D'ya Like Dags?

My brother bought a solid wood bedroom suite for a song, which seemed a far more reasonable sum than the €285000 he'll need to buy a house to put it in. "I'll mind it for you in my new flat!" I said, conveniently overlooking the fact that I don't have a new flat yet and that if I did, the suite would fill it. Flats for two don't seem to fit much more than flatpack. "Are you buying a television?" I asked, thinking that this homemaking lark of his could work in my favour.

It turned out that his colleague was trying to offload one before she emigrated to Australia - a free telly and two goldfish. "Do you want two goldfish?" The Jaffa Cake asks the most ridiculous rhetorical questions sometimes. I want a goldfish and a hamster and a kitty and a doggy and some ducks and maybe a wrabbit. "Well she's emigrating, so they'd be homeless" I said with a theatrical wobble of the lip that seconds later turned to tears when I realised that the fish might be flushed if I didn't intervene. Kinda like the time I found Lila in a car park. He laughed at me. We might end up homeless ourselves, but I'm fucked if those fish will.

Another Thing That Happened On Saturday

My brother called, sounding excited and maybe a little drunk. He wasn't, though. "Guess where I am!" He was in New York, that much we knew. He was calling from Macy's. Hardly newsworthy in itself, but he did seem uncommonly giddy. I was reminded of the last time I was in Macy's, the time I found the Nine West stiletto heel dolly shoes in my size for $14. I say the last time I was in Macy's like I go there all the time, but you and I both know that it was only the once. $14, though! Bargain! I still wear them all the time very occasionally when I have to dress up for something that I know will be a strictly sitting-down affair.

Anyway. This is his story.

"What's that Beyoncé song?" he asked. I could smell a pun coming, but my knowledge of popular musics is paltry enough for my palate to have trouble sniffing him out. "Put a ring on it..?"

"DONE!"

He had, too.

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.

There's Nothing Quite Like...

...dirt under your fingernails to remind you that

(a) you're back in Kildare for the weekend.
(b) your rubber arms saw you banjoed in the Naas Court Hotel. Again.
(c) your brother didn't leave the key out as promised.
(d) you've been rooting in the flowerbeds for 15 minutes looking for the key that he forgot to leave out.
(e) you've been throwing lumps of said flowerbeds at his window (any window) in an effort to wake the cunt... and
(f) you've decided to wreak revenge by leaving mucky, buttery fingerprints all over his laptop. Serves him right.

Though he'll likely be fine in the morning.

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.

Knick Knack Paddywhack

I rolled out of bed this morning, dressed myself from head to toe in mismatched shades of green, high-hoed it to Carrolls' Irish Gift Shop to purchase some of those flattering shorts with the fake arse cheeks hanging out the back (póg mo thóin scrawled across them in homage to the Oirish language) had some chugger paint shamrocks on my cheeks and forehead, climbed onto the roof of a phonebox down at College Green, heckled the Americans below as they jostled for a vantage point from which to view the parade and then hightailed it to a packed Temple Bar pub to spill Guinness, sing offensive rebel songs and drink til I fancied Burger King.

Oh no, wait...

I got up, met my brother, strolled into town to marvel at the efforts that everyone else had gone to to celebrate our national holiday and then headed to Da Pino's for a pizza (the remains of which are reheating in the oven as I type - aubergines, broccoli, pepperoni, chillies, sweet peppers and cheese). The weather was beautiful so we walked then from Dame St. out to Ringsend, following the Liffey and taking a few photographs along the way, talking through some of the things that have been going on for us over the last couple of weeks. They've been a difficult few weeks.

Back to my flat then for tea and a DVD (28 Weeks Later - terrifying, brilliant) and then another stroll, this time to Parnell St via George's Dock, where we picked up the Hurler and headed to the cinema to see Be Kind, Rewind (which was very charming, Mos Def more than making up for the annoyance that is Jack Black). We walked home again via Scruffy Murphys, where the lads had a Guinness each and I had an orange juice. I'm bursting with virtue and pizza now, and am going straight to bed before my halo slips.

Lovely Boys Altogether

I had a hot date on Saturday night with two very handsome and affable gents, Conor of Conortje fame and Alan of Alan Says. It was to be a busy night; I had dates also with the NCAD nerds, SWF, the Jock and the wonderful Mr Scruff. I dragged my somewhat reluctant brother along with me to meet the two lads in Hogans ("which rhymes with Grogans!" Conor sang down the phone excitedly) and again tried to explain to him why I was voluntarily going for a pint with these two people that I'd never laid eyes on. He's interesting, my brother, in that he's one of the more articulate and verbally creative people I know but he doesn't like to read. Not newspapers, not cereal boxes, not books, not blogs. Certainly not his sister's blog. The whole concept of blogging is alien to him and it was an interesting exercise in dork PR to try to explain it to him - why I do it, how I do it, who else's I read and why, how I found them, how my readers found me, the nuts-and-bolts of the blogosphere (still hate that word). More interesting still was myself, Alan and Conor trying to explain the logic and sheer guilty pleasure of reverse-cyber-stalking via stat reports. Without making ourselves sound like ego-inflated creeps. I'm not sure that we quite pulled it off.

After a few easy drinks in Hogans we headed over to the Dragon where you could eat your dinner off the floor, judging by the smell of bleach in the bar. I hadn't been there in a long time, when it changed from Sosume to the Dragon I didn't find it as girl-friendly, although there were a few ladies prowling there on Saturday night. From there I dragged them to Solas with me; already running an hour and a half late, I was two hours late for SWF and the Jock by the time I managed to get served at the bar (though Alan and I had white russians, and they came with flakes). The gents headed off shortly afterwards to try their luck in the George (updates, boys?) and I got stuck in to the remainder of the evening after kisses and threats to come visit them both.

They'll be sorry.

Nerds

My brother, my BGF and I went to the Lightwave exhibition in the Science Gallery last night. I walked around with my mouth open a lot, admiring all of the pretty things and understanding little of what they were or how they worked. I badgered a few explanations out of the BGF ("No, I don't get it. So... no. I still don't get it.") and eventually just pretended to understand things because I was embarrassed at being stupid and he is a rocket scientist, or some such shit.

On Monday the three of us are going to PantiBar for Make and Do-Do. I'm nifty with scissors and glitter glue so I'll kick his know-it-all arse at that.

Crafty Bitches? I'm There!

Regrets? I've Had A Few

• Replying "kinda, sure work away!" when the dentist asked me if I still had any sensation in my jaw (turns out I needed two more doses of anaesthetic).
• Using the 20 minutes of mild euphoria experienced after leaving the dentist's to buy unfashionable and ugly runners to go jogging in.
  
• Deciding to walk home.
  
• Wearing plimsolls today when wellies would have been more appropriate.
• Making a "cheer up" cup of tea when my face is so numb that I can't blink, never mind sip like a lady.
• Spilling said tea all over my duvet (for I have retreated to bed with my book in a huff).
• Eating just half of my lunch when I should have known solids would be off the menu later.
• Agreeing to go to fucking Cavan next weekend to speak about something that I don't really understand at a conference for bored and hungover students.

Still, tomorrow my brother turns the same age as me and to celebrate we're heading to The Sugar Club for what promises to be a very good night.

The Heimlich Manoeuvre

Santy came up trumps again this year; a ticket for next year's Electric Picnic. In fairness though, Santy had had a lot of unsubtle hints. We've grown out of list writing in our house at this stage (at 26, 25 and 22 respectively I suppose it's about time) but back in the day the lists always followed a three item formula: a toy, a pet of some description (not a fucking chance) and (because we were polite children and knew that sometimes Santy runs out of things) a surprise.

So imagine my surprise a few years ago when my sister went in to the other room to fetch my present and emerged with a hamster. The lady in the pet shop had been reluctant to sell him to my mother, worried that the child wouldn't appreciate the gift. "She's 21..." When they got him home they opened the boot of the car to find him swinging from the bars of his cage by his little pink feet. I was thrilled with him. He was like a little ball of cotton wool, brilliant white with bright pink eyes. And he was mad.

I named him Heimlich after the manoeuvre because when I fed him each day he'd stuff his cheeks with the entire contents of the food dish and then wait until I'd left the room to squirrel it away under his bedding, presumably in case I changed my mind and decided to take it back. He soon grew large and portly, so I trained him to do trapeze across the bars of his cage (for banana chips) and got him one of those exercise ball thingys which he used to chase the big dog around the kitchen. He'd sleep all day while I was at college, I'd wake him for playtime in the evenings. One day when I woke him I noticed he was a bit off, when I took him out to play he started walking around in circles, agitated and unable to turn to the right. I looked like an absolute tit sitting in the vet's, cradling a shoebox, tears in my eyes. The prognosis was grave; it was either a bad cold which had caused his brain to swell (!) or a tumour. The vet injected him with an antibiotic and a sedative and told me to bring him back the following day if there was no improvement. He recovered but it knocked him back, a few weeks later I went to wake him and found that he'd died in his sleep.

My brother and I gave him a funeral in the front garden, where the dogs would be less likely to dig him up and present him to me at the breakfast table some morning. We buried him under the daffodils, in an empty Tampax box. Snivelling, we waved at the neighbours who were seeing some visitors off. Two twentysomethings burying tampons in the flowerbeds... Just another Sunday afternoon in Naas.

Scuba Steve

After mam's dramatics, my day improved. Pretending to be musicians, my brother and I blagged our way into one of the gigs (this one, as it featured my love interest from that weekend in An Cheathrú Rua...). Typical me, The Festival of World Cultures and there I am, hanging out in the Gaeilge tent. From there we headed up to catch a bit of Dónal Dineen's set in one of the hotels and again, typical me, I ended up drinking in the car park instead and talking to random strangers. Interesting ones though; these boys. I must keep an eye out for their work.

From there we got a lift into town from a kind if directionally challenged friend (we ended up taking a spin in the wrong direction down Harcourt St's Luas line but beggars can't be choosers- the queue for a taxi in Dun Laoghaire would make your eyes water). On to the POD for a bit of a Pogo and more vodka than was strictly necessary, and then my brother and I barrelled drunkenly into Aprila's chipper, in Portobello, for a bite of dinner. Civilised drunkards that we are, we strolled down the leafy-with-love banks of the Grand Canal and sat down on a bench to enjoy our fare. I had just stood up to shake the curry chips out of my skirt and start for home when I noticed a figure about 20 yards away, standing on the path and wretchedly puking on his own shoes. "Look at this poor fucker!" I exclaimed in glee (always fun to see someone drunker than yourself) and my brother craned his head for a gawk, just in time to see the poor sot pitch head first off the footpath into the canal.

I ran to his rescue, with all the grace of a flat chested C.J. Parker. Just as I reached the spot he'd launched from, a hand shot up from the reeds, and then another. He struggled to standing in the 2ft deep water, huffing and puffing, and breaking his bollix laughing. I helped him out, and backup arrived (in curry-chip stained jeans and a fit of the giggles). "Are you alright, mate?" More giggles. From all three of us. He began fishing various sodden items from the pockets of his biker's jacket, a dripping mobile phone, wet banknotes, smelly canal weed. I asked him if he'd far to go and he explained -with the frank honesty of the truly drunk- that he was close to home, he'd been drinking in The Barge Pub and had just wandered down "for a dump". How glad am I that he wasn't mid shite when he toppled in. "Have you a pen and paper?" he asked. "Take my name and address, and remind me that this happened. Not tomorrow though, in a while, like. Maybe next year. No, in three years time. My name's Stephen, Stephen Boyle. Nice to meet yiz."

I made him promise to walk on the lower path, away from the water, and he staggered off, leaving a dripping trail and laughing spastically to himself. I hope he made it home.

I'm not the family shambles... He is.

(points finger accusingly at her brother)

I was feeling a bit poorly over the weekend (I'm corpse-like today, but how and ever) so when Saturday night rolled around, I dropped around to a friend's house for a few pre-pub scoops but never made the pub part. As the rest of em headed out the door at 10.30 with bottles under their oxters (for the walk) I headed home to bed and Harry Potter. Woke up Sunday in my parents' house, coughing like a consumptive and cursing my ill-health, grumpy as fuck. I decided to share my misery by waking my brother, who'd made it to the pub and was doubtless in much worse shape. But the bedroom door was open, as were the curtains, and there was no sign of him.

Two hours came and went, and still there was no sign of him. I went and did some shopping, tried his phone while I was out in case he needed me to come fetch him. Nada. Got home, and Mam really needed to speak to him to get a phone number for a contractor friend of his who was supposed to call to the house. Tried calling him again. Nada. So I called 4 of our mates who'd been out with him the night before, to see if any of them knew of his whereabouts. One had his jumper, another had his jacket and wallet. The third had last seen him at a taxi rank with friend #4, who wasn't answering her phone.

Then I heard a toilet flush upstairs, followed by a thumping lurch and his unmistakable cough. I went up and there he was, fully dressed, bleary eyed and still wankered. Turns out he'd been in his room all along, but we'd missed him as he'd slept lengthways across the bottom of the bed, fully dressed, on top of the duvet.

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