Nationwide, is all.

Sleepyhead, Get Out Of Bed

I still wake at nine on Sunday mornings. I don't mean to. When he's hungover, I think he thinks I do it just to annoy him. But I don't. Sunday mornings are too good to waste. I lie in my lovely bed and think of happy things. It's a four-poster bed, an antique, wrought iron and narrow. One of the brass bedknobs is missing; I've put duct tape over the sharp edge and trailed plastic flowers from the hollow.

The bed is lovely and warm. The window's open to allow any fetid farty smells to float free. It's chill outside and my nose is cold, it thinks it can smell the autumn. I can still taste the tea I drank earlier, pressing my nose to the mug between sips to warm it. Thinking about it makes my tummy rumble for its breakfast. I'll make porridge soon. Microwaved and made with water, it sounds like prison fare. But I'll add berries and honey, and savour every spoonful before tracking it in my Fat Fighters food diary. I'm nine and a half pounds down. It doesn't seem like much to me as I survey my still muffinlike midriff, but nine and half pounds is a fine-sized baby or a fair-sized Yorkshire terrier.

Upstairs, the other Rosie's wide awake and waggling her tubby bum. She's a wet-nosed chocolate-brown labrador, and the sound of her fat and giddy skitterings across the neighbour's wooden floor is a cheerful reminder that on sunny days like today, there's a whole world waiting out there. Like her, I can't fucking wait to get out for a walk. On rainy days, Rosie snuffles under the net curtains and presses her nose to the window upstairs, doleful eyes pleading with passers-by.

My love stirs and mumbles in his sleep. "Give him half an hour more, then whip off the covers and put his shoes on" advises Annie, a braver woman than I. But my pitter patter pottering at his laptop piques his curiosity. "Are you writing a post? What's it about?" "Sunday mornings". He snuggles in closer, sandwiching my cold feet between his thighs. "Is it the longest post in the world about Sunday mornings?" It might be. I've been awake, like Rosie upstairs, for some time, luxuriating in his warmth and dreaming of a gambol on the beach. We'll go to Bull Island today. I'll bring my kite, my aeroplane one with the tail that makes a propeller sound. He'll hold my hand and tell me that I look pretty in my red coat, and my cheeks will redden to match it. I'm glad of the cold as I'll have an excuse to wear my woollen hat - it's red too, with a knitted green stalk and two leaves sprouting from the crown. Apple-cheeked and Rosie. It's going to be a good day.

Fievel Goes To Portobello

The Gerbil We Found By The Canal - Artist's Impression

We were walking by the banks of the Grand Canal on Wednesday night when the Jaffa Cake stopped dead and pointed to the base of a tree. "Look at the little mouse!" There, stopped dead and staring back at him, was a blond, fluffy gerbil*. We crept closer and the gerbil stood on his hind legs, sniffing the air. He looked lost. Someone's pet, escaped or, more likely, "set free". Poor little skite. His treeside urchin act hinted that he might not be too adept at fending for or feeding himself. Never mind the neighbourhood cats - canal rats are mean.

"Have you any chocolate?" I asked the Jaffa Cake. Rodents love chocolate. He rummaged in his coat pocket and came up with an orange creme. I broke off a few crumbs and scattered them on the grass in front of the gerbil, clicking my tongue to call him over. He wasn't scared, just wary. The Jaffa Cake was all on for taking him home. "He'll bite" I cautioned, "and we have nowhere to keep him". I sounded like my mother. I sounded like everyone's fucking mother. So we fed him the orange creme, and left him be. A man cycling by stopped and asked what we were looking at. We must have looked odd, crouched over by the bank, clicking. "It's someone's pet gerbil" I explained, "a cute little fella". "He won't last long with the rats" the stranger counseled. "I know that, fucker!" I said, except I didn't because that would have been rude. I wanted to. "I know" I said, "so we're giving him a fine last meal". He cycled on, and the whoosh of his wheels on the tarmac sent the gerbil scuttling off into the rushes.





*To be fair to him, you don't expect to see pet gerbils rummaging around in the rushes by the banks of the Grand Canal. He's not thick or anything. He didn't, say, suggest that it might be a vole when I shot the mouse thing down. This post and the last might suggest that he's some kind of flatulent moron. He's not. He's very clever and fragrant, and he has a lovely beard. He spent many of his formative years in Tanzania and so knows his heffalumps from his woozles, but I suspect is a bit Stephanie when it comes to domesticated vermin.