The nicest compliment anyone has ever paid me was to tell me that I look like my grandmother in this photo. I never knew her, she died when my father was just in his teens. I think she was very beautiful.
Monday, March 31, 2008
The nicest compliment anyone has ever paid me was to tell me that I look like my grandmother in this photo. I never knew her, she died when my father was just in his teens. I think she was very beautiful.
Saturday afternoon in my bedroom, with the kitchen scissors. Not a raging success. It's more difficult than I imagined to cut your own hair.
In the sitting room where the Leitrim Lady tried to repair the damage done by yours truly. A marginally more successful failure, but a much more stressful one (she being less snip-happy than myself). A smaller scissors is apparently key to the operation, as is a steady hand. And a comb, if you want to be fancy and have an even fringe.
In my aunt's kitchen, after a host of concerned aunties have "admired" my Mary Quant look and asked me in front of my by now very embarrassed mother if I had, in fact, cut it myself. "It doesn't look that crooked til you look at your eyebrows" offers my sister, helpfully. Mam fixes it, I blame the entire mess on the Leitrim Lady, nobody buys it.
Why is she writing about herself in the third person? Is it not already weird enough that she keeps a blog?
I'm pleasantly tired after the weekend's fun and frolics. I was unpleasantly tired last night though; panda-eyed and frisky but without enough energy in my body to keep up with my brain. Not a nice way to be - you feel like you're going a little crazy. After Friday night's lapses in common sense and decorum I ended up with two houseguests for the weekend; the unfailingly polite Doc (whose only rival for talkativeness is the Swede) and Jeeps, the strange man with alarmingly straightforward manners. They'd come from London and Berlin respectively to celebrate the New Daddy's birthday with what was originally to be a curry-and-karaoke night and ended up being a free-beer-in-Hogans followed by shite-meal-in-overpriced-restaurant* followed by frolics-in-Rí-Rá followed by Campari-and-shitetalk-til-8am-back-in-mine kind of night. Scrubbed up in suits and dresses we were quite the dapper dozen and my outfit** earned me some much appreciated compliments, though I've yet to be featured in Dublin Streets.
I didn't kiss Jeeps again on the Saturday, partly because there'd been an annoying little butterfly fluttering around him all evening and I had no interest in vying with her for his attentions and partly also because I was beginning to see what the New Mammy had warned me about before I kissed him all of those months ago. I think with maybe one exception he'd had his way with most if not all of the ladies in our company, including the Poet, a college friend of mine that I hadn't expected to run into. "So, how do you know Jeeps?" I asked her, having apologised for him stealing the box of Ferrero Rocher she'd been carrying only to discover that she knew him and that they were actually his birthday present. "He picked me up in a club, and we've kept in touch" she replied, looking embarrassed. "I thought I was going out with him for a while, but he didn't." She did point out that the trail of women he'd left in his wake were rather attractive ones and that we should be flattered to be in such beautiful company.
My eminently wise flatmate the Leitrim Lady took another tack altogether and bollocked me once more for my short-sightedness. Herself and the Swede are both very taken with the Doc and are of the (loudly voiced) opinion that he and I should marry, and soon. "You have to stop kissing people just because they ask you to, you dopey bitch" she admonished. "Learn to play a longer game!"
*An hour and a half late in seating us at our (pre-booked) table, no mention that the steaks didn't come with any side dishes (which left 8 of us sitting bewildered with a slab of meat and a €2 ramekin of sauce each) no side orders brought to the table despite my ordering some once this was realised, my "blue" steak a brownish pink medium, tough and sinewy and completely fucking inexcusable at €28. Bad service, bad food, disgraceful prices.
**I wore my diner waitress dress again: candy striped halterneck with a wide swingy skirt that I filled with layers of stiff blue, red and pink netting to make it stand out. Cute Stranger in Hogans - "your dress is fuckin' deadly! I mean it's, eh, beautiful!"
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Happy flying, Doc.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
- Meet the Jock and the SWF for a drink.
- Keep it close to home (Kennedy's) and stay for three drinks, maximum.
- Be in bed by 11pm and fresh for study by 9am.
- Ignore the New Daddy's taunts and resist getting a taxi over to Sin É.
- Remain unswayed by that strange man with alarmingly straightforward manners (again).
Friday, March 28, 2008
I feel a little better.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
I was reminded by my gaelgóir friends to watch Des Bishop's Irish language programme, In The Name of the Fada, on RTÉ (March 13).
[Strike #1: Gaeilgeoirí don't have non-Gaeilgeoir friends, do they? And if you insist on referring to Irish speakers as if they merit a special category of friend - learn to spell Gaeilgeoir. Or look it up. Whatevs.]
The effervescent, high-pitched tone baffled me.
[Effervescence and Gaeilge, like Mentos and Diet Coke, do not mix. Oh no, wait...]
This new Irish word starting with 'ph' and ending with 'k' in phonetic sounds kept coming into his delivery of newly-acquired Irish; in fact it was used almost twice in some abairtí gearra.
[I believe the word may have been "fuck", Eilís, with an "f". The Urban Dictionary gives a handy guide to its usage.]
I was at a loss and reached for my bíobla na Gaeilge (Ó Domhnall), but failed to find such a word.
[I hear they're bringing out a Lolcat edition! I'm excited.]
However, this f..k focal kept 'adorning' each Irish sentence, and as it was not in keeping with the rich, flowery blas of the gaeilge that I learned, I lost interest and switched my TV to 'balbh'.
[Had they censored the subtitles?]
I was reminded of that old saying 'a little knowledge is a dangerous thing'.
[I suspect you might be proof positive of that, Eilís.]
Eilís Uí Bhriain
Caisleán Uí Liatháin
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Five stiff and awkward minutes later she left with my phone number and a vague promise to meet her for a drink.
I'm such a sack. Why do I keep doing this?*
*I have form.
ONE in four people believe women who have been raped are partly to blame for the crime because of how they dressed, their sexual history or how much they had to drink. (link here)I heard this on the radio last night and wondered this morning if my tired brain had made it up. I have very frequent and vivid nightmares; I wondered if the story was a fragment of last night's unpleasantness that had followed me into my Wednesday. My cursory reading of the paper this morning saw no mention of the poll, so I assumed that I'd made it up. Then I read Twenty's post.
- 10% of people think the victim is entirely at fault if she has had a number of sexual partners.
- 37% think a woman who flirts extensively is at least complicit, if not completely in the wrong, if she is the victim of a sex crime.
- 33% think a woman is either partly or fully to blame if she wears revealing clothes.
- 38% believe a woman must share some of the blame if she walks through a deserted area.
Sam's comment over at Twenty's was one of the (very*) few considered efforts to respond to his understated post :
It is hard to know where to start with cretins like this. Attitudes like this bear some responsibility for some rape victims never reporting the crime done against them. They also betray a pretty pitiful view of men as lower order creatures who mustn’t be riled or stimulated in case they bite and wouldn’t that be your own fault too.I have not been raped, but like many women I have had cause to be anxious on occasion (remember this bastard?). I didn't report him, I would not have known what to say. I would have been worried that my own actions that night would be called into question and that I would be made to feel worse for having made a fuss. Why didn't I ignore him when he first spoke to me? Why didn't I just get a taxi? What was I thinking going out drinking in the first place? I was wracked with guilt after that night, wondering if there was something about me that encouraged him, something I did, something I am.
I have had my share of lovers. I am an incorrigible flirt, albeit a clumsy one. I wear skirts to show off my legs. I like to walk home.
One in four think I'm asking for it?
I would imagine that some of these people are voicing their opinions on the subject of "date rape"** though I have nothing to say that the questionnaire was phrased in such a way as to imply date rape as opposed to gang rape, marital rape, prison rape, oral rape, anal rape or any other violation. I imagine this to be the case in a vain effort to get my head around the survey's conclusions, because I cannot believe that people can be so sanctimonious, so judgemental, so unforgiving in the face of something so awful. I'm disgusted at myself for wondering this at all, because it means that subconsciously I'm considering date rape as something that could be invited.
*The other cunts would put you off commenting on what is a very readable blog - like a load of smelly and ignorant arseholes would deter you from your favourite pub.
**"Date rape" is a term I very much take issue with. Blakkat has written an articulate piece on the subject, it's a long post but worth a read.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Monday, March 24, 2008
And having my own little corner of the city to retreat to tomorrow when it all becomes a bit too much for me.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Now I need to set about planning my next adventure, as without something to look forward to I shall succumb to the booze blues and spend the rest of the week lazing despondantly on the couch, watching Project Catwalk reruns and laughing out loud every time Ben de Lisi cries.
Twice recently I have raised it in a very matter-of-fact way with friends and I got the impression that both of them were shocked by what I said. The Jock and I were out carousing and she was telling me about a friend of hers that she wants to set me up with for a blind date. She reckoned we'd be a great match, I wasn't so sure. I was pretty confident that I'd like him, but terrified that he'd meet me and wonder why she had set him up with some fat bird. So I said as much. She looked appalled. The second instance was in a text I sent to GingerBeard; I was smarting from another little disappointment and his sympathetic "his loss" text message elicited an angry "why it's really not his loss" response from me (centering around the fact that I think I'm fat and maybe mental). He got angry with me, disgusted that I'd say such a thing about myself.
I paused in front of the mirror this morning as I dried myself after my shower. Let the towel fall and took a long look at myself. Not posed, not poised, just nude. Drank in the curves, the paler-than-pasty skin, flushed with the heat of the shower. Thought of all the lovers I've had who were less than perfect physical specimens but whom I've lusted after regardless and tried to see myself as a lover might see me.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
It was fucking delicious.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Teh Internets - it's a bad influence.
It's almost time for the annual Great Friday Party.
She left with Roddy Doyle's The Deportees in the end, a harmless little book of funny vignettes about, em, racism.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Sad? I am and I amn't. There has been a lot of debate recently on the subject of cultural and national identity and what it means to be Irish (tis the season, I suppose) but I don't think I'm articulate enough on the subject to add much to the discussion. But you ramble inarticulately about all kinds of other things! cry the readers. Indeed and I do, but this is one I feel strongly about. So instead here are the pictures, and a little waffle I stole off teh internets about people throwing shoes.
Mucky Tunes: Stereo in the silt down by the Westmoreland Lock.
There's an interesting article on 'Shoefiti' on Wiki:
Some say that shoes hanging from the wires advertise a local crack house where crack cocaine is used and sold (in which case the shoes are sometimes referred to as "Crack Tennies"). It can also relate to a place where Heroin is sold to symbolize the fact that once you take Heroin you can never 'leave': a reference to the addictive nature of the drug. Others claim that the shoes so thrown commemorate a gang-related murder, or the death of a gang member, or as a way of marking gang turf.
Some claim that shoes are flung to commemorate the end of a school year, or a forthcoming marriage as part of a rite of passage. In Scotland, it has been said that when a young man has lost his virginity he tosses his shoes over telephone wires to announce this to his peers.
Others claim that the shoes are stolen from other people and tossed over the wires as a sort of bullying tactic, or as a practical joke played on drunkards. It may also be another manifestation of the human instinct to leave their mark on, and decorate, their surroundings.
Dubliners are nothing if not practical.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
I bought the wrong bulbs three times; my numerical dyslexia not allowing me to remember the simple one letter three number combination for the time it takes me to get from the flat to the hardware shop (5 minutes). I eventually hit on the right ones this evening and bought 2, just in case. Came home, screwed one in, flipped the switch and watched it light up - for all of two fucking seconds before the bulb blew. Tried the second one, optimist that I am. A barely audible pop - the sound of my triumphant bubble bursting.
*It may have just been that he's a clumsy shite. The details are hazy.
Ní fheadar fútsa, ach táimse excited.
Last year I made a television series called No Béarla, in which I travelled around Ireland trying to speak only Irish. I didn't get on very well, especially in Dublin, where I was often abused and ignored. Outside the capital, people were more friendly, but they rarely understood what I was trying to say. What struck me most were the expressions I saw in people's eyes: shame, fear, anger, jealousy and yearning. I wanted to know what lay behind this complex cocktail of emotion...I'd hazard a guess that the abuse, ignorance, shame, fear, anger, jealousy and yearning (really?) were a direct result of Magan's patronising demeanour and confrontational attitude. I remember watching the first series and thinking that although I speak perfectly fluent Irish, there's no way I'd entertain that gobshite if he approached me in the street. It was all the more disappointing because I had seen him interviewed by Páidí Ó Lionáird on Árdán before the No Béarla series was first aired and he came across as engaging, funny and genuinely interested in promoting an intelligent debate about modern attitudes to the Irish language. Then I watched it and thought "oh well, ho-fucking-hum then". I'm sure series II will be a revelation.
(From today's Irish Times - The plot to make Irish an alien language by Manchán Magan)
I'll review Des Bishop's In The Name Of The Fada in about an hour (I was out at a real life Gaeilgeoir thingy when it was aired last week - well done to the clever schedulers in RTÉ who broadcast it while Des was live on stage at the big gig for Seachtain na Gaeilge). I've higher hopes for that one...
I can't pinpoint when it was that GingerBeard and I became friends. For the longest time I could never remember his name; he'd call in to my office to use my scanner - which was just as well as I'd demanded one when they were fitting out my office and then never used it. I'd promise to email him the files and then have to sit there for ten minutes with my colleague trying to remember what his surname might be so that I could send the stuff on. He earned kudos by calling to have things scanned close to lunchtime and then agreeing to pick me up a sandwich while he was out, somehow this progressed to invitations for after-work pints with himself and his mate ("You should come, he has lovely hair. Bouffant style. Wait til you see..."). By now it feels like I've known him for years.
He drives me mental. He takes the piss out me constantly and in public, laying it on particularly thick about my twin Achilles heels; that I'm lacking in sense of both the common and fashion varieties. He mocks my fickle attitude to romance and my inept pursuit of same. He antagonises me when I have a hangover and am hovering dangerously close to tears. He makes valiant if not always successful efforts to cheer me up when I'm having a black day, and he occasionally brings me chocolate. He thinks my blog is ridiculous* but reads it most days and has perfected the art of making "put that in your blog!" sound just like a stinging riposte. He's stubborn as a pig, kind-hearted, annoyingly overprotective, disarmingly funny and touchingly generous. I piss him off royally and unintentionally by doing all manner of things (like laughing at him when he falls off his bike) but thankfully, he always gets over it.
He turns, oh, I dunno, 38 or something today.
*I should perhaps qualify that by saying that he thinks all blogs are ridiculous, and only reads mine and his brother's. I'm not sure which one of ours he thinks is worse.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Oh no, wait...
I got up, met my brother, strolled into town to marvel at the efforts that everyone else had gone to to celebrate our national holiday and then headed to Da Pino's for a pizza (the remains of which are reheating in the oven as I type - aubergines, broccoli, pepperoni, chillies, sweet peppers and cheese). The weather was beautiful so we walked then from Dame St. out to Ringsend, following the Liffey and taking a few photographs along the way, talking through some of the things that have been going on for us over the last couple of weeks. They've been a difficult few weeks.
Back to my flat then for tea and a DVD (28 Weeks Later - terrifying, brilliant) and then another stroll, this time to Parnell St via George's Dock, where we picked up the Hurler and headed to the cinema to see Be Kind, Rewind (which was very charming, Mos Def more than making up for the annoyance that is Jack Black). We walked home again via Scruffy Murphys, where the lads had a Guinness each and I had an orange juice. I'm bursting with virtue and pizza now, and am going straight to bed before my halo slips.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Bruges looks nice though.
The Ambassador was packed to the rafters when the two boys took to the stage and the whole place stank of high excitement, testosterone and greasy hair. The atmosphere was electric as they kicked off... but not, alas, for long. To put it mildly, the set was balls. It may have been a masterclass in vinyl but the audience got pissed off with it pretty quickly; choppy and sloppy changes in style and pace, short samples that led to nothing, build-ups that went nowhere. It never got going, people got bored and spent their time in the gruesome pile-ups at the bar or out smoking in the car park. There was a queue for the cloakroom before they'd quite finished their set, one head-the-ball leading the rest in a cheer for a refund. What I'd reckoned on being the gig of the year was a damp squib, a fart in a spacesuit, a big fat disappointment.
Pity the poor cunts who forked out €70 outside for tickets.
Friday, March 14, 2008
A woman (35) in Kansas sat on her boyfriend's toilet for two years. Sheriff Bryan Whipple of Ness City said it appeared her skin had grown around the seat.
She initially refused emergency medical services but was finally convinced by responders and her boyfriend that she needed to be checked out at a hospital.
"We pried the toilet seat off with a pry bar and the seat went with her to the hospital," Whipple said. "She was not glued. She was not tied. She was just physically stuck by her body. It is hard to imagine . . . I still have a hard time imagining it myself."
Her boyfriend told police he brought her food and water, and asked her every day to come out of the bathroom. "Her reply would be, 'maybe tomorrow'."
Police are investigating whether she was mistreated but she has refused to co-operate.
GingerBeard's put all of my money (€8) on Refinement in the 12.30 at Cheltenham. Refinement. Suits me, no?
The fucking nag came in second; my money was on him to win. I've drawn Denman and Halcon Genelardais in Primal's sweep though, so there's hope for me yet. Meanwhile I've dispatched the Ginger one with another €5 which I probably should have just spent on Creme Eggs, or maybe set on fire.
Denman did me proud in the sweep but GingerBeard won't tell me what he put my fiver on, so I don't know if I'm rich yet. I suspect not.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
In other gambling news, I did not win last night's lottery. Mainly because I did not buy a ticket. I didn't buy a ticket because I don't know how, having never done it and I'm reluctant to expose my naiveté in my local shop (where the proprietor already thinks I'm a retard because I always drop my change on the floor). I'm hoping that Disgrace won and has decided that his newfound wealth means nothing to him without me to share it with.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
So... The rules. Link to the idiot that tagged you (see above). Post 7 random facts about yourself and then lumber 7 other poor shites with the same MEME by naming them and leaving a comment on each of their blogs. I won't be doing that because I don't want to nominate some grumpyhole who'll verbally abuse me like I did poor Terence. A new game though - I'd like you, dear readers, to add to my list of 7 by posting in the comments any other random facts about me that you know to be true (should you be fortunate enough to know me in the flesh) or that you suspect to be true, if all you have to go on is the blog. The most accurate will win a prize (yet to be decided but it will be an actual prize, I promise you).
- The first CD I ever bought was The Spin Doctors' Pocket Full Of Kryptonite, which I bought in a little record shop in Chester. I still love it. The first album I ever bought with my own money was Nirvana's In Utero, on tape. A bit of a departure for me - I was mainly into Neil Diamond at the time.
- When I was 25 I had a fling with a man 9 years older than me, and then another with a man who was 7 years younger. I regretted both but for very different reasons.
- I vomit instantly if I drink shots, though in my teens I was very very good at it.
- I write a sex column.
- My first kiss was with my first boyfriend, and wasn't until I was 15 years old. We ended up together for 2 1/2 years, and I think that first kiss lasted for about 2 1/2 days.
- I suspect I have dyscalculia (numerical dyslexia). Apparently that's just Irish for "shit at maths".
- The first concert I ever went to was Chris de Burgh. On the same night, my brother had his very first Big Mac (as compensation for being too young to go to the gig). Only one of those love affairs has stood the test of time.
I also got myself one for Oxegen. I know, I know... The worst festival the world has ever seen, etc. Well, I missed it last year but I've been every other year and I've always had an absolute fucking ball. My folks live within walking distance and are very obliging when it comes to getting the hell out of dodge and giving me the run of the place for the weekend, so my siblings and I usually set up a festival base-camp and indulge our friends in champagne breakfasts, cocktail lunches, unlimited jacks roll, hot showers, comfortable beds, big dirty fry-ups and dry clothing. Sure, the punters out there are little cunts for the most part. I'm not there to see them, though - this year I'll be there to see Rage Against The Machine, Aphex Twin, The Verve, Interpol, REM, Editors, The Prodigy, Counting Crows, Seasick Steve, The Charlatans, Justice, Ian Brown, Róisín Murphy, Band of Horses and Alabama 3.
Bring it on.
My air of decorum lapsed between the funeral home and the church; my dad and I took a stroll instead of a lift and the elastic snapped in the waistband of my woolly black tights, meaning I had to spend the rest of the evening trying to walk with my legs crossed lest the tights ended up around my ankles (I eventually tied a great big knot in the waistband, making for an unflattering silhouette but a more natural gait). I'm playing it safe for the funeral mass this morning and wearing jeans and cowboy boots. I've to do a reading (as Gaeilge, so I may as well give a weather report as a reading from the Book of Wisdom, as I think I'll be the only one present who speaks Irish anyway) and the last thing I want is to trip over my own undergarments as I step up to the plate.
I am, however, reassured that no matter what I do up there this morning, I cannot possibly be more offensive than the priest who welcomed Grandad to the church last night. I've written about Fr. Sensitive before, after I enjoyed a particularly misogynistic sermon of his over Christmas. You might expect a degree of compassion from him on an occasion such as this one, but you would be disappointed. As well as getting Grandad's name wrong from the get-go, he indulged in an offensive, insensitive, irrelevant and entirely inappropriate sermon which lasted for the best part of, oh, a fucking lifetime. He spoke mainly about the sanctity of heterosexual marriage and the nuclear family, denouncing promiscuity (repeatedly, loudly and in no uncertain terms) single parent families, "other things" and money, the root of all evil. He peppered his sermon with humanising touches, being holy does not have to mean being boring you know. Why, he himself enjoys the characters in the Premiership and has a friend video the football for him. "Alex liked football too" he admitted, trying to turn his self-indulgent rant into something that was relevant to the man we were there to mourn and failing miserably by again calling him by the wrong name. Had it been anything other than my grandfather's removal I'd have walked out, as would everyone else I spoke to after the sermon. As my brother pointed out afterwards, funerals are the Catholic church's no. 1 PR opportunity, where they can prove their worth by offering solace to a grieving family in front of a crowd that they wouldn't have on a Sunday - an audience, not a congregation. Instead people left the church yesterday evening relieved not to be a part of it.
Sunday, March 09, 2008
Thought of the Day over at One For The Road:
Rosie better like that fucking lamp I bought... it cost me enough.
Friday, March 07, 2008
Thursday, March 06, 2008
I was shuffling and shuftying along through the city this morning when I noticed a new horror nested on the corner of Nassau St. and Kildare St. The unattractive sign outside promises pessimistically safe times: No Drugs, No Drunks, No Problems. But for the singleton who's tired of flailing around pathetically to dance tunes, trying in vain to impress the object of their tequila-fulled affections with pop-n-lock(ed) robot dancing, the sign also offers a glimmer of hope. For the club is GR80s (geddit?) and their USP* is their slow sets.
I nearly puked. I cannot imagine anything worse than revisiting the slow set horrors of my teenage years (which were in the 90s, incidentally, but we were a little behind the times. Besides, GR90s just doesn't have the same zing! to it). The way the dancefloor cleared as soon as the first bars of a Mariah Carey/Whitney Houston/Bryan Fucking Adams song kicked in, except for one drunken lunatic who'd been dancing alone and had simply not noticed. The way the floor gradually filled with groping couples, usually comprised of your friends and boys they knew you fancied. The way the drunken lunatic would ricochet off them until he was eventually expelled from the floor, at which point he'd lurch in your direction, go straight for your tits and then try to ask you to dance but be unable to pronounce "want", "to" or "dance". The way your sober, well-meaning and well-mannered but unattractive friend would step in to save you - resulting in an awkward once-around-the-floor where you try to hold him at arms' length to avoid his erection before feigning thirst and/or incontinence and rushing off to the bar and/or bathroom. It took me years of hard work and costly drugs to repair the damage that school discos and nightclub slow sets did to my teenage self-confidence. I suspect that one night in GR80s would see all of my efforts undone. I shall be avoiding that one like the plague.
*Unique Selling Point - apparently it's a dating thing?
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Cé nach bhfaca mé Conor le roinnt blianta anuas, bhí agus beidh sé i gcónaí i mo chuimhne. Ba chlann ollmhór iad muintir Synnott i gcomparáid leis an dream s'againne; seisear páiste san iomlán agus tuismitheoirí chomh lách, croíúil agus ceanúil le mo thuismitheoirí féin. Ba chúis sceitimíní i gcónaí na saoire i mí Lúnasa dom, mar óna raibh mé i mo pháiste an-óg go dtí go raibh mé i mo dhéagóir soiniciúil rachadh muid ar saoire leo ar feadh coicíse go baile beag iargúlta i gcontae Chiarraí. Áit a raibh chomh fada sin a shiúl ó bhruachbhailte Baile Átha Cliath gur shíl muid nach mbainfimid amach riamh é; turas marfach sa Talbot Solara a thiomáin m'athair. Áit a raibh chomh fada sin ó mo thaithí ar an saol mar Jackeen. Áit a raibh deis agam crochadh thart leis agus lena dheartháir óg a bhí ar chomhaois liomsa, mé leath i ngrá leis an mbeirt acu. Bhí Conor féin sé bliana níos sine ná mé, an chéad crush gur cuimhin liom a bheith agam. Chomh cool, cumas ealaíne aige, cumas grinn, cliste, dathúil, spraíúil, spreagúil. Mé mar dhéagóir óg ag brionglóideach go dtitfeadh sé i ngrá liom chomh luath is go mbeinn i mo bhean. Sílim go raibh mé leath ag brionglóideach sin go fóill nuair a rinne mé iarracht bualadh leis thall i Sydney anuraidh ach ar an ndrochuair níor éirigh linn bualadh lena chéile sa deireadh, ceal ama roimh domsa taisteal abhaile arís.
Níl insint ar an gcroíbhriseadh a bheidh ann ina dhiaidh dá chlann agus cairde. Ní féidir rud ar bith a dhéanamh anois ach cuimhne air, agus é a chaoineadh.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
One could ignore it, and maintain a dignified silence. My garrulousness generally does not allow for such things.
One could rally back with a stream of invective; berating the Dear Jane's author for choosing an email over a call, for leaving it for too long before sending the email in the first place, for not having the energy or imagination to pursue something more.
One could be cheery and nonchalant; thanks, but I didn't care too much anyway.
Or one could be honest, disappointed, and a little relieved.
In the end I replied with the words I had rattled off upon reading the email. It's the only way I know how.
*The source of all knowledge informs me that In more recent times, women have come to be subjected to such impersonal break-up letters as well. These are refered (sic) to as "Dear Jane" letters.
Monday, March 03, 2008
I had a brilliant night, just not at the awards. As soon as all the crystal had been divvied up Rua, OneFor and I retreated once more to the relative safety of Kennedys, where OneFor and I had already ploughed through approximately 4 rounds of dutch courage prior to heading to the awards in the first place. From there to Whelans (more vodka, accidental meetings, unsolicited and creepy neck massages) and then the long walk home (arguments over directions, whingeing about stiletto heels, offers of piggyback rides and mean digs about my large feet) to the flat (two DJs with ADD, a large bottle of Pancho, a broken lamp, some dancing, no sleep). A text from Rua the following evening - beidh an bua againn sa fíor domhain! I cared not a jot, I'd won a consolation prize.