Plumbing For The Socially Disadvantaged

I went out on Saturday night with feathers in my hair. More budgie than peacock, I wore them to fit in and not to stand out. The red eyeshadow was a mistake - already jam-faced with a cold sore, I looked like a myxomatoxic rabbit. I sat there, plumage adroop, feigning aloof and balancing precariously on my high stool.

"Here she comes, boogedy boogedy" I muttered under my breath.

In the bathroom I ducked into a stall, relieved to have made it that far. Through the night, through that crowd. The toilet was clogged with paper, the handle hanging loose and useless on the flush. I could hear high heels and hair outside. I lifted the lid on the cistern and placed it across the bowl, then carefully picked the lift rod out of the water and reattached it to the flush arm. I replaced the porcelain cover and flushed.

Schnapps, Chianti, Porter And Ouzo, Pernod, Vodka, Sambuca...

I got up at midday to make some breakfast and set the toast on fire. Not enough for me just to burn it - I had to douse the flames in the sink before consigning the charred remains to the bin. I returned, defeated, to the safety of my bed only to spill tea all over it. Well, all over his side of it.

I got up again at 5.

John

I think I was about 6 years old when my parents got involved in BreakAway, a respite programme for children with mental disabilities run by St. John of God's in Islandbridge. My parents explained to my brother and I that a little boy would be coming to us for his holidays, and they told us about some of the special children they had met. The school chose a match for us and in time we got an occasional foster brother, John. He was between my brother and I in age, a difference of no more than a few months. He was the second eldest of nine at home, raised by his mother in a council house in Ballyfermot. We didn't always go into the house when we were picking him up; the local kids chased the car down the street to tell Chrissie that we were coming.

John smelled damp to me, and he always seemed to have snots crusting on his nostrils. He had Down Syndrome. I didn't know what that meant. I knew that he was special and that he loved to be held and hugged, but I was frightened of him and I found him disgusting. Dirty. He always wanted a part in our games but we were close, and I resented his intrusion. Two years earlier, we'd cornered my mother and accused her of loving our new baby sister more than she loved us. I never for a minute thought that she loved John more than us - he was such hard work. But he commanded her attention. He'd run away, he'd shout and swear. "Fuck! Baldy bollix!" he'd roar at the neighbour. He took a piss in our paddling pool.

One morning, when he came in to call us because he'd wet the bed, I threw a shoe at him. I got down from my top bunk, picked up a sandal and threw it at him. Then I threw its match. My brother joined me, and we pelted John with the shoes that had been lined up neatly along the skirting board. He cowered in the doorway, calling for my mam, naked from the waist down, his urine-soaked pyjama bottoms lying on the landing carpet.

An tArdaitheoir

"You're a lazy hobbit" he laughed "always getting the lift". I don't always get the lift. Just with him. When we take the lift, we stand close and he kisses me. It's very romantic. But when I walk ahead of him up the stairs, he puts a hand up my skirt and pinches my bum. And that's just distracting.

I Do Not Like Green Eggs Or Spam

Those of you unfortunate enough to have subscribed to any of the comment threads here may have seen a spake or two from my new friends Opop and Uhfdf this week. Enthusiastic readers both, they have each commented on every one of my 602 posts. In Chinese.

At least I think it's Chinese. I'm open to correction, and would appreciate a translation. I imagine it reads

Want to get FREE ViagraOrCialis pills? Painless MaleEnhancement now at your door step! Miley Cyrus loves being on top. Write me back, bastard! North Korean submarine fired a missle. Buy a College Dip1oma, Get a 100% legal, verifiable Degree in 10 days - No coursework or exams. Fire fighter burned pigeons! Your woman will like your hose. GUARANTY TRUST FINANCIAL LOAN?

because that's how my spam always reads. My current favourite comes with the title Monster pole size upgrade available and reads like a puzzle from one of those TeaBreak magazines that people with mental illnesses are so fond of. "Perhaps home spoke ma'am about twenty become which mother interest? Years tired rather opportunity broke that worth against have supposed afraid living called first twenty small fire hours old. Close public cry must character pleased myself go cut standing world especially rising well entirely remained servant second opinion. Yourself marriage meet situation I'll must whatever the just loved air wish sit serious!"

Wonderful.

I spent a half hour deleting the 600 odd notification messages in my email inbox and Opop and Uhfdf's comments on my last 10 posts. Then I made some tea, decided life was too short, switched on word verification for comments and wrote an excuse of a post about it.

Laundry Service

"Give me a hand hang these up, will you?" I'm short on pronouns and full of domestic intent. I don't really need help to hang the armful of washing over the clothes horse, but it's important to me that he be involved. Because then I am not washing his grubby knickers. When he hangs clothes and makes tea, we're living together.

"Sure" he says, and sets to puzzling over the best way to drape the jammies. So I show him. I shake out the trouser legs in as unpatronising a manner as I can manage and then turn to see him lurching towards me with my opaque black tights pulled over his head. He's pouting through his mask, giggles stifled by the nylon. "Give us a fuckin' kiss" he demands, in what would be a menacing Belfast brogue, were his mush not mashed into the gooch of my tights.

Twenty Seconds On The Back Time

I was all set to write an obstreperous post full of rhetorical questions about some things disgraceful, but the other bloggers beat me to it. Anyway, I have difficulty spelling misogyny. Like excercise - sic! it's a word I've had trouble getting my head around.

And the only nudie pictures on this blog will be of me.

April Fools

Keith Wynne from Tallaght has a problem with RTÉ's Celebrity Bainisteoir.

"I have a problem with RTE’s Celebrity Bainisteoir" says Keith. "I don’t know what the word ‘Bainisteoir’ means. It’s bad enough that the celebrities are RTE re-heats of old, or the odd Bebo girl, but to add insult to injury, Irish is now being forced upon the taxpaying viewer for no good reason. I have nothing against Irish, except for the fact that it is a redundant language (fact) akin to fine pottery or expensive jewellery in its decorative functionality. In effect it is the Rosanna Davison of languages — beautiful but useless regardless of her pedigree or history. Suffice to say, if RTE chooses to unleash Irish upon the unsuspecting English-speaking mainstream (however sniper-like the approach), they should either sell the programme to TG4 or subtitle the respective word."
Keith Wynne, Tallaght, Dublin 24

Next week: Keith is "not a racist, but..."