Gone But Not Forgotten*

To be sung on the occasion of Manuel the Waiter's passing, to the tune of Sondheim's The Ballad of Sweeney Todd:

Attend the tale of poor Manuel,
For he and his blog have gone to hell.
He served Belfast's ladies and gentlemen
who never thereafter were heard of again...
He disliked poor tippers, did our Manuel,
and this is the tale we're left to tell,
of poor Manuel,
the demon waiter of Belfast.

He worked in a restaurant in Belfast town.
Of fancy clients and good renown
and what if none of their souls were saved
they obviously hadn't been well behaved.
Or tipped Manuel,
our poor Manuel,
the demon waiter of Belfast.

Swing your waiter's friend wide!
Manuel, hold it to the skies!
Freely flows the blood of those who moralize.

His needs were few, his room was bare.
Some cutlery and a fancy chair.
A well done fillet, the occasional strop,
an apron, at Christmas a pail and a mop.
For neatness he deserved a nod,
did this troubled waitering sod,
the demon waiter of Belfast.

Inconspicuous poor Manuel was,
quick, and quiet and clean he was.
Back of his smile, under his word,
Manuel heard music that nobody heard.
Manuel pondered and Manuel planned,
like a perfect machine he planned,
Manuel was smooth, Manuel was subtle,
Manuel would blink, and rats would scuttle.

He met with an unfortunate end,
a patron who drove him round the bend
insisted that her meat was tough
so Manuel proceeded to chew it up,
but he choked...
and had a stroke.

This Christmas season, skinflints beware!
Scabby tippers, have a care!
The ghost of the waiter stalks the town
and he'll catch you with your trousers down.
Treat staff well and tip your waiter
or Manuel will make you sorry later.
That steak, so tender,
fillet of banker.
The sauce, so rich,
some other rude wanker.

He's gone, it's true, but not forgotten,
for in his restaurant something'll always be rotten.

*This can all be blamed on Captain Smack, who panicked me into morbidity and prompted a horrific "tribute" to me from Manuel.

Halp!

I'm taking my last day of annual leave tomorrow, to go shopping. Not the nice kind of shopping where I spend hours trying on things that I hope will make my boobs look big and my bum look small.* No. Christmas Shopping. Being a little bit anal, I've made a list. Being not quite anal enough, all I've managed to list are the people I'd like to buy for rather than what I'd like to get them.

It goes thus:

My Brother
The weight of an entire family's expectations rest on me coming up trumps here. Each of us (5, including my parents) buys for just one other, so in effect if I fuck this up, I ruin Christmas. It needs to be good. I'm at a loss. Likes: beer, the 1980s, girls. Dislikes: vouchers.

The Self-Appointed Head of Our Social Committee (friend)
The result of another Kris Kindle draw. She's got better looks, better taste and nicer stuff than anyone else I know. I once gave her a framed photo of us all and made her cry. She's wise to that one now though. I haven't a fucking clue what to get for her.

The Swede (flatmate)
Anything that needs to be assembled and has moving parts and/or sexual connotations is pretty much a winner. Suggestions welcome.

The Leitrim Lady (flatmate)
The voice of reason and conscience in our little household. She's incredibly thoughtful and keeps me sane, I want to get her something that shows how much I appreciate that. Our apartment has a no pets rule though, so a hamster's out.

Lady Muck (cousin, aged... um, 8?)
Yet another kris kindle. Something plasticky with sparkles? Cigarettes? I don't really know what 8 year olds are into these days. Again, suggestions welcome.

Miss Donegal (work colleague)
Soon to be Mrs, she would be happy with a hand-painted potato as a present. But that just makes me want to get her something really thoughtful.

The thoughts of traipsing around Dublin's soggy streets tomorrow are so appealing that I might just be tempted to stay at home and study. I know that if I put it off for much longer though that the shops will get busier and it'll be worse, much, much worse.

Pray for me... And make with the suggestions!

*I detest and refuse to wear either padded bras or control pants (even the name! fuck off!) so I'm eternally on the hunt for some magical garment with miraculous properties

Looking To The Stars

From this morning's Metro:

Romantic, funny, kind and generous - how could anyone possibly resist you? Your charm is legendary, but one person in particular thinks they hold a more special place in your heart than they do. Good luck with that.

What kind of a fucking horoscope is that? It's like something I'd write when drunk.

Dea-Scéal

Cloisim ráfla go mbeidh blagadóireacht i nGaeilge mar chatagóir nua i gcomórtais liteartha an Oireachtais i 2008...

For AJ, Because He's Nosy*

So yeah, Friday night. A mate of mine from college had called me the week before, he was to go to someone's 30th in Naas on the Friday and wanted me to come along. Always happy to oblige a friend by crashing a stranger's birthday party, I packed a bag and high-hoed to my country abode to reprise my role as the hostess with the mostess.

I decided that a few scoops might be in order before crashing the party so I roped my brother, the Hurler and the Bogman into coming for a few pints with me, knowing that if I got enough Smithwicks into them they'd be all on for coming to the shitey nightclub. Vital to my plan, you see, because had I gone with just the college mate he'd have made me dance, and nobody wants to see that. So, plied with Smithwicks and oiled with Smirnoff we headed up to the town's answer to purgatory; The Naas Court Hotel.

The college mate boogied his white Gaeltacht socks off while us cynical locals hung out by the door, keeping as much distance between us and the dancefloor and as little distance between us and both the bar and the emergency exit as possible. 3am came and it was time to go home to Abrakebabra and then begin the long walk home, arms outstretched in case a taxi might pass. We made it home, the college mate and I, him swinging two bags of Abra's finest cuisine and me brandishing the front door key triumphantly like it was some sort of prize. The brother was hot on our heels and only fucking delighted to be presented with a quarter pounder and garlic cheese fries (being a connoisseur of drunkards cuisine, he'd invented a snack the previous week; Ham Lollipops. Sesame seed grissoni - breadsticks to you and me - wrapped in sliced ham. Patent pending...). Belly full, he tottled off to bed and I set about making up a bed for the college mate on the snazzy fold-out couch, but I got sidetracked. It's true we've had the occasional sneaky smooch over the years, but not in a long time and I don't think either of us have been even remotely tempted for a long time. So I felt a bit funny about it the next day. Not excited, but not disappointed either. No regrets, just um. I haven't done that in a while.

*Joking, AJ, joking. I was planning to spill anyway but I've been busy til now.

Overheard in Work (The IT Geeks)

"Have you some kind of freakish pen fetish? Or, ohmigod, do you still actually write things???"

Nerds.

They're all snort and ROFL.

Ouch

Did you ever get one of those little cracks at the side of your mouth, like a papercut in the crease of your lip?

They don't go well with salt and vinegar crisps.

Relapse

Woke up this morning and thought:

Um. I haven't done that in a while.

Huzzah!

I got tickets this morning to see DJ Shadow and Cut Chemist in Dublin's Ambassador next March. It's a little early to be getting excited but...

Fuck it. I'm excited.

Some Uppity Know-It-All*

Tháinig mé ar seo via blag Roseanne inniu agus mé ag déanamh roinnt taighde ar bhlagadóireacht i nGaeilge. Maith í gur fhág sí nóta tráchta ar a bhí scríofa aige. Chuir a bhí scríofa aige agus an dóigh ina raibh sé scríofa droch-ghiúmar orm, ach níl sé d'fhoighne agam nóta a fhágáil dó mé féin. Ní dóigh go n-athrófaí a intinn cuma cé chomh réasúnta d'argóintí. Ní minic a phléim cúrsaí teangan anseo (d'aon ghnó) agus níl mórán suim agam iad a phlé ach oiread. Ach ba eiseamláir é seo den chineál meon cúngaigeanta diúltach a bhíonn ag daoine i leith na Gaeilge agus shíl mé gur fiú é a lua, ar eagla go mbeadh fonn ar na Gaeilgeoirí tréan ag Daltai.Com tacú le Roseanne agus roinnt lip a thabhairt dó.

I'm not in the least bit surprised to see that he's an accountant.

*Sounds like something your nana would say, doesn't it? A Bit Of A Prick didn't grab me too much as a title though.

Who'll Blog For Me When I'm Gone?

The Captain: Not Dead, Just Sorely Missed

"It was a lot of fun to be around to hear about my own death. Of course, one day I'll actually die for realsies. It could happen in the next 5 minutes. You never know, I might walk outside and get bitten by a snake or something.

And if that did happen, none of you would ever know about it. You'd probably just assume that I'd quit blogging. It's not like my friends or family would be able to access this blog to inform you about it or anything.

Which is probably the case with most of you, right? If you died, the rest of us out here in Blogland would probably just assume that you had stopped blogging. Ever known any bloggers who were going strong, and then just suddenly stopped?"

Captain Smack poses an interesting question. Should there be some kind of buddy system? Thereby if my blog lapses into deathly silence for, oh, say, a fortnight, without any prior warning, one of you dear readers will take it upon yourselves to write me a fittingly gushing obit to inform the Blogosphere* of my sad passing?

*Bleuch. Hate wanky bloggy words like Blogosphere and Blogroll.

You Know When You've Been Tangoed

Being naturally pasty of face, I've often looked wistfully at sallow-skinned lovelies and wished for a more Mediterranean complexion. Only twice have I succumbed to the lure of fake tan; most recently about 3 years ago when I was heading for a week to Barcelona. I had learned (through experience) how people there would stare openly at me for being almost translucently pale, so I reckoned a tan might help me to avoid unwanted leering on the metro. I decided to go pro -no streaky home application for me- and went to the beautician to get a spray tan. They don't warn you how humiliating it is, to have to stand wearing nothing but a paper thong while you're power hosed in cold sticky paint. Nor do they warn you that you can't wear underwear until it dries, so you'll need to go commando back to your respectable desk job, knickerless and with nipples that could cut glass visible through your blouse (my bras are -unfortunately- more for insulation than support). Above all, they don't warn you about the smell. I'd noticed it before, on people's clothes and in nightclubs, vaguely unpleasant but nothing I could clearly identify. Like old, wet socks.

They did warn me that it would darken over time and not to panic, to have a shower the following morning and it would be fine. I did, and it was. For a day. Subsequent showers saw the tan peeling off me in strips which meant that I attracted that unwanted attention on the metro anyway, but this time people were moving away and wondering if the peeling skin and the musty smell were symptoms of something catching. Still, at least it came off, albeit in patches. The first time I experimented with fake tan, I wasn't quite so fortunate.

In primary school, our Sports day was always a major event. Not because of any interest in sport but because you got to wear something other than your uniform. School uniforms are a great leveller; pretty girls look plain, plain girls look plain too, risible fashion decisions are avoided. So the opportunity to distinguish yourself on Sports Day was eagerly anticipated. Or fucking dreaded, if you were me, and paranoid about your pasty legs.

A friend of my mother's used to mind my brother and I for a bit after school, and the week before the Big Day I was in her bathroom, idly rifling through her cupboards looking for interesting things to pocket (I was at that klepto stage that all 10 year olds go through) when I found a bottle labelled "False Tan". That'll do! Up the jumper it went.

The following Thursday night I slathered it over my legs in the bathroom at home, paying particular attention to my knees. Off to bed I went, secure in the knowledge that I'd have sexy pins for the egg and spoon race the following day. Imagine my dismay upon waking up to see that my legs looked like they'd been smeared with treacle, and that my knees were a peculiar shade of scutter brown, as were the palms of my hands. Efforts to hide the damage (and the smell) from my mother failed, as shorts were mandatory and gloves were not. I'll talk to you about this when you get home. Fuck.

I spent the bus journey to school with my sleeves pulled over my mahogany palms and my mahogany palms covering my scutter coloured knees, panicking about how I'd hide them once I got to school and how my mam would punish me if I ever made it home. In the end the best I could come up with was to take a fall, literally, and graze the shit out of both hands and knees in the hope that the grass, gravel and blood would provide passable camouflage. The idea was genius. I staged a tumble off the bus and duly flayed myself, which got me out of having to do any sports, covered up my silky tan and scored me some sympathy with mam when I got home.

I call these tales to mind as a caution to myself. I saw a photo today of me standing beside a friend in the pub. She's standard Essex-girl orange, and I am see-through. I caught myself thinking hey, a little bronzer might do no harm...

Screw This, CSI Is On

I'm too tired to blog tonight, worn out from commenting on all of your blogs (60 something blogs in my feed reader now... I think I need to have a cull).

It wasn't a terribly newsworthy day anyway. I had a nurse be mean to me this morning (surely it cannot be my fault that I have deep veins?), I had a late lunch with the Gorilla (no progress there, be still my racing hormones beating heart) and then later on tapas with my siblings and the BGF in the lovely Port House on South William St. Though with the day I have lined up for tomorrow (work, followed by my grammar class) I wouldn't expect much then either...

A Quiet Sunday Night In

I was sitting in last night watching Welcome to the Jungle with my flatmate (I know, Red, Beowulf was bad, but this was worse... indulge me) when an ad came on for the Durex Ring. "Oh!" exclaims the Swede "I wonder what you do with it?" I looked at him, aghast. If a 32 year old Swedish man doesn't know what to do with a vibrating cock ring, then who does? Not knowing if he was taking the piss out of me or not, I kept quiet. Until he piped up again.

"Would you like one for Christmas?"

Looking For The Heart Of Saturday Night

It's rained all day. My housemates are out. I'm home, sober, having spent the day studying. It's times like these I'd love someone to curl up to and stay in with.

It's unlikely he's hiding behind the couch though.

Ego Boost

I hate hate hate having my photograph taken as I invariably end up looking like I have 17 chins and a mental defect, but I've just gotten the photos from Tuesday's shindig in the post. And I found one of me looking pretty! Just the one, mind. In the rest of them I look as I normally do in photographs; awkward, uncomfortable, embarrassed and/or drunk. It's not just vanity on my part; people have often commented on how badly I photograph (last time my driver's licence was renewed I showed the photo on it to a friend. He recoiled, held it at arm's length and advised me to lose it and apply for another).

So I think I'll enlarge this one and paste it over my mirror at home.

Beowulf Emasculated

I went to see Beowulf last night, in my latest effort to avoid doing any study in the evenings. It was awful shite altogether (though I'll admit that I thoroughly enjoyed it). The animation was unconvincing, the dialogue was cheesy, Ray Winstone was made to look like a buff Seán Bean. For some reason I had it in my head going in that the film had gotten an 18 certificate, so I was disappointed at the not-very-graphic nature of the violence and positively angry that they kept hiding Beowulf's willy behind candlesticks and such when he was fighting naked with Grendel.

Because there's just not enough violence and willy in films these days.

Rantathon

It seems there's something in the water, and that FatMammyCat's picked up a dose too. Glad to see that people aren't just being cunty to me.

Drochlá

On the bus this afternoon there was a man sitting across from me; well dressed, mid fifties, an Average Joe. I'd been on the bus maybe 5 minutes, chatting to my colleague beside me, when I noticed him lean forward and tap the arm of the man in the seat in front of him. "What the fuck are they talking about?" he said disgustedly, with an arm waving in my direction. The man in the seat in front of him completely ignored him, as did I. My colleague hadn't noticed. He sat back in his seat and folded his arms, looking displeased that he'd made what he reckoned was a point but that nobody was heeding him. The bus was full of people chatting away in languages that I'm sure were alien to him; Polish, Lithuanian, Russian, etc. My colleague and I were the only ones speaking in a language he found offensive. Irish.

***

I was leaving work later this evening and stopped to chat with another colleague, who'd been out with me the night before. She was thanking me for the night, saying that she'd had a ball and it had been great to practice her Irish outside the classroom. "Oh" laughed the guy she works with "I didn't realise last night was a Chucky thing".

Other than someone calling me fat, there is little else I find as insulting as the suggestion that I am a Republican.

It's A Middle Aged Man's World

Academic social functions are just a hoot when you're twenty something and female. Academia seems to be full of blustering, well aged gentlemen, concerned only with impressing their peers and puffing out their bellies. Beady-eyed rivalry and conversational one-upmanship aren't very becoming around the dinnertable.

I stood by the door yesterday evening, welcoming them as they came in and introducing them to one another unnecessarily. "And what are you studying here?" asked one of them, jokingly. Cue a pitying smile from me and polite laughter from the others.

"Old codgers and their social handicaps" I replied.

Except I didn't. Because then they might fire me.

Drunken Observation

I hate being the youngest person at every staff do.

All the men are old and married.

Not Such A Bad Day Really

I was feeling a bit sorry for myself in work today. No good reason and no point posting about it because as I've mentioned before, nobody likes a whingey bird. Late this afternoon I prised my fingers from my keyboard and slouched across the road to the chemist to get a prescription filled. For some reason this always seems to take an age, so I took a seat at the back of the shop. I was only in a minute when I guy came in the door and without even approaching the counter took a seat across from me. Cleancut, good-looking, he looked a bit worn out. He sat quietly for a minute or two until the girl behind the counter called to him. She knew him by name, asked how he was, told him he looked well and then handed him his cup of Methodone. Thanking her, he knocked it back, thanked the pharmacist behind the counter and headed off, saying he'd see them again tomorrow.

I've never had a junkie break into my home. Never had a junkie steal from me. Never had a junkie harass me on the street. I'm lucky. Luckier than they are.

On one of my visits to A&E with Crash Grandadicoot I spent a few hours with him on a trolley in the inner sanctum (away from the Infernoesque waiting room). In the treatment room across from where I was stood there was a girl in her late teens, maybe early twenties. Agitated and restless, she'd been told to lie and wait for the doctor but kept getting up from her gurney to switch off the light, which was hurting her eyes. The nurses were losing patience with her, and she was getting tearful. When the doctor came in to do a preliminary exam, he asked her had she taken anything. No, she insisted. "What are these marks on your arm?" "I had an accident. It was just an accident." The doctor headed off again and she turned off the light once more. There was a guy about my own age just out of sight around the corner. I had heard the girl greet him when she was first being brought through and now he called over to her, to see how she was. They started talking about a party they'd been to the night before, about some other girl who'd been there, strung out and covered in bruises. She looked a state, they said, and he was worried for her. It was obvious from their conversation that they didn't know one another well, friends of friends, that kind of thing. A nurse came to check on him and when she left, the girl spoke up again. "I'm really glad you're here. I mean it's real bad and I'm sorry and all that you're sick like, but still I'm happy to see you here. I get scared when I'm on my own. It's nice that we're not on our own, you know?"

He knew.

Walking home by the black dark water of the Grand Canal this evening, all I could think of was what a cold night it is to be alone, helpless or homeless in Dublin.

At the Dental Hygienist's This Morning

"Just wipe the blood off your chin there, good girl. We can't have you going out like that and frightening the other poor sods in the waiting room. They'll think I butchered you!"

Ah no. She was lovely really.

Dilemma Resolved(ish)

With regard to my previous dilemma (oh, how petty are my troubles!); my notion of sending That One a text has just been put into sharp perspective. I've just gotten a text myself, not from him but from a German guy that I finished things with some 6 months ago. The affair was very short lived but unfortunately I made a big impression on him. He thought I was the bee's knees. I thought he was deathly boring. It took endless subtle hints and three very frank conversations to get the message across. To reinforce my point, I vetoed the friends idea, lest it turn into unrequited lust on his part and exhausted patience on mine.

By the way, I realise how conceited this makes me sound. Rest assured, I'm not. I have a bad habit of kissing anything that flatters me and unfortunately in this case I let flattery get in the way of my better judgement, and then failed miserably to extricate myself with grace. C'est la vie. Lesson learned, and all that.

Anyway, I just got a text from the German. Innocuous, friendly, completely out of the fucking blue, just like the one I was planning on sending That One. And as soon as I read it I thought (uncharitably, but I don't think you expect much more of me!) oh, fuck off.

I'd be gutted to think that That One's reaction would be the same to me. So I'm off home to not think about it.

Boys (Again)

Charlie Brooker sums up my romantic life for the past year.

Dilemma

I was walking into work this morning, fuzzy headed with sleep, apple cheeked with cold and smiley faced with David Holmes on my headphones when I saw That One* across the road. I spent the rest of the walk anxiously pacing myself, keeping a distance between us and determinedly looking nonchalantly the other way lest he should catch sight of me.

Now that I've been at my desk for a few hours, calm and as normal as I get, I'm itching to text him. I haven't seen him in over a year and haven't spoken to him since last Christmas. Just a friendly text to say hiya, saw you this morning, hope you're well...

I know that I shouldn't.

*When it comes to failed (or indeed non-) relationships, there's always one. One who makes you act like a crazy bitch for no good reason. He's That One. Not devilishly handsome, not fiendishly clever, a bit of a lily-livered shite, truth be told. But still there's something.

Something To Tide Me Over

Three New Things I Did Today

• I had tea this morning with an Important Irish Artist. Her husband patted me on the arse as he ushered me through their home. He may have been aiming for the small of my back; I'm about a foot taller than him. We'll give him the benefit of doubt.
• I bought a beautiful painting. Unfortunately I didn't buy it with my money and I won't be allowed to keep it, but for now it looks pretty over my desk.
• I went to the dentist for the first time in 11 years. It mortifies me to admit that I have never before been to the dentist of my own volition, as an adult. The dentist was not horrible nice. I managed not to cry. There'll be a scene when I go back for my filling though.

Busted by The Gaeilge Police

Bhí ionadh orm inniu nuair a thug mé faoi deara go raibh nasc don suíomh seo curtha in airde ar fhóram comhrá Daltaí.com, áit a raibh roinnt acu ag lorg gossip ón Oireachtas. Ochón agus ochón ó, ní raibh sé le fáil in áit ar bith (go fóill...) ach anseo, agus é i mBéarla! Scannalach.

Bhuel, gan mórán scannal ann, dáiríre. Bhí mé dea-iompartha go maith i mbliana, níos fearr ná mar a mbímse de ghnáth. Tá cineál aiféala orm anois.

Ní fheadar cén fáth ach tá pobal na Gaeilge ar an idirlín cúng go maith agus mar sin, ní nós dom scríobh i nGaeilge anseo go rómhinic. Scríobhaim faoi ainm cleite chun go mbeidh saoirse agam mo rogha rud a rá (go pointe áirithe, ar aon nós) ach cailltear an saoirse sin tapaigh go leor má scríobhann tú i nGaeilge, mar is furasta do dhaoine tú a aithint. Chomh maith le sin, bíonn claonadh ag lucht na Gaeilge díriú isteach ar chúrsaí atá i bhfad ró dháiríre domsa; gramadach, polaitíocht, litríocht agus eile. Ew. Bím féin ró ghnóthach ag scríobh mar gheall ar buachaillí agus póiteanna.

Más rud é go bhfuil tú tagtha anseo ar mhaithe leis an nGaeilge, is oth liom a rá go mbeidh díomá ort (oiread agus na dungaree fetishists). Tá roinnt blaganna eile ann a scríobhtar i nGaeilge iad agus gach seans go bhfuil gramadach níos fearr le fáil iontu chomh maith.

Oireachtas na Samhna 2007: Review

The Oireachtas is difficult to explain to someone who's never been. On paper it sounds like the dullest festival imaginable, unless of course you have a genuine penchant for book launches and sean nós singing. Admittedly I'll happily suffer the odd book launch if there's lunch and/or free booze involved, but I think I'm allergic to sean nós singing. Sitting reverentially while someone whines like a bag of consumptive cats is not my cup of tea; one of the highlights of my weekend was a new friend belting out a particularly whingey sean nós version of the Spice Girls' Wannabe in McGing's on Sunday night, to my delight and the disgust of some of the other patrons. Clapping enthusiastically when someone I've never heard of wins a prize for writing a book or poem that I'm unlikely ever to read is a little hypocritical, but I'm a whore for a glass of wine and a ham sandwich*.

Once you get past all that shite though, there is a world of fun to be had. There are the comórtais if you're that way inclined (competitions testing one's proximity to one's Irish roots; storytelling, shitetalking and dancing on barrels are all traditional arts here) I managed to make it to just the one this year (strictly in a viewing capacity) but if you're going to go to one, make it the damhsa ar an sean nós. You'll find videos of it on You Choob or you can watch this year's competition start to finish on www.tg4.ie (Steip: Beochraoladh ón Oireachtas - 3/11/2007) if you're so inclined, but there really is no substitute for watching it live. It's not often you go to a dance competition where you and your hangover can enjoy some lucozade and crisps while you clap, stomp and whoop at the competitors. I don't think the atmosphere comes across too well on the tellybox, but then if it did then everybody would want to go. The bar's busy enough already.

Ah, the bar. And the hangovers. All of the competitors get a second chance to steal the limelight when they take to the stage at Club na Féile, the nightly club for the demented that keeps the festivalgoers off the streets til the wee small hours. Very wee, very small hours. When I was leaving Saturday night's club at 6am there was a singsong going on in one corner, someone was hammering out the sean nós dancing on a tea tray in another, a TV presenter was serenading the crowd in the courtyard from his balcony (and in his boxers... he didn't look half as edible as The Gorrilla did in his) and everyone was having an absolute whale of a time. I'd been on the go for three days at that stage though, instinct told me it might be time to call it quits. My instincts (presumably dulled by the three days carousing) also told me it would be a fantastic idea to stay another night and go drinking again, but that's another story.

*All credit to the Westport Plaza, they had sushi instead of the requisite ham sambos. Everybody but me was impressed, as I've never managed to cultivate a liking for fish. Or coffee, whiskey or licorice. I remain a woman of peasant tastes.

Googlechatting Has Its Perils

The New Daddy:

got some big news for ya

Rosie:
?
what???

The New Daddy:

guess whos due in about two months
no less

Rosie:
who?

The New Daddy:
guess like
you know them a long time

Rosie:
i don't fuckin know! one of your classmates?

The New Daddy:
think its last week in december is the due date - somethin around then
nope
c;moooooon guess

Rosie:
who do i know a long time that you know too? no-one that i can think of...

The New Daddy:
SANTY!

Rosie:
you're a cunt.

The New Daddy:
a funny cunt?
i love that - got 5 people with it today

Rosie is busy. You may be interrupting.

Today's Definite High Points

• Not having to work
• Not having a hangover as bad as the other ones I've had all week
• Feasting my eyes on The Gorilla as he wandered around in his boxers this morning
• Eating something that didn't come wrapped in plastic
• Singing my face off tunelessly in the car for 4 hours and delighting in the lack of company
• Getting home to my own bed

Oireachtas na Samhna 2007: Update

Caochta.

Arís.