Swings And Roundabouts

Today was officially Work-Life Balance Day, so I've spent the day consciously making an effort to strike a balance between being the productive member of society that my employers think (or just wish) me to be and the feckless wastrel that I am at heart. Because that's what it's about, right?

So today I:

• Went to work early.
  
• Took a half hour tea break and had a custard danish and hot chocolate.
• Worked diligently until 12.30.
• Fucked off home at 12.31.
• Stopped off on the way home Detoured to do some unnecessary underwear shopping.
• Did a bit of study in anticipation of tomorrow's seminar.
• Got bored with that, so took a nap and then a shower. And then another little nap.
  
• Did a bit more study.
• Got bored with that, started writing stupid and unfunny blog posts.
• Resigned myself to staying home sober and alone on a Friday night (because I have school in the morning).

Not a raging success, then.

About Bloody Time*

Good news; Joe Chester is to release his new album The Tiny Pieces Left Behind on April 18th, with a gig in Whelans on the 20th. I hope to be there with big jangly bells on. Shane Hegarty recently posted about fall-back albums; I listed Shadow's Endtroducing, Orbital's In Sides and David Gray's Lost Songs** as mine. For some reason Joe's A Murder of Crows slipped my mind - probably because I was pissed at him for taking so long to follow it up. As musical comfort food goes, the aural hot chocolate that gets me through dark days varies according to the blackness of my humour but his Murder of Crows album is certainly a staple. I can't wait to hear the new one. I will, of course, dislike and deeply resent it on first listen (as I do all new music) but once the threat of the unfamiliar passes I'll fall deeply in love with it, I imagine.

I haven't forgotten about the mix tape, by the way... We're having some "technical difficulties" here; the laptop, external hard drive and I aren't speaking at the moment. Blame it all on i-fucking-tunes. Once we're back on reasonable terms I'll get it out, I promise. I know Mademoiselle Music herself is curious as to what's on it because she hasn't a notion what I listen to; given her penchant for the shiny and new I hope she's not too disappointed. Bearing this in mind I've made an effort to include some obscure remixes she might not have heard, including a Daft Punk white label jobbie, the antidote to that fucking deplorable Kanye West assault on Stronger that marred the otherwise gorgeous CD she sent me. Other oddities include Shane Mc Gowan+Green from 2002's Collaborations and a bit of Bollywood in the shape of My Guru from Bombay the Hard Way - Guns, Cars and Sitars. It's going to be epileptic eclectic.

*Just joking, Joe. I can't imagine it's easy.
**I don't give a fuck, I love David Gray. Always have and always will. The Lost Songs album breaks my heart every time I listen to it and I love Nos da Cariad from Life in Slow Motion more than I love chocolate. So there.

Review: Last Night

I went here and then to see this. It was nice.

Bigfoot

As a teenager the one thing I wanted more than anything in the world was to have smaller feet. There were plenty of other things I would have liked to change - I wanted straighter teeth and bigger breasts, I wanted a boyfriend and a fake ID, I wanted Levis and Doc Martens. But I would have traded any and all of the above for smaller feet. I was (and am) a size 8 1/2 (a 42 in those funny European measurements) which is unusually large of hoof for a lady. Bootcut jeans hadn't been invented in 1990s Ireland so my freakishly large feet weren't easily hidden, and school shoes spelled social and sartorial disaster because I had to wear a skirt, meaning that my footwear would be in full view. Fashionable girls' shoes simply didn't fit; it was straight to the dowdy oul' wan section for shoes that were built to accommodate bunions ("she'll have a bit more room in them") or worse still, the men's section. My sense of fashion, sharp as it is, did little to help matters. My blue suede shoes (a mistake, I realise now) prompted an uncle to ask if I had planning permission for them, my beautiful red Converse sent some spotty little cunt in school into convulsions because I looked like I was wearing clown shoes. Family, friends and strangers alike would comment on the impressive size of my feet, not realising how devastating their comments were to a breastless and boyfriendless teenager's already fragile self-confidence. My feet became the focus of all of my teenage angst, the root of all my problems, a source of acute and crippling embarrassment. I remember crying in frustration, it was all so unfair.

And then I grew out of it. I don't remember when. I've grown to love my feet - they're long and narrow, pretty, elegant*. They haven't shrunk and I still have difficulty finding shoes that fit; though not that much fucking difficulty, obviously, given that I have about fifty million pairs. I think it might be because I had such trouble over the years, I now buy every pair that fits. It may also be because I have a narcissistic shoe fetish, but a girl has to have some bad habits. I can't tell you how many pairs I own at present because (a) I've run out of digits to count them and (b) it's criminal.

I can only assume that in another 10 years time I will be utterly delighted and entranced by my flat chest and will start buying exotic and expensive underwear with which to accentuate it.

And maybe 10 years after that I'll be reveling in my boyfriendlessness, having finally realised that it's as essential to my adorable personality as my freakishly large feet.

*I know at least one person who will strenuously beg to differ and who thinks I have "alien feet" but, well, fuck you.

On Hold

Ní féidir liom an croíbhriseadh agus an sceon atá á fhulaingt acu faoi láthair a shamhlú, fiú; an lánúin lách seo, cairde dhíl mo thuismitheoirí. Tá a mac ar iarraidh, gan scéal uaidh le trí lá anuas.

Go bhfille sé orthu. Go dté sé slán.

Much Much Later That Night...

• A party! (of 4)
  
• Absolut Raspberry and Spar orange juice "cocktails"
• A sound thrashing at Buzz (after a lot of delusional trash talk from me about how I'm so good that nobody will play with me)
• A tent pitched in the living room (I'm not speaking metaphorically here)
• An ill-advised webtext at 6am(ish) with a badly-worded and apologetic follow-up at 7.30(ish) when I "woke up", "sober"
• A freezing cold excursion in my jammies to release a friend who was trying to get home and had locked herself out of the building and into the garden
• A barrage of abuse directed at my brother, who stormed into my room at 9am demanding breakfast rolls
  

Later That Night...

Brimming with self-confidence and vodka after meeting Conor and Alan, I threw caution to the wind and chatted up a guy I've fancied for ages. I'd never met him before, but I pass him most every day on my walk in to work. I was out for a cigarette and ended up standing beside him; he looked approachable (as well as edible) and his nearby friends looked pleasantly geekish rather than intimidatingly cool so I thought fuck it, what harm?

I was locked.

Turns out he's really nice. I chatted away to him for a bit (I had to, after my opening line about how I see him every morning on my way to work I needed to recover some ground so that he wouldn't think I was a total freak) and he chatted away back, asking me my name and about my job. Then the bouncer lumbered over to ask us to move inside. I obediently turned on my heel and marched down the stairs, not thinking to say goodbye or ask him for his number and once inside I was distracted by - who knows, something shiny? - and forgot about him til this morning, on my way in to work.

When I didn't see him.

*huff*

Lovely Boys Altogether

I had a hot date on Saturday night with two very handsome and affable gents, Conor of Conortje fame and Alan of Alan Says. It was to be a busy night; I had dates also with the NCAD nerds, SWF, the Jock and the wonderful Mr Scruff. I dragged my somewhat reluctant brother along with me to meet the two lads in Hogans ("which rhymes with Grogans!" Conor sang down the phone excitedly) and again tried to explain to him why I was voluntarily going for a pint with these two people that I'd never laid eyes on. He's interesting, my brother, in that he's one of the more articulate and verbally creative people I know but he doesn't like to read. Not newspapers, not cereal boxes, not books, not blogs. Certainly not his sister's blog. The whole concept of blogging is alien to him and it was an interesting exercise in dork PR to try to explain it to him - why I do it, how I do it, who else's I read and why, how I found them, how my readers found me, the nuts-and-bolts of the blogosphere (still hate that word). More interesting still was myself, Alan and Conor trying to explain the logic and sheer guilty pleasure of reverse-cyber-stalking via stat reports. Without making ourselves sound like ego-inflated creeps. I'm not sure that we quite pulled it off.

After a few easy drinks in Hogans we headed over to the Dragon where you could eat your dinner off the floor, judging by the smell of bleach in the bar. I hadn't been there in a long time, when it changed from Sosume to the Dragon I didn't find it as girl-friendly, although there were a few ladies prowling there on Saturday night. From there I dragged them to Solas with me; already running an hour and a half late, I was two hours late for SWF and the Jock by the time I managed to get served at the bar (though Alan and I had white russians, and they came with flakes). The gents headed off shortly afterwards to try their luck in the George (updates, boys?) and I got stuck in to the remainder of the evening after kisses and threats to come visit them both.

They'll be sorry.

Another Embarrassing Celebrity Crush*

*sigh*

Nick Frost. I can't help it.

*Previous confessions here.

An Unpleasant Post About Diarrhoea

What did I get for my birthday? Fucking food poisoning. Other stuff too (nicer stuff) but I reckon the cholera's the one I'll remember.

Having spent yesterday evening in the hospital with Crash Grandadicoot (who serenaded me with Happy Birthday again and demanded that I return the gift he gave me - a jewelled purse - so that he could check that Nana had hanseled* it as she was supposed to) I then went out for dinner with my family (sans my dad, who's off earning our collective keeps in Delhi this week). I came home in good form, packed my bag for today's trip to Galway and hopped into bed, thinking that 27 might not be so bad after all.

I woke up about an hour later, thought "uh oh..." and sprinted for the bathroom, where I spent a happy half hour puking my ring up.

Rinse. Repeat. Ad nauseum until at 4am I woke up on the bathroom floor, having keeled over with the effort of all that projectile vomiting (though it is possible that in my delirious state I had simply decided that it might be easier to sleep there).

I hate being sick. Everybody does. But food poisoning sends me into a bit of a panic, and with good reason. Thankfully I'm now feeling about a gazillion times better than I did this morning but every tummy upset brings the memory of that time flooding back.

Some years ago I was visiting a friend in Trier in Germany. I was booked on the last flight home from Brussels and as I was traveling by train I thought it might be nice to go via Luxembourg, for a quick goo at the place in case I should ever decide to take up one of those translation posts that the government seem to be having such trouble filling. However, the combined effects of a crippling hangover, a bank holiday timetable and a short short span of attention saw me on a train to Saarbrucken instead, and I missed my flight. I headed back to Aachen, where another friend was stationed and where I'd be conveniently close to Charleroi and a cheap flight home. Alas, the baggage handlers in Dublin chose that weekend to strike and there were no flights in or out of the city. I was broke, I needed to get back to college, I'd had enough sauerkraut and schnitzel. Half an hour in an internet café in Cologne and I was booked on a flight from Amsterdam to Belfast - a roundabout way to get from the German-Belgian border back to Dublin but it seemed like the most sensible option at the time. Pissed off, my friend and I went out for a consolation pizza that night. Man, did we live to regret it. Within two hours we had a rota system going for the bathroom, with buckets on standby for emergencies. It'll pass, I thought. Just get home.

So the following day I got a train to the 'Dam, then a plane to Belfast, then a train to Dundalk, then a bus to Dublin, then a lift home to Naas from Dublin via Maynooth. With chronic vomiting and diarrhoea. After a few days at home with no sign of improvement, the doctor was called out to the house. She took some bloods to send off for analysis and two days after that, the hopsickle called to see if I'd like to come in so that they could put me on a drip. It seems that someone in the pizza parlour may not have washed their hands, and we'd caught some form of this. The health board called a day or two later looking for details of where I might have picked it up and cautioning me against contact with small children or the elderly lest I should pass the bacteria on, as apparently it can lead to paralysis and blindness. I spent the next three weeks licking every pensioner that crossed my path, determined to make good use of my superpower.

Nah, I spent the next three weeks crawling from bed to couch and back again, swearing to live a better life if only the diarrhoea would cease for long enough for me to leave the house. Fun times, and pleasant memories to mull over on this, the first day of my 27th year.

*Handselled? I'm not sure of the correct spelling. When you give a gift of a purse, wallet, piggybank, handbag or anything traditionally used to keep money in it is bad luck for it to be empty. You need to include a nominal sum of money to make sure that it will never be empty again.

Nerds

My brother, my BGF and I went to the Lightwave exhibition in the Science Gallery last night. I walked around with my mouth open a lot, admiring all of the pretty things and understanding little of what they were or how they worked. I badgered a few explanations out of the BGF ("No, I don't get it. So... no. I still don't get it.") and eventually just pretended to understand things because I was embarrassed at being stupid and he is a rocket scientist, or some such shit.

On Monday the three of us are going to PantiBar for Make and Do-Do. I'm nifty with scissors and glitter glue so I'll kick his know-it-all arse at that.

Crafty Bitches? I'm There!

Letter To An Older Rosie

I Even Stole The Major's Picture

Rosie, a chroí,

How's 35* treating you? I'm writing to you on the eve of your 27th birthday, looking for some reassurance: That you kept up the jogging and that you still pronounce it yogging, in homage to Ron Burgundy. That you've published your novel, and that someone's read it. That you've still got so many good friends. That you've grown out of jaegerbombs. That you've found a better cure for your black days than hot chocolate. That you've gotten a haircut that doesn't make you look like George from the Famous Five. That you've sorted your shit out, stopped having short-lived affairs with men who are plainly not going to fall in love with you and found one you're mad about who will. That you're healthy. That you're happy.

Ag súil go mór le do fhreagra,
R

*Inspired by the Major's Letter, it was originally to be to Rosie aged 30 but the chances of me having my shit together by then are slim to none.

Crash Bang Wallop

GingerBeard arrived at my desk this morning dressed head to toe in his fetching lycra cycling gear, asking if I'd seen the Health & Safety budgies about. "No" I muttered dismissively "not yet. By the way, you've got some black stuff all over your nose." Then he pointed out the blood on his chin (he's bearded and ginger, it wasn't immediately apparent) and his battered knuckles; he'd fallen off his bike.

It was early. I was unsympathetic. I may have laughed.

At 5pm I picked up his text. I'm in the hopsickle. It's not like Scrubs. Oh fuck. Cue apologetic phonecall to see if he was still in one piece. Broken finger, possibly broken wrist. Humble pie for tea, anyone?

Love Is...

My spam filter relented this morning and delivered my Valentine's e-card from the Swede. It read:

Valentine's day isn't just about
hearts, cupid, red roses and little heart shaped boxes.
It's also about friendship and togetherness
and one time of the year
I can really
mush and gush and say
how much our friendship
means to me.
Happy Valentine's Day!

Sorry, I just vomited a little.

He tacked his own message on to the end - sentimental and heartfelt. Should you ever need someone to lean on, I will be here for you. He means it, and I love him for it. Last weekend marked my two year anniversary in the flat, the cosy little corner of Dublin 2 that I share with himself and the Leitrim Lady. I hadn't met either of them before I moved in, I was in a hurry to find somewhere to live as I had just started in my first ever grown-up full-time job and didn't want to ruin it with a 47 hour long commute every day. The landlady gave me her seal of approval as I had the double advantage of being the only person to view the room that day who had (a) Irish citizenship and (b) a vagina - two things she seemed to feel very strongly about. One phonecall to the Leitrim Lady later and I was in.

Unfortunately the Leitrim Lady was out when I actually moved in a week later, leaving the baffled but affable Swede to show me the ropes and tiptoe around me while I nested. By the time she came back from her week's holiday I was treating the place as if it were my own, which must have been disconcerting. If she was put out by it she never let on, and to this day she remains one of the most gracious and equinanimous characters I have ever met. Which helps, when you live with me.

I feel very fortunate to live with them both. They make me feel secure and looked out for. They tell me I look nice when I'm going out on dates. They let me leave Christmas decorations up all year round. They clean up after my occasional late night midweek parties and bollock me for the noise but love me again eventually. The laugh both with me and at me. They make this place home.

Sorry, I just vomited a little more.

Animal Lovers

As my previous request has yielded nothing particularly helpful, I turned to my googlemachine for answers. Yahoo Answers came up with the goods, yes indeedy.

The Burning Question:
If you were an animal, what would you be and why?

Answer from the neurotic but danerous (sic) #1:
I would be a mouse because people would leave you alone and I'd be able to scurry. I'd also lead a danerous life with people always trying to trap you and stuff.

Answer from the lonely reject that is #2:
I would like to be a single cell organism which breaks into two cells as a process of reproduction and practically either lives multiple lives later on or dies the time it reproduces. Again no hassles of searching the right mate as I break myself up to create something new.

Answer from the "joker" of the pack, #3:
i wanna be a dog for real because i wanna see what it's like to really do it d o g g y style. i wanna know if doggy vaj is funner than people vaj. i bet it's tighter.
just kiffing.

How mad are those fuckers? Imagine getting stuck on a bus with them for oh, 5 weeks, crossing the Australian outback. And having a gun, but only two bullets.

I'm rethinking my application.

Review: Lost

Episode III, Series IV - The Economist

Leitrim Lady: What the fuck was all that, hai?
Me: ?

[long and confused pause]

Me: It was good though, wasn't it?

In other news: The upstairs neighbours are having a party. A stilettos and hammers party, by the sounds of things. I hate them.

Answers On A Postcard, Please

The folk who want to send me on holidays to Australia to pick up "hunks" have asked me to submit some digital photos of myself and to fill out this retarded application form before they whisk me away to make all of my dreams come true.

A little like LC did, now that I think of it.

Anyway, I'm having a little bother. The questionnaire is very deliberately "zany" (with capital air-quotes) and I'm not sure if its silly nature is designed to encourage dullards to get a little krayzee in the name of good television or if it is in fact designed to weed out people like me who are maybe a little too genuinely krayzee to take with you across the outback on a bus. I think my best bet would be to err on the safe and "quirky" side of mental, so with that in mind, your help with the following would be very much appreciated. If you don't think you know me well enough to hazard a guess at the answers, make shit up. They're not going to know, are they?

1. What's your idea of fun? (keep it clean.)
   
2. What's the craziest thing you've ever done? (keep it clean...)
   
3. Describe yourself in three words. (articulate? cynical? romantic?)
   
4. If you were an animal, what would you be, and why? (keep it clean!)
   
5. What's the most romantic thing you've ever done? (keep it... *sigh*)
   

In case you think I'm being a lazy bitch and getting you to fill out my application for me, I assure you that I have managed to answer some of the questions myself. Do you have a full driver's licence? Indeed and I do. What is your date of birth? 27 years ago from next Thursday. Describe your ideal man? Adrien Brody.

Things got curious towards the end, with question no #18: Tell us all you know about BMXs. My answer:

Not a massive amount, if I'm honest. My sister's ex was into them but he was also into vegetarianism, so that doesn't help.

I had one as a kid though, as did my brother. I'm not sure where we got them, but we weren't cool enough to realise that they were cool. My parents brought us to the BMX track in Marlay Park once in an effort to train us into some tricks, but I started crying after I saw the height of the bumps and hillocks and refused to play. My brother gave it a go and promptly busted his face. Game over.

Other than that, try Wikipedia.

PS. Why do you want to know?

Tomorrow: we choose a photo.

Choo Choo!

I'm off again, this time to the Wild Wehst of Mayo to spend a weekend with my nearest and dearest friends. It's almost cans-on-the-train o' clock, the Hurler is already making his way to the station so it would behoove me to make some tracks myself. Have a lovely weekend, kids.

Stopped In My Tracks

I spurned a number of invitations to romantic drinks and dinners yesterday evening to spend a bit of time with my grandparents. Crash Grandadicoot is still holed up in James' Hopsickle, I think he may be going for some kind of record. I took a stroll up there after I'd finished up in work yesterday evening, full of apprehension and snot. I was in no mood for the hospital, for its stomach churning smell of sickness and cabbage, for the small talk or the non-talk with whomever else might be visiting. But I needed to go, I still hadn't been to see him and I was feeling guilty about it and worried - worried that he might have forgotten me.

He used to call me #1 Grandchild, you see. He still might, on a good day. I'm the eldest of his gazillion grandkids but with a nudge and a wink he told me that it was more to this pecking order than age. It was a joke at the expense of the other kids; but fuck them, I like to think that he was partly serious and that despite my tragic lack of coordination and/or interest in sport I really am his favourite. He forgets things so easily now though that I was worried he might have forgotten me in my three week absence, and that would break my heart. This weighed down my walk, I was cold and hungry too, tired and cantalach. My mam called to see where I was at, we had our wires crossed and I was now going to miss dinner in my nana's - I got angry with her, short, ended the call in a fit of pique.

I walked on, smoking furiously and seething quietly for no good reason, trying to concentrate on the music coming through my headphones and fighting back the irrational tears. And then I noticed the Hybrid Love Seat. It's a fence, essentially, a boundary sculpture between the flat complex and the Luas stop at the hospital entrance. And it's lovely. It's thoughtful, engaging and beautiful street furniture. I stopped walking, stopped sulking, took a few minutes to read the plaque about the work, took a few minutes more to admire the bronze castings and then took stock of all that was bothering me and resolved to go for a hot chocolate before venturing up to see Crash Grandadicoot.

He was in good form, full of piss and vinegar. He sang Happy Birthday to me ("What's that song they sing again? What does it go like?") and demanded that I put my new boots up on the bed to show him. He told my nana that she looked well in her yellow sweatshirt - almost good enough to *mwah!* (making kissy noises through his gums). I came away from the visit delighted that I'd stopped by and delighted that I'd taken the time to stop by the kids' love seat on my way in, to gather my thoughts and get my shit together. I'll not leave it 3 weeks before I call in to see him again.

You can read all the bumf about the Hybrid Love Seat on the artist's site.

So, How Many Cards Did You Get?

Just the one, from this guy. Which was unexpected, of all the people who might have sent me card or an email or even a text this year he was the one I would have thought least likely to. But there you go. It is nice to think that he still thinks of me. It's been some time since I've thought about him.

Oh, and GingerBeard gave me a sweet that he had found on his desk.

Disappointed Readers

Statcounter - an endless source of entertainment. Here's the top three searches that led people to my blog today, in order of how disappointed I reckon the intrepid internehts explorers were with what their googlemachines spat back at them:

#3

sex whit werry oldmen
(Come on now, 34's hardly geriatric. Besides, we just held hands.)

#2

women fucking the piss out of men
(Honestly, I have never even heard of this, much less indulged in it and then blogged about it.)

#1

no country for old men plot analysis
(Ha!)

Opportunity Knocks

I got an interesting email this morning from a TV production company.

Fancy taking an all-expenses paid once-in-a-lifetime road trip across the Australian outback in search of love? Sounds smashing! Where do I sign? Interested in going on a wild road trip and meeting some hot Aussie hunks? I said yes! Four lucky ladies will be chosen to head down under to embark on a journey of a lifetime. Four? Fuck that. The other three had better be ugly dullards. Not that I'm not up for a little competition, but, well, I'm not up for much competition. Their mission: To find true love. Mission Improbable; but am happy to give it a good oul try. The girls will be flown to Perth on the west coast of Australia in September and will travel by bus over a staggering 3,200 kilometres through the arid and breathtaking outback as far as the sun-drenched cosmopolitan beaches of Sydney. I like buses. I'm narcoleptic on public transport though, so the series would be full of shots of me slumped and snoring open-mouthed sleeping like a beautiful angel.

The Checklist:

1. Can you speak fluent Irish?
Why yes, I can! it's my bread and butter, as it happens. My grammar makes children cry but my vocabulary is colourful and inventive and my accent is begged, borrowed and stolen from each of the dialects - in the interests of fair play and indecisiveness.

2. Are you single?
Very. Inexplicably, tragically so. On today of all days. *sniff*

3. Are you in a position to travel to Australia for five to six weeks?
Absolutely. And sure if they like me, they can keep me. I love my job and I wouldn't trade it for the world but... Bollocks. Yes, I am in a position to travel to Australia for five to six weeks.

4. Are you genuinely looking for love?
Well I was hoping that it was looking for me, to be honest. It's like playing hide-and-go-seek as a kid - I'm the one that's still huddled under the coats in the wardrobe in the spare room, waiting to be found.

5. Are you aged 18 or over?
Yes, though a little more "over" than I'd like. I turn 27 soon. Eek. I hope I'm not too old. However, Aldi refused to sell me mulled wine at Christmas on account of my youthful good looks, so I could pass for 17, apparently (no, I didn't buy that line either).

I tick all the boxes... I think I might just email them back. I was never that taken with the idea of Australia until I ended up over there with Strawberry last year. It was on a whim, really, we were drunk and she got all persuasive. By the time I had sobered up I had an email confirmation from Trailfinders and an excited email from the Hurler asking me if it was true that I was coming over especially to see him because I loved him and missed him terribly (Friends Don't Let Friends Dial Drunk). I spent a month there, and it felt like a week. Ever since then I've been making vague plans to go back. I've met a few Australian men since then too and they're not as bad as you'd think.

Today On My Way To Work I Listened To #1

Back to Mine: Rosie's. Coming soon to a letterbox near you.

The post title is, of course, an homage to Red. I now have yet another reason to wish she lived here in fair Dublin town; Phantom are starting their quizzes again and GingerBeard and I want to play. I reckon she'd be a great addition to our crap crack team as she listens to stuff so cool that I've never even heard of it. Apparently some semblance of a crack team has been assembled but my position on it is a little tenuous. Peadar an Gruaig reckoned I sucked last time and could prove to be a serious handicap this time around, I reckon he's probably right. Still, fuck him. I had my fun.

Maudlin Valentine's Post

Seriously, I'd Be Chuffed

Feicim go bhfuil “coinne chéad aithne” mar théarma tráthúil ag Focal.ie anocht. Shites. Bliain eile lán féidearthachtaí imithe tharam agus mé fós i m’aonar ar Lá Fhéile Fuck-it-Anyway. Ba bhreá liom bheith ar nós cuma liom, ach goileann sé go mór orm.

Táim braon de bheith ag gearán faoi. Táim braon den comhrá céanna a bheith agam le cairde arís agus arís eile; tarlóidh sé, tá duine éigin ann duit, titfidh tú i ngrá nuair nach bhfuil tú ag súil leis, casfaidh duine éigin ort, blah well-meaning blah. Agus táim cinnte de go bhfuil gach éinne eile braon de bheith ag éisteacht le mo ghearáin... sibhse san áireamh. Ní bhfaighidh mé aon chárta amárach, ná bláthanna, ná tada eile. Is cuma liom faoi na rudaí seo, ach ba bhreá liom dá mbeadh duine éigin ann a bheadh ag smaoineamh orm, duine éigin le póg a thabhairt dom ar theacht abhaile dom. Mothaím uaigneach agus níos measa fós, mothaím seafóideach agus náirithe as bheith ag mothú uaigneach. Lá Fhéile Vailintín? Who gives a fuck? Mise, is cosúil.

Bhí mé ag ceapadh b’fhéidir go dtarlódh níos mó idir mé féin agus an Sasanach, ach tá sé thar a bheith ciúin ónar tháinig mé ar ais ó Londain. Chomh ciúin sin gur chuir sé deireadh lena bhlag, fiú! Níl sé de mhuinín agam (ná de cheart agam, dáiríre) é a cheistiú; tá an liathróid, is dóigh liom, ina luí i gcúirt s’aige agus idir an dhá linn níl le déanamh agamsa ach crochadh thart, ag fanacht go mífhoighneach ar comhartha éigin uaidh. Ní dóigh liom go dtiocfaidh an comhartha sin uaidh amárach, áfach, má fhaighimse ar chor ar bith é.

Ní deireadh an domhain é, dár ndóigh. Ach táim tuirseach den tóraíocht.

Shackled Once More To My 9(ish) to 5(ish)

I am so tired that I could cry.

Praha

So; Prague. C&A, H&M, M&S, English everywhere, all the trappings of a modern European city. I hate those tiresome wankers who stroll around the city proclaiming that it was all very different back in the day, but, well, it was.

Shrek And Donkey On Another Whirlwind Adventure

I'm off on my jollybops again! Strawberry Shortcake and I are off to Prague this afternoon for three whole days of wanton hedonism and, em, sightseeing. I haven't been in Prague since 1999 and I'm very much looking forward to going back. My only reservation is that there are 9 other women going with us - I'm worried that this is going to be a hen party without a hen. I never go out with big groups of girls, much less travel with them. Will it be all high heels and hair straighteners?

I fucking hope not. Watch this space.

Batter Down Your Burgers

To amuse myself while I wait for the nice folk from the radio station to call me so that I can do yet another trite scintillating interview about my pain in the hole wonderful job, I've been making my way through the most funniest posts longlist. A snigger here, a snicker there and then suddenly a LOL, like an odious and sneaky fart. I hate LOLs but that fucker Nat King Coleslaw squeezes them out of me.

I hope he wins.

Packing my Bags For A Guilt Trip

I haven't been in to see Crash Grandadicoot in almost three weeks. It started when I had a bad cold for the best part of a week and a half - I didn't want to bring it in to the hospital with me. But the cold cleared up, and eventually the cough cleared up, and still I haven't gone in to visit. I could list all the other excuses I've given (to myself, nobody else asks for them) but it would be pointless; all it boils down to is that I haven't been in to see Crash Grandadicoot in almost three weeks.

I've spoken to him on the phone twice, having called Nana's mobile while she's in the hospital with him. His voice is quiet and hard to make out, his conversation both times was limited to short phrases and easy smalltalk. Enough to let me know that he was listening and trying to follow what I was saying, not quite enough for me to be convinced that he could.

I've seen Nana and she's still doing an admirable job of holding her shit together. She's had some difficult conversations with both the hospital staff and her sons and daughters over the past fortnight and while things have not gotten any easier for her, there has been more of a focus on long term care which in a way gives some cold comfort. The crisis has passed and the hard part now for all of the family is learning to cope. Which I suspect is why I haven't been in to see Crash Grandadicoot in almost three weeks.

Tomfoolery!

I hopped into the taxi, bade the genial driver a good morning and settled in to stare out the window into the rain and the traffic. The radio was tuned (inevitably) to Dublin's Country Mix where the deejay was asking listeners to call, text, email or telex with their answers for the morning's competition (I think on Dublin's Country Mix they must have deejays, if not disk jockeys - certainly there are no DJs).

The puzzle he posed was thus: 11% of women and 16% of men admit to doing this in the workplace.

"Ah now" said genial taxi driver "that's a tough one, what do you reckon?" I looked at him in the mirror, trying to work out if he was taking the piss out of me or not. It seemed not. Fuck, I thought, it's a bit of a racy competition for Dublin's Country Mix at this hour of the morning, isn't it? I couldn't hide my dirty snigger from the driver as I hazarded a few guesses in my head.

11% of women and 16% of men admit to having affairs in the workplace... 11% of women and 16% of men admit to sleeping in the workplace... 11% of women and 16% of men admit to masturbating in the workplace... 11% of women and 16% of men admit to lusting after the boss in the workplace... 11% of women and 16% of men admit to not washing their hands after using the toilet in the workplace... 11% of women and 16% of men admit to picking their noses in the workplace...

A nice Garth Brooks number and the first few calls and texts began to trickle through. And fuck me if they didn't make me feel like such a deviant for entertaining thoughts such as the ones above. Breda wanted to know if it might be "going for a jog at lunchtime". Ann thought it might be "smiling at their colleagues in the morning". James, the dark horse, thought it might be that they "have a cigarette outside with some of the others". Thomas called to say that it was his seventieth birthday and that he thought it might be "playing the fool. You know, play acting, a bit of tomfoolery!".

"I think he might have it there" said genial taxi driver, nodding to himself.

Neither A Liar Nor A Lunatic No More

LC's swansong.

*sniff*

Surely Some Mistake?

I'm delighted to see I've been longlisted for the mostest funniest post category in the Irish blog awards. I'm also somewhat perplexed. Granted, the one about burying a dead pet in a tampon box in my front garden has an element of comedic shadenfreude to it. It wasn't funny at the time, but I can laugh about it now. Kind of. But this one about shopping? That's about as funny as an RTÉ sitcom.

Redbeast got my vote for The Furniture Boy, which is one of the funniest things I've read all year and deserves a big fat prize. OneFor might've gotten my vote for his one about Dublin's disaffected youth's alarming penchant for ugly effete haircuts and pastel coloured clothing but I couldn't find it - presumably it was lost when he moved over to wordpress. I'm planning on making my way through the mostest funniest list next time I have an hour or two to spare and I'm hoping it'll throw up some gems and restore my faith in the Awards. I suspect some people may have been nominating themselves or bribing their mothers to do it for them, you see... Round 1 of the judging has left me disappointed, I have to admit; I found little to inspire me in the 20 something blogs I had to read. I trust that the eventual winners will be nothing short of stellar talents but some of the ones I ploughed through would seem to support John Waters' well thought out and wonderfully articulated reservations about the blogosphere. There's an awful lot of drivel out there.

You folk in the sidebar rock though. Obviously.

I Heart London

Highlights:

• Seeing the dinosaurs in the Natural History Museum. While I will concede that the London museum is bigger and better has more educational stuff than our Dead Zoo in Dublin, ours has far more stuffed animals. I like stuffed things.
• Meeting Davey and his bandaged finger. He'd want to mind where he sticks them in future. He's funny, cute, a DJ and has a beard. I think it might be love.
  
• Going for a walk in the park in Acton and seeing squirrels, a black swan, a woodpecker and parrots. Wild ones, in the trees. In London, in winter.
  
• Drinking in Camden and thinking I'm much cooler than I really am. Realising that I'm cooler than I was, at least, as am drinking in Camden.
• Getting found again after getting lost on the tube and being pathetically grateful for it. Drinking in the city is fun. Commuting back to outer space is not.
• Curling up on the couch in front of the ridiculously large television and drinking the many cups of tea made for me by my gracious, charming and generous host.
  
• Laughing at LC (my gracious, charming and generous host) when a be-dreadlocked man-lady at the bar takes umbrage to him staring at his/her arse and gives him lip as he-she struts his (admittedly fine) arse back up the stairs.
  
• Waking up on a cold Tuesday morning in February with nothing to do for the day other than snuggle back down under the blankets again to see what I could find there.
  

The High Life

Things you do not want to hear when you've just strapped yourself in on the 7.45pm 8.15pm 8.30(ish)pm flight from London to Dublin:

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen! This is your captain speaking!"

Not Enough Hours In My Day

I meant to write lots of lovely posts today but I've been up to my teeth. Next week I'll tell you all about:

• My night out on Thursday which left me with a sore head and a handbag stinking of chips
• The haircut that I didn't actually get but which was admired by all and sundry on Friday
• Ego massages Talking blogs with Rua while stuck in traffic for about 486 hours yesterday
• Eating shoeleather for dinner in a fancy hotel
• Being interviewed for local radio ("every farmer in Cavan will be ringing me looking for the lovely Dublin girl's number after that...")
• Talking shite to a captive audience because I was too hungover to prepare a proper lecture for them, and getting away with it (I hope)
  

It'll all have to wait though. I'm off to London in the morning and I have a bag to pack.

Woohoo!