Rub A Dub Dub

I looked the email up again and dialled the number. "Primal's Porno Palace" an efficient voice barked in an official tone. "Erm..." I countered, my cheeks burning. Just what the fuck was I getting myself into?

Half an hour later we were in his kitchen, sitting down to polite tea and Viscounts before settling down to business. Annie was bright and breezy, as if she does this kind of thing every day. Primal seemed right at home, but then it was his kitchen.

Me? I was shiteing myself.

I hate having my photograph taken. I am both unphotogenic and vain, and as a result I am a notoriously reluctant subject. But I was flattered by Annie's request, and she's so sympathetic, sweet and reassuring that I figured I could take her easily if I didn't like the results; burn the evidence, hide the body.

When it came down to it, taking my clothes off was easy. Not snotting myself as I clambered into the beautiful cast iron tub whilst trying to maintain some semblance of dignity - not so much. She tells me that I am an excellent poser, I choose to believe she means it as a compliment. It's not that I preen, you see, just that I am really really good at staying still. Two years as a public servant will do that to a girl, but at least now I am reassured that should the Gaeilgeoir jobs market dry up, I have the option of a career as an artist's model. As I look down the barrel of another Monday morning in the office, sitting on my nudie hole and getting paid for it looks quite attractive. Mind you, I have already spent the greater part of this morning doing little more than sitting on my hole and getting paid for it, albeit with a few layers of fabric between my seat and the chair.

She emailed me the final photo yesterday evening. It's beautiful.

Keeping Score

It's a bank holiday Tuesday after a long and sunny weekend, and I'm back in work (-1). My proffered olive branch is still being met with a cold shoulder (-1) and I can't post about it because the post ends up reading "fuck you and the horse you rode in on" no matter how reasonably I try to phrase it (-1). On another matter entirely, I sent a snotty email and was replied to in kind (-1) which is probably no more or less than either of us deserves. Ho hum.

But in other news today; I got an email from a pretend friend suggesting pints of Campari and orange juice (+1) and I got a phonecall from another pretend friend who is experimenting with being "nice" (+1) and reckoned cheering me up might be a good place to start. Buoyed by jolly conversation I ventured out to get some lunch; the lady in the shop across the road got the ridey till boy to make my sandwich (+1) and then she gave me a stack of free magazines (+1) because "we only send the covers back to them an all an annyway". As I whiled away the afternoon flicking through photographs of fat, spotty and sweaty celebrities (+1) I got an email back from Red Pepper Productions, addressing all of my concerns about the programme they've asked me to take part in and showing admirable restraint and humour in the face of my ripping the piss out of them (+1).

In conclusion: Fuck you, Karma. The margin may be tight, but I'm winning.

The Unwelcoming Committee

We had a visitor from Japan chez nous this weekend in the flat (perhaps I should refer to it as an aportment? It is in Dublin 2...) I was headed to the wilds of Kildare for a couple of days so being a generous but absentee hostess I picked up all of the dirty knickers off my bedroom floor and made it habitable for him. I was due back on Monday night and was warned that he'd be staying then too, but that the Swede was off to Sweden on Monday morning so he'd be fending for himself. "Don't worry!" I trilled, "I'll mind him!"

My hoop. After a weekend spent studying and trying not to murder the nextdoor neighbour's child, I was in no mood to entertain. The Swede had made more than mention of our guest's not speaking any English - which translated to my ears as "he will be hard work, very hard work". Fuck him, I'd had enough hard work for one weekend. Sometimes I truly am an arsehole, and a selfish and lazy one at that. So I timed my arrival back to the flat with when I knew he'd be out with the German, just in time to watch Lost and then scuttle off to bed. The Leitrim Lady had the same plan and my brother tagged along for the craic, so by the time the German arrived home with our guest we three were lost in Lost and they were made to feel as welcome as a fart in a spacesuit.

Grunts and nods without tearing our eyes from the screen, an absentminded shuffle over on the couch so that he might sit and enjoy the spectacle with us, staccato bursts of conversation during ad breaks and then mumbled reassurance that we'll talk to him in approximately 50 minutes when the programme had finished. Which we did, to be fair; we gave him a plot synopsis so that he might enjoy our further discussion of the episode's events and their relevance to previous episodes. The German made him (and us) some tea and we chatted for a bit, which was when we copped that actually the guy had fluent English and was pretty fucking sound. He was wrecked though so once the German had left, he excused himself and headed off to bed.

"Shite" we mused, "he was nice. We should have made an effort." His name was Naoki but in my study-addled idiocy I got Nokia stuck in my head instead, I had already forgotten it by the time we guiltily returned to the telly and our tired grouches, which was when he arrived back in with his camera to ask if he could get a photo with the three of us. Mortified, we put a shape on ourselves and said cheese. He headed off to bed happy and we sat there feeling like the miserable cunts that we are.

Colour Me Blue

I got into the car this evening to drive home, pleasantly tired and fed and looking forward to my bed. The weekend was great (the party on Saturday night in Galway in particular) and I was in good form. It was good to be home with my parents, to spend some time with my brother and sister (especially the Saturday morning hair salon which I'll tell you about tomorrow) and to spend time with the mutts (it's oddly flattering that the little one still wets herself with excitement every time she sees me).

But I pulled out, turned on the radio and started crying.

What the fuck? There hadn't been a bother on my two minutes beforehand and I had no idea why I was crying. I wiped the tears, sucked back the sniffles and got my shit together. Laughed. Focused on something else, resumed my usual internal monologue, listened to the radio. But for the 45 minutes it took me to drive home, every time I let my brain drift off and my concentration lapse the tears would start again.

I'm home now and The Panel is on. It's not very good but it doesn't matter, I seem to be just fine again. I'm sure I'll be rosie again by morning.

Wispa Saves Monday

My Monday grouch has just been given a nice kick up the hole by a Wispa. I've mentioned before that I don't generally mind Mondays all that much, Tuesdays tend to be more trying. They remind me of small midlands towns; unavoidable drudgery on your way to somewhere much more fun (be your destination The Weekend or Galway) and I for one will breathe a heartfelt sigh of relief once we figure out how to bypass them.

But this particular Monday has been an exception, and for no good reason. I had a great weekend (Garage in the cinema on Friday, which was great, and then a party on Saturday night, which was even better) and my day today's not going badly (dry morning, pleasant walk, not-too-hectic workload, comedy gig later) but I got up feeling that I just couldn't be arsed. The only reason I came into work was because I figured a day spent not cleaning the flat would only put me in even worse humour. I think this morning's low should probably be attributed to Saturday night's boozing; I was in too much of a jocker yesterday even to feel like I had a hangover (I just felt like I had terminal something) so the hangover's having its way with me today instead.

On an optimistic note, I've got my costume sorted for the weekend's Halloween party, and it rocks. Inspired by Manuel's dedication to his craft, I'm going to dress up as a 1950s waitress. I can't rollerskate, so I'm going to just write "pretend these are skates" in biro on my plimsolls (Gingerbeard suggested I stick little paper wheels to the sides of them, but that would look retarded). I have the New Daddy and his wailing charge out shopping for a hat for me and I had my mam put the finishing touches to my dress over the weekend (I love it so much I wore it around the flat yesterday evening, admiring myself in the mirror and trying on lipsticks). Even writing about it has hoisted my ill humour somewhat.

I've left a Wispa sitting on my colleague's keyboard so that it might lift her mood a little, as it did mine. I'm only short of sitting on my hands to stop me snarfing it before she gets back from her meeting.

Monday, Monday

Unlike most of my work "colleagues" (I love the common aim that implies... like the fuckers don't regularly shit on our best ideas) I don't hate Mondays. They're a novelty after the weekend, especially if you've just had as dull a weekend as I have. I tend to get a bit more done on Mondays too, which is nice. I've spent the better part of today writing our little office's annual report, to be presented to the Governing Body in what will be a brave attempt to justify our existence. It's nice, seeing your year's achievements laid out in print. It's worrying that it only stretches to 10 pages (and that's the bilingual version).

Fuck.

I'd like to beef it up with fancy descriptions of the events we've hosted (yes, that's the "work" I do) but most of them descend into pleidhcíocht at an early stage. And while some have been wild successes, others have been horrifying flops. I'm still the only person I know who's been stood up on a speed-dating night. Serves me right, I suppose. Who the hell would want to go speed-dating? 20 forced conversations with 20 people you wouldn't normally choose to be in the same room with, never mind actually speak to. Ick. I did it once and have never done so much work for so little reward. It should have been a lesson learned. What was I thinking hosting the kind of lame set-up night I didn't enjoy for students, who are more than capable of riding rings around themselves?

So I won't mention that in the report.

The success stories are worse though. I think I'll play it safe, and emphasise all of the publications we've translated into Irish, in between parties. Nobody's likely to read 'em anyway, right?

Roll on Tuesday!