Just Like That Wan Offof Big Brother

The Talk of the Bike Shop stopped by this morning for a coffee. With his bike. There aren't many coffee shops cater for that kind of thing. Asked to move his bicycle so that they might paint the gate, he assumed offence on behalf of cyclists everywhere in much the same way as I do for Gaeilgeoirí when prats refer patronisingly to them as "your people". "Sorry, we're going somewhere else" I muttered to the waitress, my hand outstretched to retrieve my twenty and my cheeks reddening with morto.

And so to Moda. As I waited for the double espresso (for his jitters) and the hot chocolate (for my nerves) I watched a young mother wrestle her newly bipedal son into his unwieldy buggy. She knocked a table. Dropped her coat. The waiter picked it up for her, and I scooped her straw hat from the floor. She made for the door like Moses parting the waters while the other patrons scraped their chairs in bellycreasingly close to the tables, knees tucked into their teeth. The waiter followed in her wake, reached around her to open the door. What a hassle. I remembered Billy Whizz waiting outside, minding his own bepedalled babby and seething at the injustice of it all, and I smiled a little wider in the hope that the barista would hurry the fuck up.

We took our takeaways to the low wall outside my office and sat amongst the builders, me in my freckles, him in his clickety clackety bikety shoes and them in their visi-vests, eating sambos from their hard hats. "Did you shave your legs?" I asked him, imagining him with painted toenails and a lather of Immac. "I'd have shaved my eyebrows if it'd make me faster."

Getting Some Practice In

I'm taking care of Fake Niece tonight; the New Daddy won tickets to see Thin Lizzy in the Olympia ("who's fronting them?" "eh..." "any idea who the support is?" "eh..."). She was all giggles and smiles when I arrived, bouncing on my lap, grinning and gurgling like a happy little lunatic. Until she cottoned on to her parents imminent departure and the lip started to wobble. It was bedtime anyway and she was overtired, so I put her in her cot as they were backing out the door, muttering reassurances about how she always screams at bedtime.

And man, can she scream. I sat there, bottle in hand, stroking her cheek and cooing soothingly, as distressed as she was and feeling like her wicked stepmother. She settled after about 10 minutes, thank fuck, and she's been sleeping peacefully ever since. I know because I've been checking every 3 seconds or so, terrified that anything might happen to her, or worse, that she might wake and start screaming blue murder at me again.

It's hard not to take it personally when a baby makes strange with you. I worry that I've no natural aptitude for it, that this squalling, hiccuping, 5 month old redhead can sense my anxiety and is planning to exploit it. That I'm somehow less of a woman because of all of this, and I've already got a complex about being a bit of a tomboy. Typically, I never really wanted kids until I was warned that I might have trouble having them. Now I worry that I might not get to have a suspicious, squalling hiccuper of my own.

Not that I plan on it any time soon, mind you. I really like my sleep, you see.

Sisterhood Postponed

So I missed this afternoon's appointment with feminism because this morning's appointment with the doc re my ovaries ran late.

Ironic, eh?

I is Polski

I've had a half hour to myself before the madness begins and I genuinely meant to spend it recounting my tales of Gdansk and Warsaw, but I made the fatal error or having a quick look to see what was new on I Can Has Cheezburger? Those fucking lolcats are fierce distracting. I shall no doubt tell my tales in lurid technicolour detail some other time, when I'm at home and it's raining and nobody will come for midweek beers.

For the meantime though it will suffice to say that Gdansk was beautiful, and I'd liked to have spent longer there had we been in different accommodation (we ended up staying in a church out in the suburbs... don't ask). Plan ahead, folks. It was nice though, like a 2 night retreat punctuated by stressful bus journeys (I am mildly allergic to public transport, and intend to regale Sweary with tales of some of my more colourful journeys when I return). Those suburban buses hadn't a patch on yesterday's rail excursion though. Come back, Iarnrod Eireann, all is forgiven.

I've decided after only 3 days (4? 5? every day's like fucking Sunday) in Poland that I want to marry a Polish man and have his babies. They're so manly and handsome... (the men, not the babies. The babies are usually cute and Cabbage Patchish). Dublin and my sometime hometown of Naas are both chock full of Poles, so all I need do now is find out where they congregate of an evening, learn a few key phrases, and dress nice once in a while. Maybe I'll wear that bikini out some night. They're bound to fall at my feet.

Tick Tock? Oh Fuck!

Friday evening saw me tired and emotional after a long week in work, so to complement my horrendous humour I sought out the company of two friends I was sure would be truly sleep deprived. The reason? Their 4 day old daughter, a squalling, auburn-haired little beauty by the name of Eadie. She'd been giving her mam a hard time over the last few months so it was a relief to finally meet her, and to see that she'd made it here with more or less the minimum of fuss. Childbirth may be the most natural thing in the world, but it's also very fucking scary, even from a nice safe distance. Apparently the hard part starts now, but at least there'll be help at hand. I've already volunteered my services as chief babysitter, though I haven't babysat since I was about 15 and back then it was all about what was in the fridge. Still, changing nappies is a little like riding a bike... (unpleasant). They're the first of my friends to spawn, so it'll be a while before the novelty factor wears off. For me. It's never going to wear off for them.

I was walking with my brother this morning and telling him all about Eadie and her proud parents (he hasn't had the chance to meet her yet). As I was talking to him about it I realised that through the jokes about sleepless nights and shitey nappies I'm worried that it's something I might not get to go through myself. At 23 I was warned that I might have trouble conceiving. It's not something I like to dwell too much on, especially given that I'm 26 years young and inexplicably single, but there are times when it's hard to be objective about it. My brother, however, knows just how to make me feel better. "Chewy babies* are mad cute though" he said. "Adopt one".


I laughed. He's right. They are mad cute.

*A very politically incorrect but affectionate term he has for Asian children