Rosie Is Tired

I've Been Dreaming Of Sleep - And Ape Men, With Metal Parts

I've had to restrict myself to reading John Connolly's The Book of Lost Things during daylight hours because the Crooked Man was crawling creepily into my dreams. Normally books do not affect my nightmares, but this one is about the fairytale creatures that populate my subconscious sneaking from the books of a young boy and leaching into his already uncomfortable reality.

The Hurler and I were discussing dreams last night (over hot chilli and bottles of Stella, lest you think we're big girl's blouses*) and he reckons he's as suggestible as I am. He followed the conversation up with a stunning example this morning - having spent a good two minutes talking about Batman before we'd eaten dinner, he then dreamt that we were Batman (that's right, both of us) and we were running around buildings in the Docklands as a fundraiser to buy some new bat gear.

For once I'd like my subconscious to suggest that I might be a steel-underpantsed superhero in my dreams, rather than a hapless anti-heroine who is about to have her face eaten by zebra-striped zombie vampires.

*Though we did later go for a stroll down to the river with the Tall One to watch the sun set over the city and eat ice creams.

Pure Smut

My editor-in-jest Gimme has finally gotten his edit of my last Cailín sa Chathair column back to me, published here for your delight (the back catalogue is over there in the sidebar, if you're bored). His red pen comments scribbled in the margins included hideous, ugh! this just looks horrible and my personal favourite - I don't know, just fucking fix it. It's a good job his honesty is becoming.

Fans of Gimme's particular brand of bile will be excited and delighted to know that he shall be staging his magnificent return to blogging on Friday, after a month of sitting on his hole and wishing he could blog about it. No pressure. His other objectives included staying off the beer (FAIL) and not being a fat cunt (he wasn't a fat cunt to begin with, so I'm counting this one as a FAIL too). To celebrate Friday for the momentous occasion that it surely will be, I plan to redesign his blog. I left my new look to a professional but I'm quite happy to make a bollix of his. I'm off to do a crash course in Photoshop this afternoon (by happy coincidence rather than design) so the results are bound to be spectacular. Again, no pressure.

Ardent fans of Cailín sa Chathair should email her with offers will be gutted to hear that there'll be no August edition of Nós*, because even ace young Gaeilgeoirí have to take a holiday some time. There are great plans afoot for the September one, however, including actual printed copies and Cailín sa Chathair maybe even having some sex in the meantime that she can write about.

***Very Exciting Update***

Glac síntús le Nós* ANSEO. No, really. Do it.

Tuesday's A Bastard

But it's Wednesday. And tomorrow, thank fuck, will be Thursday.

Puball Dom' Phobal

Huzzah! Féach ar seo - Puball na Gaeilge ag an Picnic EkelektriK! Ní bheidh orm dul ó chrusty go crusty ag lorg duine éigin le Gaoluinn a labhairt liom a thuilleadh, mar beidh Manchán ina emMCee! Tá mé thar a bheith excited, thaitin No Béarla chomh mór sin liom go bhfuil mé meidhreach macnasach leis an nóisean go mbeidh sé ann sa flesh.

Ní gá go gcuirfí mo mhacnas meidhreach amú ach oiread mar feicim go mbeidh scóráil sciobtha (luaschliúsaíocht?) acu sa phuball, so tá seans (cuíosach) ann go n-éireoidh liom fear breá a aimsiú dom féin (rud nach dtarlaíonn ariamh domsa ag féilte ceoil, ach measaim go mbeidh ratio níos fábharaí anseo - ó mo thaithí ar imeachtaí Gaeilge sa phríomhchathair ar aon nós). Beidh Karaoke CLG acu chomh maith (nó "Karaoke GAA" dóibh siúd nach tréanghaeilgeoirí iad - níl Gaoluinn líofa agat muna mbaineann tú úsáid as na hacrainmneacha, ambaiste!) ach toisc nach bhfuil suim dá laghad agamsa i gcúrsaí spóirt, sílim go bhfanfaidh mé leis an mBingo le Hairy O'Mara. Taithníonn liathróidí go mór liom. Tá drámaíocht agus seó puipéid geallta dúinn chomh maith, ach má éiríonn leis an muppet áirithe seo bualadh le MC Muipéad arís tá chuile sheans ann go ndéanfaidh sí exhibition ceart di féin os comhair pé lucht féachana a bheas ann (is leor nod don eolach).

Feicim go bhfuil leathanach ar shuíomh na Picnice féin mar gheall air, ach níor thuig mé focal dá raibh ann de dheasca é a bheith scríofa i dteanga aisteach éigin. Chur mé ríomhphost acu láithreach bonn le gearrán a dhéanamh mar go raibh mílitriú acu ar an bhfocal "Gaeilge" fiú amháin, agus nach bhfuil an téacs acu i nGaoluinn bhlasta. Manchán! Get the finger out! Sin a dhéanann Gaeilgeoirí maithe, no? Gearáin faoi mionmórphointí gramadaí? Anyhoo, feicim ón suíomh go mbeidh "prompters" acu, dóibh siúd atá ólta a dhóthain le freastal ar imeachtaí ann ach nach bhfuil dóthain Gaoluinn bhlasta acu le fuck-all a thuiscint. Sílim go gcuirfidh mé m'ainm chun tosaigh le bheith mar duine de na cigirí pokers seo, samhlaigh an chraic a bheadh agat. Aistriúchán chomhuaineach don scóráil sciobtha - "cad is ainm duit?" "eh, nice tits".

Bhí mé ag iarraidh smaoineamh ar conas go bhféadfainn slot a fháil dom féin ar an mbille. Seó beo an Chailín sa Chathair, bhur mbarúil?

On My Lonesome

The Leitrim Lady left me a week ago, she's off frolicking out foreign for the next eleven weeks. I'm not bitter; or at least I wasn't until the Swede fucked off to Kenya for a few weeks on Friday. Now I'm just scared. He left me with a fridge full of liquid sustenance and a plea not to burn the flat down in their absence - I'm trying hard, but to be honest I'm more concerned that I'll adopt a cat and start wiping my arse with my hair in the absence of human company of an evening.

Obviously they've left me unsupervised before, just never for this length of time. I worry that I will start talking to myself. Or become so accustomed to walking around naked that I'll turn feral. So in a desperate plea for some form of human company, I broke the washing machine. Saturday morning then was spent in the company of deliverymen and plumbers, and while none of them quite lived up to my bored housewife fantasies (I really must lay off the porn) they were affable and chatty. Also, one of them is a helicopter pilot in his spare time. None but the finest of hired help for Rosie! Sadly, he charges by the hour, and is very bloody expensive.

Having exhausted his patience for demonstrations of the spin cycle, I put on an overdue wash of dirty knickers and set forth into the sunshine in search of some convivial company. I met the SWF and the Vet for a stroll around the chocolate market in Temple Bar. The place was jammed with wild-eyed women in search of of a cocoa fix who, like me, just read "chocolate" and bolted for the square, neglecting to check times or dates - the chocolate market is in fact on today. We ditched in favour of a spot of accidental handbag shopping (a little brown leather mini-suitcase from Urban Outfitters) and a table in sunny Bloom's Quarter where we drank wine, talked shite and snarfed tapenade.

From there I headed off to dinner with a pretty lady, feeling all cosmopolitan now that I was full of wine and olives. My date had chosen our destination because the waiter is "one hot motherfucker" (and she figured we could both do with a little sexy distraction) but she proved to be more than ample distraction herself. We spent a pleasant few hours gossiping about boys and bloggers, comparing lies and statistics and solving the world's ills. A few drinks and a charming young man later I tottled home, slightly squiffy and chuffed at the idea of having the flat to myself. Why, I could do what I liked! ("Have lots of sex" counseled Annie. Which is great in theory, we agreed, but short of my stopping men on the street it is unlikely to transpire over the next three weeks).

In the end I had a cigarette on the balcony, with a cup of earl grey and two paracetamol to ward off this morning's hangover. I texted my date to tell her how lovely she is, while slathering my lips in the honey balm she'd so thoughtfully brought as a present for me. I somewhat ill-advisedly texted last week's date to see if he has indeed disappeared in a puff of smoke up his own hole. Quite probably - I didn't get an answer. Then, reasonably full of tea, affection, and philosophical thoughts, I went to bed happy. Saturdays on your Todd aren't so bad after all. My Rabbit may not cuddle but it gives good head, and I don't need to make it breakfast on a Sunday morning. What more could a girl want of a weekend?

Link Love*

So I have another dirty big crush. On a girl. Well, four of them to be precise - the budgies in The Anti-Room. Group blogs usually do nothing for me (being the shy sort, I always feel like I'm gatecrashing a party) but, well, this one makes me fidget. In a good way. An absolutely marvellous place to start would be with Leigh's Fat Kid Theory because, well, it's inspirational. Also, it has curved mickeys and the word "gonkleton" in it.

*I deleted my Pretend Friends link page a while back (yes, after that post) and waited for the backlash to this breach of blogging etiquette... but nobody noticed. It had started out as a list of the blogs I loved, but my loves are fleeting, fickle and too easily won with flattery. And the list was too long. Being too much of a chicken to cull, I opted for a clean slate and the sexy Rosie Loves link in the sidebar (thanks, AJ). So chickety check that shit out when you tire of my whining about hangovers, boredom and boys not calling me.

Aloysisus Wash The Dishes

It Took Two Pillows To Make That Jelly Belly

Tuesday just gone would have marked Crash Grandadicoot's birthday. He was fond of his birthdays as he was fond of Christmas - not for the presents (as he insisted that he already had everything that a man could ever want) but because it gave him an excuse to gather his family around him. I don't know why he felt he needed an excuse as not a weekend goes by where the small 2-up 2-down house isn't swamped by about a gazillion of us, but far be it from me to point this out. Maybe it was the excuse to dress up that he was really after. His Santy rig-out every Christmas was quite the thing, and he was a great man for modelling whatever winterwear he was gifted for his July birthdays.

I spent Monday evening in my Nana's along with my brother and sister, eating her out of house and home. We spent time catching her up on all our gossip and while I knew his birthday was coming up the following day, I didn't mention it. There was plenty of mention of him, as there always is, but not of his birthday. I knew that my uncle was coming over the following evening to bring her down to the Mount Jerome, where his ashes have been interred. She never thought she'd be the graveside type, turns out she is, at least on what would have been his birthday.

I thought about her on Tuesday. I thought about her all day. Wondered if I should call and if I did, what I might say to her. It's not like me - I'm never stuck for words with my nana. I thought I might text her instead, it's how I usually avoid potentially emotional or awkward situations; you can seem proactive and at the same time shunt the ball into the other person's court. And then turn your phone off. But I didn't text her. She only ever gets the first two lines anyway because she keep accidentally deleting the messages when she tries to scroll, but she's 76 (I think) so we'll let her off. What would I have said? Happy really fucking sad birthday? Thinking of you? She knows I'm thinking of her. And him.

I got a text from my mam that night, not because she was avoiding a potentially emotional or awkward situation but because she's in France. She was texting to tell me that she'd sat chatting to Grandad in a church that overlooked the local grandads at their boules (he played twice a week). She lit a candle and had a cry, but decided not to sing him happy birthday. I read the text and felt ... nothing. Swiftly followed by a sickening guilt at the realisation that I do not miss him as much as I should. And I carried on with my evening, read my book, went to bed.

This morning I am sitting at my desk in work, avoiding translation work and hiding behind my computer because I'm leaking tears as I write. I miss him much more than I had imagined.

Review: Batman

All the glowing and exhaustive reviews I'd happened across this week roused the sceptic in me. Contrarian that I am, I wanted to be just a little bit disappointed. Slightly underwhelmed. A trifle unwowed.

Fuck me though, it's brilliant.

Chesty La Rue

Dedicated to dedicated self-medicator Billy, who dedicated a post to me this week (which made me feel flattered, even if it had fuck-all to do with me at all. Yes, folks, it's that easy).

Last night as I lay dreaming, my spirit lover stood looking down at me. He cupped my chin in his hand and raised my face to look at him. "You" he breathed "inspire carpets". Later on that same dream, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing my teeth when I felt one come loose and promptly puked the rest of them into the sink.

"You should get your dreams analyzed" said the New Daddy, helpfully, sending on a link to a website that would do just that. So I had a browse, and it told me that the compliment (I think it was a compliment, and the site had nothing about carpets) means that I... *deep breath* desire romance (!) but I may have uttered some false or foul words and those words are coming back to haunt me (could be anything, really). Dreaming that I am brushing my teeth also signifies my level of confidence (which depends on the hour, and the breakfast), my struggles (minor, at most) and my aggressiveness (which also depends on the hour, and the breakfast). Apparently I need to look out for myself and my own interest and most of all, I need to quit feeling sorry for myself.

Dream analysis, like astrology, is a load of wank.

So this afternoon on my way home from work I stopped off to see my friend the Pharmacist for something to guarantee a good night's sleep clear my awful chesty cough. "Have you ever taken Exputex before?" the new and nosy lady asked. I suppressed a guilty grin (it happens to be the base ingredient in my not-yet-patented cold remedy) and managed a sickly nod. "When did the cough start?" oh... eh... *cough* (apologetic look and some more unconvincing muttering about it keeping me awake last night). "Well, just take three spoonfuls three times daily for the first two days - " At this point I had my hands out in supplication. Just give me the fucking bottle, lady.

We're tucked up in bed now, Exputex and I. And we're going to sleep well.

Beart Gan Leigheas...

...Foighne Is Fearr Dó.

Pisces

Are you expecting major transformations to happen overnight? It's time to face the fact that it's going to take longer than you thought. Whether you are looking for changes in yourself or in someone else, you have to be more patient and realistic about how quickly things can happen. Let things unfold the way they will, and the results will be better.

What bollocks. Patience is most certainly not one of my virtues and I generally feel like punching anyone who reminds me of the fact on the nose (but to do so would both hurt my knuckles and prove their point). Vegan ascetic Aurelius Clemens Prudentius laid down a list of seven Heavenly Virtues to oppose Pope Gregory The Great's seven deadlies and I am moderately pleased to see that I excel at Liberality and Kindness and am at least at improver's level when it comes to Diligence and Humility, though I'll admit I have some way to go towards Chastity and Temperance.

But Patience...

*sigh*

I have tried to cultivate it, to grow some, as it were. But gardening holds no appeal for me; it takes too fucking long. I did once sow a very successful vegetable patch, but managed it only because I wasn't living there at the time (it was in my parents' garden) so I forgot about it from one month's end to the next. Had I been home to gawk at it every evening I'd likely have kicked my infant pumpkins in impatient annoyance. There are few hobbies that I find so incomprehensibly frustrating - I find it bizarre that folk take such pleasure and comfort in something where you have so little control over the end result .

As a child I would press flowers from our garden, anxious to turn them into beautiful, paper-thin works of art. I was so very anxious to turn them into beautiful, paper-thin works of art that I would check them on a daily basis, which meant that I ended up with a mangled and sticky mess breeding mold in the pages of my books instead. As an adult I have found one or two which were spared my attentions, forgotten under a pile of encyclopedias. They are exquisite, and a vivid illustration of the adage that good things come to those who wait.

I fucking hate waiting to see how things will pan out.

Here Come The Girls

I love watching breasts bounce past me on their way to work on a sunny morning, dressed in v-neck pastels and wrap-around blouses, dusted with freckles after a sunny weekend. I adore the sight of curvy hips stretching the fabric of Dunnes Stores Career Casuals trousers. Pink cheeks showing through freshly applied makeup, wafts of sweet perfume trailing in their wake and turning my head as they sashay past me on their way down from Charlemont bridge. They smell of optimism on a Monday morning.

Filleann An Feallaire Ar An bhFilíocht

I spent the afternoon out at the pier in Howth. The sun was shining. The seals were performing for the crowd, blubbering and snorting for fish, their big soulful eyes looking up my skirt. I bought some cherries at the market, I ordered a glass of wine with my dinner and spent an hour looking at it. I stopped off at a book sale and bought myself a copy of Pat Ingoldsby's Beautiful Cracked Eyes. I've only ever bought Pat's books from him, and for other people; I've always wished that someone would think to buy one for me. I got home, sat down, put on some music and cracked my book's spine.

God It's So Lovely

I am watching a gull walking
into the harbour shallows
at the edges of grey water
walking very slowly
with no hurry on him at all
the water deepening up around his legs
till a beautiful fusion of water and weight
floats him on it.
The sun comes out
and blinds silver lights across the tide.
The gull is moving one way.
The lights are going the other.

Pat Ingoldsby, East Pier, Howth, 16.40, 7-8-98

JC Skinner Is Angry

JC Skinner's been getting my knickers in a twist today. This post jolted me out of my slump and up onto my high horse this morning, and played on my mind throughout the afternoon. It's rare that I put my ranty commenter hat on, but I've pulled it on with vigour this evening and hammered the shite out of the keyboard in an effort to express my displeasure. Have a gawk yourselves, I'd be interested to see how others react to what he's proposed.

Rí Rá Agus Ruaille Buaille

I rolled over this morning in a desperate search for the cool side of the pillow and found my hangover snuggling up in the bed beside me, waggling his eyebrows and poking me in that soft spot under my ribs. Fuck off, hangover. I'm feeding him apple & beetroot juice (which he loves) and other people's blogs (but only the ones that tickle him; Saturday mornings are no place for seriousness). He'll eventually start whining for breakfast and I'll have to rouse myself and scrub him from my skin with a shower set to "boil wash", because I was in RíRá's last night.

Yesterday was a game of two halves - I spent a pleasant day playing tourist in the Boyne Valley, trying to be sweet, charming and knowledgeable ("well, I do have a degree in archaeology...") but really just prattling at my indulgent audience of one. I wore myself out with all my bullshit and teeth-gnashing every time a guide said "celtic" but a quick nap on the bus home saw me right. My efforts to impress him further saw me whipping up some vegetarian pasta (because I too can be indulgent) but my mad kitchen skillz were slightly hampered by half a bottle of wine, and I set the place on fire. Luckily the Leitrim Lady was paying more attention than I and spotted the melting chopping board which I had placed firmly on the scalding hot hob. She left me this morning to go travel the world until October so if any of you would like to come babysit, I could probably do with being watched.

Having fed my charge with everything green in the fridge (including the Heineken) we tipped off down to Neary's to meet the Jock, the SWF and other assorted odd-balls and end-offs. Neary's has an upstairs, did you know that? A lounge, with tables, chairs, toilets and service. It puts one rightly in the mood for the weekend. On to RíRá then to see The Glitch Mob, but in true Rosie style I was out by a week on the dates, so we got a couch in the corner and hit the Jaegerbombs instead. The barmaid was less than impressed with my bombing technique; it seems that dropping the shot glass into the larger one before you've poured the Red Bull in just smashes the glass all over the bar. I had a second go, just to make sure. She was even less than less than impressed. There was less than impressedness all round when my playdate stood me up for more illustrious company - he eventually showed after they'd shut the doors and then sneakily disarmed me with sincere flattery after I'd snuck him in past the affable bouncer. Cheek. The end of the night saw some Brazilian dude playing the spoons on the bar to a rapt audience in the Globe, and the Jock and I trying to charm our way into the Odessa Club. No dice, and I can't say I blame them; my argument as to why the doorman should propose me as a member was not entirely convincing, and the Jock's insistent "but what time do you serve until?" betrayed our true intentions. Defeated, I headed home to the Leitrim Lady and a drunken Swede ("may I say, your eyelashes are lovely"). She woke me for a hug at 6am before she left, and I woke again at 10am with a vague recollection of it and a warm, fuzzy head.

It's All Fun And Games Until...

I have a date tonight. With a man.

I'm sure normal people don't boast childishly about this kind of shit but it almost never happens to me. The idea that someone (with all his own hair, teeth and mental faculties) would choose to spend a few hours in my company and maybe even try to kiss me at some stage, well, it's horribly exciting. Doubly so when you add to the mix the fact that I have no idea either how to dress or conduct myself appropriately, rendering the evening's outcome entirely unpredictable. I'm only 27 - at my age we generally just get mashed, lunge and hope for the best.

So, a plea for good advice. Lay it on me, strangers off the internet!

Review: The Mist

Possibly maybe the best film I have seen in ages. It was hilarious. I'm not entirely sure that it was meant to be, but that just makes it all the better. At one stage one of the characters was shot in the head and a round of applause broke out amongst the audience - I joined in wholeheartedly. The soundtrack was inspired - silent most of the way through and then Dead Can Dance's The Host of Seraphim stirring the post-apocalyptic landscape as our protagonists make their desperate attempt to flee. Man, I thought, how cool would it be if they actually had that in the LandCruiser's tape deck.

The ending was fucking brilliant. Go see it. And bring me with you.

Poxygen

Friday kicked off with some embarrassed lounging on the couches of an upmarket Dublin PR agency in my wellies while I waited for a giddy lift home to a giddy-up party. The giddy-up parties are always my favourite part of the weekend; chances are that we won't last long as a posse once we hit the gig. And we didn't - I was soon distracted by boys, Bacardi and other shiny things.

So who did I see? Do you care? You can read all that shit on everyone else's blog, and they do it with more conviction than I do. As for photos, I have one of a circle of wellyboots which every other bastard seems to have too, and one of me wearing a smelly ginger beard. Which I'd rather not post, as it really fucking suits me. That's the trouble with posting about a mass event - my slant on it will be much the same as everyone else's and that does not make for interesting reading.

Still, I did have some adventures. I fished a celebrity photo from my boot for the celebrity in question to sign. It was every bit as mortifying as it sounds. I was kissed by a stranger in a portaloo (he followed me in so that he might finish screaming down the phone at a friend, apologised profusely and then lobbed the gob. I was suitably appalled and secretly delighted). I spent Saturday afternoon at a Beat on the Street party (we had neither Dove nor Tony Fenton so it wasn't a very good Beat) where we made fake wristbands for ballsy friends (you will need: a scanner, colour printer, satin finish photo paper, superglue, punch, duvet buttons and much gumption). I wished a little too loudly on Sunday night that I could be the one sitting on the wheelchair stand with a flesh-eating virus (maybe) in my legs like my friend JT. My legs were not being eaten by a virus though, just chafed by my wellyboots. I'm glad of that today, but I was so wrecked after Rage Against the Machine that I'd probably have traded.

In conclusion: I had fun and lots of it. I'm not too old for this shit just yet.

Good Day

I woke up this morning from a delicious dream only to find that I was in bed not with him, but with the Tuesday Booze Blues. Blue as raspberry Mr Freeze, blue as Neil Diamond's jeans. But there was milk for my breakfast and it did not rain on my way to work. I spent a quietly busy day there, burying my nose in some complicated grammar and snuftying around everyone's blogs for a little light relief. Wondering what to write for my own.

Lunchtime saw me off to the beautician's for a wax. "It's great to get these things out of the way while you're on your break, isn't it?" "Mmmmmff" I replied through gritted teeth, all too aware of my tendency to overshare in these situations (if there is a woman hovering over my ladygarden with hot wax I will tell her anything, without really meaning to). Relieved to be released from her care, I headed back to the office only to realise that she'd left a little wax on my skin and my thighs were sticking together, by mid-afternoon my knickers were firmly glued to me. And I was a hair's breadth from a strop.

"What do you do to cheer yourself up?" a friend asked, after I confided to him that I had either PMS or schizophrenia. "Cook, walk, read" I replied, knowing full well that I was going to get a taxi home and "enjoy" some cornflakes in front of Hollyoaks - the afternoon's conversations had cheered me sufficiently to warrant it. I'm in bad form. But people don't take my ill humour seriously when my hair is this curly, and nor should I, for I have nothing to be a grumpy cunt about.

So today, ladies and gentlemen, was a good day.

Public Service Announcement

Look at this for nifty shit! Pure genius, and it includes the likes of Seaside Steve, who I can only assume is Seasick Steve's landlubber cousin. Having spent all of yesterday evening trying on dresses to match my wellingtons, I plan on spending all of my working day today playing with this itineraryizer and planning alternative lineups for my weekend. Normally I print off several reams of paper, spend a distressing afternoon with a highlighter pen discovering that everyone I want to see is playing at the same time and then lose my wad of stapled joy before I've left the house. Last time I went, I forgot my ticket and had to engage the New Daddy in an elaborate search and rescue operation. This year, I'm all about the preparation. Like a girl scout.

Bí fucking ullamh, that's my motto. Bring it.

Down With The Kids

Anyone else going to Woxegen this weekend? I've been stopped for ID twice in the last week while trying to buy booze in Aldi, so I'm totally going to fit in.

One Hand In My Pocket

The latest edition of Nós* is out and they've published my piece alongside a photo of some budgie with her hand down her knickers, which makes me look like a right wanker.

They may have a point.

Why I Love Dublin No. #1874

The office workers crossing the lock bridge on the Canal Road remind me of ducklings, hurrying across one after the other, waddling into the waiting Barge all of a huddle. I keep walking. A flash of orange in the water catches my eye, a recumbent traffic cone lies like a sleeping koi on the canal bed. The horse chestnut overhead trails its leaves across the surface of the water and I imagine how it must feel - like fingertips skimming skin. Man, I think, I need to get laid.

The prosaic has become poetic now that I lack music for my pedestrian adventures; I dropped my i-pox on its pretty little head and it no longer trills for me. So the world around me takes on a musical air as I meander home along the banks of the Grand Canal every evening.

My imagined soundtrack is silently interrupted as I walk down Wilton Terrace; there is a man lying on the grass between the two pathways. He's curled up on his side, his arm cradling his face and his baseball cap lying comically positioned, two inches above his head. One of the new faces who has made the bank of the Grand Canal his non-home over the last few months. People stare at him curiously as they walk past (once they're sure he can't see them) but nobody stops to make sure he's okay. Something about his clothes tells them that this, for him, is normal. So they keep walking, as do I.

Down at Warrington Place there are two men and a little boy of four or five fishing, the men drinking cans of cider which are strewn around the bench where they've left their wriggling bag of bait. As they cast their lines it's unclear whether or not they're fishing for ducks; the ducks look decidedly worried. The little boy gives me a big hello when I smile at him.

Just one more bridge to Love Lane. Home.

But I Came In Anyway

Excellent reasons to call in sick to work:

• SARS
• MRSA
• AIDS
• Lots of other four letter acronyms
• Chicken Pox
• Smallpox
• Monkey Pox (it exists)
• Any other type of pox

Not quite so excellent reasons to call in sick to work:

• Hangover
• Beard rash

My Life, Through A Lens

Some time ago, in a vain and vanity-fuelled effort to dicky up my blog I added a label cloud widget in the sidebar. I regret now that I never thought of using my post labels for comic effect - being new to blogs when I jumped arse-first into this one I didn't realise that such playful use of labels was possible. I lack imagination.

It wasn't until I added the cloud that I saw people begin to use them as a way to navigate the blog. They'll google "how to hide peeling skin tan" (clothes?) or "nipples that could cut glass" (which oddly leads you to the same post) and then spend a half hour seeing what else I got up to. New visitors make like former lovers and always go straight for the sex and boys tags. People who know me in all my fleshly glory go looking for themselves, interested to see what light I have painted our relationship in (or if I have chosen to picture it here at all). The truly bored check out the tick borne encephalitis and poetry tags, and the paranoid search under shitheads. My highs and more frequently my lows are conveniently tagged for all to see, my mood swings laid bare in black and a colour HTML calls faf0e6. Because moods come in black and off-white.

More recently I've added a button to the sidebar that will bring you to a random post if clicked. I like this one much better, it's like flicking through an album of photographs only this time they weren't all taken at the one party. I suspect that in polite blogging society, admitting to reading back over your old posts in such an idle, indulgent way is a bit like masturbating in public. Fun, but not very socially acceptable. Originally intended as a diplomatic substitute for a best-of selection (I know which posts I like best, but as their author I am not objective enough to recognise quality from crap) I have found that the only one to make any use of it is me. I read over posts written when nobody but me read the blog and like a photograph, they conjure up the sights and smells of whatever was going on that day. Unlike my photographs, I am present in each of them. They don't allow so much for rose-tinted glasses, and they preserve moments that would otherwise have been lost to me as I wander open-mouthed through life, knocking over tables and spilling drinks.

Dangerous Minds

Like most if not all arts graduates, I had an absolute shit attack once I left college. I wasn't qualified to do anything in particular and I had no idea what I'd like to do, so I blundered head-first into teaching. Well, elbow first. I tried a stint as a corporate whore and it didn't really take, so in the spirit of altruism and service to the community I accepted a temporary post in my old alma mater. A nice school with excellent staff, where I would be paid a gazillion euro an hour to babysit teenagers. What could go wrong?

Mid afternoon on day one I had my first class with 6th year foundation level English. 9 boys who already looked like big strong men, and who were fully convinced that they were big strong men. Most had repeated a year during some stage of their academic careers, I'm sure some of them had learning difficulties and I'm very fucking sure that most of them had behavioural problems. We spent a difficult 40 minutes together, but I won.

Day two found them in fine fettle, almost personable in their efforts to impress the new teacher. We were still at the honeymoon getting-to-know-you stage, so I was happy to indulge them in amiable chat. I mooted the idea that we might do some work on day three and asked them what they'd covered in class the previous year, intending on doing some revision. But oh no. English class had been cancelled last year.

I should have known better than to ask, I suppose. They spent 40 minutes telling tales of the three unfortunates who had acted as substitute teachers the previous year. The first of them refused to teach them after flicking paper balls at her had enraged her to breaking point, whereupon one of them threw a metal pencil case at her and hit her in the face. A replacement was brought in, a stern disciplinarian. She had two of them suspended for sexual harassment after they repeatedly complained about being unable to study due to (their) erect nipples - the classroom was freezing because they'd smashed the window with the duster. How this might constitute sexual harassment was beyond them, as they hadn't so much as mentioned her nipples. I stifled a giggle under an immaculately stern poker face, and quietly nodded when they asked me if I'd like to know what happened to the third teacher. I should have said no, but I really did want to know. Turns out they'd started flicking paper balls at him too. Lighted ones. I believe them, because they showed me a video clip. Not to intimidate, but to impress.

I dreaded my classes with them. They took a serious shine to me though and soon proclaimed me their favourite teacher, getting more than a little upset that I wasn't planning on speaking for them at the parent-teacher meetings. We spent most days watching Strictly Ballroom (it's on the curriculum) where they pushed the tables back and waltzed one another around the room, while the guy with ADD coloured the blackboard in from corner to corner with chalk (cleaning it off before the bell went, out of consideration for me). We had tears one day when one of them regaled me with a tale of an injured pigeon he'd filled with bangers and blown to feathers, thinking I would be impressed by his ingenuity when it came to putting the creature out of its misery. I was not, and this upset him. Two of them asked me to be their date for the debutante ball and threatened to batter the shite out of each other in a row over which one had asked me first. I politely declined both. But we got along. I told my friends at home about them and I got voicemail messages with Coolio's Gangster's Paradise playing in the background. Because my friends are very, very funny.

Then one day I arrived in to find them sitting at their desks, with poetry textbooks. I had left them in the care of another young substitute teacher the previous day, as I had an interview for a lecturing job. They had decided on an early lunch, she had refused to let them leave and had threatened to call the principal. So they backed her into a corner and tried to grope her breasts.

I could never be a teacher.

Life Coaching

keith:
how badly do you want a boyfriend?
me:
on a scale of 1-10?
keith:
yep.
me:
27. i've been single for too long. i'm bored shitless.
keith:
i'm just blabbering, i'd be able to suggest something good if i knew you better.
I NEED TO KNOW YOU, ROSIE
what are your passions?
me:
music, writing, cooking, my dogs, my friends, sex, modern art, drinking...
keith:
a recipe for disaster, you'll end up like Courtney Love if you're not careful. look at all the bad men around you, and the culture. it's all about drinking. too much drinking. add sex to that and you'll end up going home with a new man a night, add art to that and you'll meet some artist, develop a coke addiction and end up walking the streets at 4am looking to score a hit of heroin (that's where it always progresses to) any way you can (i.e. sex).
me:
you'd make some lifestyle coach, Keeks. so far your assessment of me is basically "you're fucked".
keith:
there is light at the end of the tunnel. it's not going to be easy. but with the right diet, exercise, horoscopes and yoga, you can get through this. but remember you have to keep truckin' on, the last thing we need is you getting depressed cause then you'll fall behind at work, get onto drugs, lose your friends, and fall into the same quagmire as mentioned earlier.
me:
permission to copy and paste this advice for a blog post if i have a slow day tomorrow? because this is comedy gold.
...
at least i hope to fuck it's comedy.

Ladies and gentlemen, meet Kiki. I haven't, but he hasn't let that (or the fact that he lives in Australia) stop him from stepping in and gallantly trying to solve all of my non-existent problems. His brand of advice is peculiar, his brand of humour occasionally offensive, he asks hard questions and is not afraid to make up his own answers. He likes horses, engineering, unsolicited emails and his girlfriend. He is not (yet) a professional Life Coach, but he's good at it, no?

Tuesday

Sometimes I wish I was the kind of girl who has €140 blonde highlights. Who wears heels and makeup to her job in human resources. Who smells faintly of Coco Mademoiselle and fake tan and who never seems to get caught in the rain. Who eats salads for lunch and buys knickers in Topshop. The kind of girl with a fiancé who works for Deloitte who calls her "babe" and sends ostentatious flowers to her office for Valentine's day. Who has girlfriends and drinks chardonnay, who does not know what a blog is and does not care. The kind of girl who wears rings on her fingers and french polish on her nails, who thinks anal sex is disgusting and blow jobs are for special occasions. Who is self assured and blessed with a sense of entitlement, who has a mediocre and moderately happy future ahead of her, full of SUVs, suburbs and blonde children who take classes after school and call their mother by her name.

Because sometimes I think that that would be easier than this.

It's Complicated (Or Not)

GingerBeard's not talking to me, and hasn't been for some time now. I heard his easy "no worries!" this morning as I passed through the office. I miss his easy company and witty camaraderie.

Blog Budgies All Aflutter

The three redheads and I strolled across to Hogans, chatting idly about how odd it was that we were spending our Sunday afternoon in the company of strange women off th'internet. "Annie'll be in later" I gushed, stopping just short of shouting "I know her!" in my efforts to prove that I'm a well rounded human being with fleshly friends (even though Annie is, technically, another strange woman off th'internet). Anyone else? "Ricochet" I replied, casually. There was a confused flutter - who the fuck asked him? Um... "He's a celebrity!" Helen squeaked. Is he? I wouldn't know, I don't listen to the radio.

My sister wants to know if I'm hooking up with Dusty Rhodes next week.

We behaved ourselves well enough for a while but by the time Ms. Atkins arrived (with my stuffed dog Chico in her handbag) we were easy in one another's company and our gossip was greased with gin (the determinedly sober Ricochet had beaten a wise and hasty retreat by then). Boys and bloggers formed the basis of conversations best not reported, the ladies indulged my louche loquaciousness, friendships were forged and my Monday morning ended up being sponsored by the makers of Lucozade sport and Nurofen Plus.

Sure what else would you be doing on a Sunday?