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.

Pet Cemetery

[Alt. title: A walk on the Powerscourt Estate, Co. Wicklow on a Bank Holiday Sunday]

The Wup is possibly the coolest name I have ever heard of for a dog, made all the cooler by the fact that this little guy lived in the early 1900s. How street was he? The Urban Dictionary hadn't even been invented yet. My dogs are named Alpha (the firstborn) and Lila (because that is her name) and I bet The Wup would've kicked their nancy asses.

A note of bitterness here, it seems that Jyp and Tim, though faithful friends for 12 years, were killed on March 6th, 1905. Chasing sheep? Stealing pies from windowsills? Spreading rabies? Perhaps a tragic boating accident. Somebody was pretty fucking upset about it, that's for sure. I imagine a teenager in mourning being charged with the inscription, sending his parents on a guilt trip for all eternity. Or for as long as there are people like me visiting Jyp and Tim's grave, at least.

Tommy and his wife raise all kinds of questions for me. Was there a wedding with tea and cucumber sandwiches afterwards? Did she wear a veil? And a garter? Why was she added as the afterthought when she'd died a full ten years before Tommy? Is she in there at all? Magic?

Eugenie and Princess; both seriously overachieving cows, I think you'll agree. It bothers the shit out of me though that their stats aren't measurable - sure, Eugenie had lots of little cows and must have had massive udders, but Princess won two prizes. Who was the better cow?

And finally, one for precious little girls everywhere. I never had any truck with that Black Beauty, My Little Pony shit as a kid; the only horses I knew were the piebalds that occasionally wandered into our garden when the Ballyfermot cowboys let them roam untethered. So I was unmoved, but hopefully this one moves posh kids to tears.

Study's Going Great, Thanks!

The kid next door is a creepy article. I was woken this morning by her screeching "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning!" in faux operatic style as she swung with what could only be described as a vengeance on her garden swing. She seems possessed of a violent energy, not youthful exuberance or anything like it but a barely contained malice - like that kid in the Exorcist right before her head spins and she pukes pea soup all over the shop. (I was going to include a picture but they were all too scary). Her treehouse conveniently overlooks our patio so an otherwise pleasant morning spent reading in the garden is ruined by the uneasy suspicion that there's an evil 9 year old lurking in the foliage above your head, reading your unhip science fiction novel study notes over your shoulder.

It's not off the ground she licks it. Her dad is so annoying that my siblings and I now have Ade-Alert, an alarm system* that triggers if he's lurking when one of us goes to leave the house, or if he's passing by and peering in the sitting room window. Which he does a lot. It took me a while to put my finger on who it was he reminds me of and then this morning as his rictus grin drifted past the window again it came to me - Ted, the robotic Bluebeard from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I know - my pop culture references are impossibly cool.

It's been an sickeningly long bank holiday weekend; I've been on study leave from work since last Wednesday and am edging ever closer to panic and madness. One more hissed hellooooooo from the treehouse will tip me over and all they'll find of the child will be her shoes.

*When I say "system" I mean of course that one of us spots him and feigns panic, whispering "Ade-Alert" repeatedly until we've all ducked and run for cover. Because talking to him would result in a slow painful death, or a nasty rash at the very least. We're 27, 26 and 22.

I Probably Should Have Just Watched Hollyoaks

I came home this evening and sat down and listened to Nuala O'Faolain's interview* with Marian Finucane, and I cried.

I've been thinking a lot about death over the last while. I haven't turned goth or emu or whatever it is the kids are into these days, I haven't started saying rosaries or lighting candles, but I have spent a lot of time thinking about what it means to lose someone, and what it might be to die. Wondering if it brought relief to Conor, feeling horrified at how his death has affected his family. Hoping that it was a release for my Crash Grandadicoot, wondering how my Nana will cope with the loneliness of losing the man she has loved for more than 55 years. I spent yesterday afternoon with her and for the first time since his death I got the feeling from her that she was feeling very lonely, crushingly low. I miss Grandad, but I have been missing Grandad for a long time now, all through the long months of his illness. Now I worry for my Nana. I think of the spirit and resolve it took her to care for him for so long and I hope that the same spirit and resolve will help her to cope with his loss. But it's hard.

Nuala's interview seems to have stopped people in their tracks. It's easy to express sympathy, to offer kind words and hopes for the best. But it's very hard to sit and just listen. "Are you sure it won't give the people despair?" she asked. No, Nuala a chroí. You've made people think about what it is to be human - to be alive - agus is cúis misnigh agus dóchais sin i gcónaí.

*Broadcast on Saturday morning, it's been all over the Irish media since. Diagnosed 6 weeks ago with terminal cancer, Nuala speaks openly and with painful honesty about how life has been for her since her diagnosis. You can listen to it here or read the transcript here.

A Nasty Surprise

My favourite Heath Ledger tribute so far: spEak You're bRanes.

When There's Fuck-All On Telly

Sometimes I long for my own space, for solitude, for the complete absence of other people so that I can have room to breathe. Sometimes I crave a lack of company.

Not all the time though.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that being at home on my own on a Sunday evening and feeling a little bit lonely is not the end of the world. That the walls are not closing in on me, that I am not going to be left on my own while the rest of the world goes to a big shiny party to which they forgot to invite me. That being on my own does not equate to being Alone.

Tomorrow will be Monday. I'll spend the day distracted, surrounded, animated, happy; I'll forget all about the creeping disquiet of this Sunday evening.

Gone But Not Forgotten*

To be sung on the occasion of Manuel the Waiter's passing, to the tune of Sondheim's The Ballad of Sweeney Todd:

Attend the tale of poor Manuel,
For he and his blog have gone to hell.
He served Belfast's ladies and gentlemen
who never thereafter were heard of again...
He disliked poor tippers, did our Manuel,
and this is the tale we're left to tell,
of poor Manuel,
the demon waiter of Belfast.

He worked in a restaurant in Belfast town.
Of fancy clients and good renown
and what if none of their souls were saved
they obviously hadn't been well behaved.
Or tipped Manuel,
our poor Manuel,
the demon waiter of Belfast.

Swing your waiter's friend wide!
Manuel, hold it to the skies!
Freely flows the blood of those who moralize.

His needs were few, his room was bare.
Some cutlery and a fancy chair.
A well done fillet, the occasional strop,
an apron, at Christmas a pail and a mop.
For neatness he deserved a nod,
did this troubled waitering sod,
the demon waiter of Belfast.

Inconspicuous poor Manuel was,
quick, and quiet and clean he was.
Back of his smile, under his word,
Manuel heard music that nobody heard.
Manuel pondered and Manuel planned,
like a perfect machine he planned,
Manuel was smooth, Manuel was subtle,
Manuel would blink, and rats would scuttle.

He met with an unfortunate end,
a patron who drove him round the bend
insisted that her meat was tough
so Manuel proceeded to chew it up,
but he choked...
and had a stroke.

This Christmas season, skinflints beware!
Scabby tippers, have a care!
The ghost of the waiter stalks the town
and he'll catch you with your trousers down.
Treat staff well and tip your waiter
or Manuel will make you sorry later.
That steak, so tender,
fillet of banker.
The sauce, so rich,
some other rude wanker.

He's gone, it's true, but not forgotten,
for in his restaurant something'll always be rotten.

*This can all be blamed on Captain Smack, who panicked me into morbidity and prompted a horrific "tribute" to me from Manuel.

Who'll Blog For Me When I'm Gone?

The Captain: Not Dead, Just Sorely Missed

"It was a lot of fun to be around to hear about my own death. Of course, one day I'll actually die for realsies. It could happen in the next 5 minutes. You never know, I might walk outside and get bitten by a snake or something.

And if that did happen, none of you would ever know about it. You'd probably just assume that I'd quit blogging. It's not like my friends or family would be able to access this blog to inform you about it or anything.

Which is probably the case with most of you, right? If you died, the rest of us out here in Blogland would probably just assume that you had stopped blogging. Ever known any bloggers who were going strong, and then just suddenly stopped?"

Captain Smack poses an interesting question. Should there be some kind of buddy system? Thereby if my blog lapses into deathly silence for, oh, say, a fortnight, without any prior warning, one of you dear readers will take it upon yourselves to write me a fittingly gushing obit to inform the Blogosphere* of my sad passing?

*Bleuch. Hate wanky bloggy words like Blogosphere and Blogroll.