Not so clever

i did it....

2007-02-22T00:24:00.000Z

It didn't end up how I wanted it to.

I didn't get where I expected.

The reactions were minimal,

The causes were dismal.

It's all a bit pair of pants, really.

And I'm afraid I might rant.

SO I'll end it now,

Enough said. I'm pissed. Goodnight.

News....

2007-02-06T20:27:00.000Z

I've had a very busy new year when I come to think of it.

There was the big decision.

That is to actually hand in my application for a career break.

I don't know what made me take the plunge in the end, but I did, and here I am.

Only seven months, less until I get out of Dublin.

Until I get married.

I am so excited, nervous, terrified, afraid, happy and all the bundles of feelings.

I didn't think it was allowed to be scared.

But my most adventurous friend asked me was I feeling anxious.

I said, 'patcha'

And she said, 'I would be'

I looked at her, 'would you?'

'Yes. I think you're right to do it, but I would be scared.'

'Well, I suppose I am a bit', I said.

Blogsblogsblogs of information from people all around the world.

We're trying to put together an itinerary.

Then I keep thinking of that Jewish joke

'How do you make God laugh?'

'Tell him your plans'

Maybe I shouldn't be excited about the year off.

It might never happen after all.

I should just live in the here and now.

But if I do that, well, I could end up in Mumbai without a clue how I got there.

And I am kind of living in the here and now.

I've been busy - meeting up with people, doing fitness things in an attempt to lose the blubber.

I still haven't finished the first draft of the book.

And I haven't been blogging.

But I've been busy.

post xmas plump slump

2007-01-09T21:00:00.000Z

Typical, that's what it is. I'm just bed ridden following two weeks of excess over xmas. My sympathies are with the permanently ill, as it really truly sucks.

All those mornings when I've internally wished, nay prayed for an illness that would enable me to be bed bound, well they were stupid really. Now I've got my wish and I'm a toxic shambles of a rambling person.

Today, I got out of bed, was woosy, got back into bed, rested. Woke, was scared of getting out and experiencing woosiness and read instead. Read the last book I had to read. Then got up, went down stairs. Was feeling a bit perky, decided to change the sheets on my bed (aka my new permanent place of residence). Ransacked the hot press for said sheets. Got woosy, stumbled upstairs and slept. Got up again went to bed again, you get the picture.

The simplest things are so tiring. Like doing this. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

drunken ramblings at almost xmas

2006-12-19T23:07:00.000Z

I'm almost at zmas, it's just before xmas and I'm a bit tipsy and an ickle hyper and possibly a bit maudling too.

Plus my spelling has gone to shit. It's the booze I blame and the short days. If you saw the amount of words I've had to correct in the previous sentences you'd sentence me to spelling school.

So on the plus side I've had a drinkie and I'm feeling happy. I bought some random shoes and they're very nice so that's nice. Finally bought the kris kindel, I hate kris kindel, it's unnecessary and a bit annoying. Wouldn't it be nicer if people in my work just liked each other enough to go for a casual pint instead of 52 weeks of hatred and one day of gift swapping. Nah, kris kindel is for sadsers, of which I must be one if I'm partaking.

But the shoes I bought are nice.

xx

light and peace

2006-12-05T20:20:00.000Z

Stormy weather has howled across Dublin, leaving no leaves on trees, fences knocked over, garden tables strewn across lawns.

It's winter, we're cold and it seems to always be dark or half dusk.

We crave light and sun and an end to the evenings.

And then, after hard work and visits to the attic or the depths of the store-cupboard, a plug is put in the socket, the electricity surges. Flats and council houses flicker and sparkle with the shiny christmas lights.

Book Luck

2006-11-24T20:53:00.000Z

To pick a random book off my shelf, one of his, and to read it and for it to be a pleasure, is a true pleasure to me.

All the sweeter as it is free. Miss Wyoming is the fifth Douglas Coupland book I've been absorbed in (Generation X, Girlfriend in a Coma, Polaroids from the Dead and Microsurfs being the others in chronological order in which they were read).

There's something about Coupland's style, I'm not sure whether it is the luminous capture of the spirit of today or his curious stream of conscious linking of seamingly random moments into a lucid tale, that appeals deeply to me. In particular Miss Wyoming connected me to a story and a world, and while I recall thinking briefly that Girlfriend in a Coma was probably one of the best books I had read, tonight, as Miss Wyoming drove into the sunset, I had a similar feeling.

And then I put that thought away, remembering all the other gems I've recently read - Philip Roth, MJ Hyland, Iréne Nemirovsky, Coetzee - and am brought back to a bold quote I read in the Observer magazine a few weeks ago from Nina Bawden, writer of Carrie's War, who said:

'People who don't read seem to me mysterious. I don't know how they think or learn about other people. Novels are a very important part of our education.'

In this time of great darkness, when I despair at every turn about the injustices and clawback of human rights that are happening during the spell that my generation are coming to the fore, I admire the brave sentiment contained within her quote. Suddenly things are clearer. If you don't read, you mightn't learn, and if you don't learn then you can't be expected to know or understand about the relationship between yourself and other people. The responsibility is ended for compassion.

I can't end the wrongs, I bury my head in a book, maybe someday there will be an answer, meanwhile I'll enjoy the story and learn.

contraversial theory regarding my head

2006-11-23T18:59:00.000Z

Is my head a seismograph or am I just going mad. Actually that's not what I meant to say at all.

I think I might be able to sense thunder or just bad vibes using the power of my head.

This afternoon I had a terrible headache, and suddenly the juju in the room was pretty awful for about two nurofen or a half an hour. Then it returned to its usual purile state.

Likewise, when I worked in Bray under the shadow of the Sugar Loaf, I distinctly remember two ocassions when I had a headache and suddently there was thunder and lightening.

Or maybe I'm going batty and the headaches are a symptom of my malaise.

Who knows.

Random items of musing

2006-11-16T20:51:00.000Z

Phantom FM is tops. I'm so delighted that it's back and all proper-stylie, and gone are the Ray D'Arcy / Ian Dempsey filled traffic jams of my past, good morning Dublin, thank God for the music.

I love doing my show on Annalivia fm, and would recommend the station to anyone wanting to work in community radio, and I love being a volunteer, you get great freedom to create your own show. Though, you have to admit that it would be fantastic to get paid someday for blarbling, opining and playing decent music, so maybe some day da boyz n ghouls from Phantom will come knocking on my door... a gal can dream, sigh.

And on the subject of Phantom, they brought the website 'mydeathspace' to my attention. It's so strange, and yet I suppose it was only a matter of time before someone did something with the sites of people who've passed away. It's very voyeristic, and compelling in a really sinister way. At the same time though, isn't this an extension of the place that obituaries have played in the world since newspapers started running them? And even gravestones. They are a marker, a reminder of who someone was. Still though, I'm conflicted by the whole thing.

I'm off to Donegal for a hearty weekend of gardening and chilling out, I'm really looking forward to leaving the city for a few days. I can't wait to walk down by the beach, and I know that when I'm strolling, the daydreaming will start and I'll be planning a spring break after Christmas. Last year we went for a week in March or April, and it was fantastic taking three hour walks around the coast and past fields filled with little lambs. If I can swing it, I'm going for longer this year. Maybe I'll have a laptop, and maybe I'll finish the first draft of my book.

Aw, the curse of being a city slicker and being a general nuisance to the people of whatever county you terrorise with your notions of fresh air, turf and toast cooked on the collapsing range.

strange haircuts

2006-10-26T20:29:00.000+01:00

Ho hum, I despair of ever trying to keep up with the kids.

Is it the early signs of freaking out due to my recent twenty-ninth birthday, or was I right to ask for that fringe?

I look in the mirror and think, 'that's different, funky almost. It definitely reminds me of something'.

Then I walk away humming and smiling, I walk away with a swagger as I go. Suddenly I'm imagining all sorts of daffodils and strawberries and happiness. Life is good, I think to myself, and it is great to be at an age where you can express yourself through your hair-do.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection, and inwardly without even realising, I remember, 'it's that guy from Spinal Tap, that's who I look like.'

Suddenly the pink and yellow turns lurid and I realise that I have to wear this zigzag fringe until it grows out.

Flashbacks to a spot I had at the age of seventeen, thinking creatively I adhesed a plaster to my face. This created hoots of hilarity in a male schoolmate, who insisted I reveal my growth.

Naively I did, to which he said,

'Jesus, I can see it growing - I swear!'

I recoiled, saying 'really?'

'Yeah - in front of my eyes, it's BLEEDIN MASSIVE. Oh my God...'

'WHAT' I shrieked

'Jesus... That's WEIRD' he said

My hand quickly travelled to my face

'LOOK' he said, 'IT'S GROWING AN ARM - JESUS - IT'S WAVING AT ME!'

Blah. I still haven't learnt my lesson. Tskch, what was I thinking.

an otherwise insignificant day

2006-10-26T00:08:00.000+01:00

Winter began today, I can feel it. The trees were shivering off their leaves, and the sky was crying and wailing the end of autumn.

I am cosy, tucked up in my warm house with a big mug of coffee, ten pages into a good book. I pause just for a few minutes to write this and to make a token gesture at writing a hundred words or so onto my story.

The night howls away outside and I sigh, it's good to be at home after a boring day in work and a busy evening doing drama and having chats.

Later, briefly I considered doing something, or as I often do now, spending time agonising over finding direction for my rudderless state and resulting gloom of doom, but no, I smiled contentedly and decided instead to salute the changing of the seasons through adorning my feet with slipper-socks.

Otherwise, apart from brief daydreams about pumpkins and halloween, and making a resolution to be nice to other drivers, which resulted in many waves from fellow road-users, it was an insignificant day for me.

Why I don't want Ryanair to take over Aer Lingus

2006-10-23T20:35:00.000+01:00

This is one woman's campaign against Michael O'Leary taking over Aer Lingus.

Dear Michael,

I know that you are a very successful business man, and I suspect that you aspire to take over the world, albeit gradually. But I would like to ask you not to buy my favourite airline, Aer Lingus.

I think it's in your interest, and mine, if you take over more sympathetic businesses, such as maybe McDonalds, or Tesco, or the M50 Toll-bridge, to fulfil your life's dream, and leave Aer Lingus alone.

All of these businesses would, in their tiresome, tedious lack of consideration for the consumer, better suit your aims.

Take my experience on Aer Lingus this week, flying to and from Paris. It was pleasant, calm, informative, enjoyable and I paid more, as I want to have a pleasant journey. To me, the journey is a key part of any holiday.

Imagine the lengths you will have to go to just to fit Aer Lingus into the Ryanair school of flight. And imagine the efforts I will have to go to just to avoid flying by Ryanair.

I support consumer choice, and anyone who wishes to travel distances at a reasonable price, whilst to a great degree sacrificing their comfort, is as far as I'm concerned, fully welcome and able to do so, due in no small terms, to your adoption of the South West Airlines model of business. Following Porters' strategy of cost, you have succeeded in making a very good product. Well done.

Unfortunately it is a product that I as a consumer, don't enjoy. I travelled once by Ryanair, and perhaps some time in the future due to unforseen circumstances, may again. However, to be honest, I won't travel by that mode unless there is no alternative, as I thought it was rubbish scrambling for a seat, scary that the staff looked so unhappy and frustrated, and smelly (literally, we sat near the toilets, which didn't seem to have been cleaned).

So what will happen to consumers like me?

What is in it for you to erode away a brand that I'm fond of, and trust. Wouldn't it be more to your advantage to buy another airline whose customers rever and respect you - say easyjet, or bmi?

I don't think many people even want you to, your own customers included. They won't be able to feel contented that they're getting a bargain if you own the competition. I mean, where will your selling point go if you buy the dearer brand? They may be suspicious - and if your price goes up at all, they might think, 'is it because he spent so much on that dear airline he used to say was a rip-off?'

And if you go on to buy all the airlines in the world, well then all airlines will be budget, and then the customer will feel jipped either way. Plus I'll be forced to start travelling by Zepplin, and other more imaginative customers who don't like your service, will probably start inventing time travel or holiday at home, Bord Fáilte will be delighted.

Anyway, my arguments won't convince you, and you'll probably do it anyway.

So, I'll dust off my flippers and snorkel, and the Irish sea won't know what's hit it.

Insincerely,

Aoife.

ps. Also, I think you'll be bored, I mean, who will you have to slag off - especially if Bertie doesn't get back in this time?

reading

2006-10-18T00:11:00.000+01:00

This evening I read a good book, it's by MJ Hyland and is called 'Carry me Down'. Where some people like to read deeply, I seem to favour reading quickly, and while this can be extremely enjoyable, it also can be expensive.

Until I gave up smoking except on the rare ocassion when I do, I thought nothing of spending over six euro on a packet of twenty cigarettes, which I would chuff merrily in a day or two or three.

This habit of reading is obviously more positive to my health, and while you might argue the environment suffers as I chug my way through tree after tree, I would counter attack that these tomes provide ample insulation in my little house.

Still, reading at my current speed is more expensive than smoking - I bought Arthur and George late last week, and the aforementioned book today. I also am nearly finished a biography of Clive James (I intersperse this with other books - Clive is funny, yet I'm strangely repelled by his honest description of masturbating as a schoolboy, and have to take a break every fifty or so pages). In between I devoured many papers and magazines. There is no sating this appetite for reading at the moment.

I find it comes in waves too, sometimes I will lug a book around for weeks, so enamoured am I by the smells and intrigue of the real world. Leaves will tumble from trees rather than gummed binders, and I will meet with friends for laughs rather than uncover plots and hidden truths.

A month and a half ago, I was in a twilight created by Philip Roth, reading The Plot against America, American Pastoral and My Life as a Man over a few weeks. Then just because I felt like it, I stayed in America (north and south) reading the aptly named 'Indecision' for that is what I felt, and I bought the book on impulse.

Of course, nobody can stay in America for too long without a visa, and so I find myself back in old Europe with the intriguing 'Arthur and George' which is a semi real/fiction account of Arthur Conan Doyle and George Edalji's childhood and subsequent intertwinned moment in history. I thought it was an extremely well written, quite literary romp. And boy do I like a good story. I've stayed in Europe with today's book also, and even travelled home to Ireland for this one.

Is there something disconcerting about transcending continents and decades so quickly? I feel completely spazzed after finishing Carry Me Down a few minutes ago. MJ Hyland travels from Wexford to Ballymun, both places I'm familiar with, and she uses an eleven year old boy as our guide. I found Patrick McCabe's Butcher Boy brought to mind. Not to say Hyland is derivative, rather she has her own style of writing, which is beautiful, poetic and flowing.

I was terribly impressed, and possible bought the book, based on an endorsement by JM Coetzee on the cover. I love the two Coetzee books I've read - Disgrace and Youth - I feel that he speaks honestly, rather like Roth. Albeit that they speak from two different continents - Africa and USA respectively.

Who knows where I'll travel to with my next book - Margaret Atwood has a nice one out, except as it is hardback I don't know if I can stretch to it on my budget. Toni Morrison was recommended also, maybe I'll try her. Although I have been going through a period fetish reading Somerset Maugham, so who knows maybe they have another of his if I search far and wide enough in the book shops in town...

I love reading, I love writing. But I love reading more.

a few of my favourite things.

2006-10-09T22:11:00.000+01:00

In an effort to Pollyanna all the ills of the world to rights, these are a few of my favourite things that happened today:

Smell - Leftover blueberry cake from Superquinn.

Moment - Blissed out in yoga class during relaxation, feeling absolutely nothing / Nice txt from someone saying thank you for something I almost forgot I did weeks ago.

Laugh - Larry David and Ted Danson scrapping in Episode 1 of Third Series, Curb your Enthusiasm / Black humoured comment in work, that I can't repeat here...

Taste - Last glug of my cappuchino at lunchtime

Sound - Distant sound of the washing machine through the floor while I write is really cosy

Recent Memory - Swimming yesterday and being underwater listening to the sounds above / Reaching 68,000 words at 1am this morning

I was hoping for some profundity in my analysis, but retrospectively it was just an uneventful day.

The onset of madness

2006-10-02T21:57:00.000+01:00

Last night when I was sleeping I was someone else. And this morning I realised I'm not sure how long I've been me, or whether I've always been me, or if that was who I really am when I'm asleep. Tough thoughts first thing on Monday morning.

The fact is, this morning when I woke it took a few minutes, or many seconds for me to remember who I am, of course morning radio blows the cobwebs out and while it's the strangest sensation, of being someone else and then being yourself, but not recognising yourself, well you get on with it really.

Still I'm not sure if this dream just randomly occurred, or if a conversation I had earlier this week precepitated it.

Apparently, I was informed by a reliable source that people often have accidents after which family and friends report their personality have altered dramatically.

They may have been a wild child, who suddenly becomes studious and introspective, or a really serious individual becomes a prankster.

Take people who have experienced life threatening diseases - a friend of mine who sadly passed away a few years ago, told me that prior to his first bout of cancer (I met him between this and his last), he had a high powered sales job, and the impression he gave me was that he had been quite the stress head until he faced his disease. When I met him, he was like a rock of calm in an ocean of malcontent, and he certainly took much anguish out of my early twenty angst with his reassuring presence.

Either it's just a one off dream, or I'm slowly turning insane.

The other thing about this dream where I was someone else, was it reminded me of times when I was in primary school and when I woke from a deep sleep, I would panic that today was the first time I had been this person, and for all I knew, that after sleep that night, my memory of being who I was today would erode, and that it was all a futile waste of time.

Since I've grown up a little, I don't tend to indulge in such navel gazing philosophical questions, and yet, if your subconscious is forcing you to confront the nature of your reality and the frailty of your personality, there isn't much escaping the nausea.

autosummarize

2006-09-26T21:25:00.000+01:00

There's this story I've been working on for a long time.

Literally.

It's been going on for years and I'm not even half way there.

Anyway, at this point I've squeezed 41,867 words out of the first draft, and I'm nowhere near a conclusion.

Rather, the conclusion is ish written, but the midriff is empty at the moment.

The point is that tonight in a fit of pique I decided to autosummarize the story into 1% (in a separate document of course).

I recommend it to any fellow people trying to write and failing miserably.

It is really gas, and it reads like a bad haiku.

Anyway I can't tell you now, it gives away the ending.

But it has put a smile on my face, and has given me more energy to write the next 41,867 words!

A friendly compass

2006-09-20T19:02:00.000+01:00

I'm completely lost, on the verge of some incident, and then the phone rings and I'm meeting my mate for lunch, she's been away for a week or two and like some superhero has flown in just in the nick of time.

It's great to meet someone when you're on the edge, I find. At best they can point you in some direction and at worst you can off-load some of your angst on them, unintentionally of course.

Besides, often times I'm the ear that listens, and so today was my payback.

She was so happy, just back from her holiday, and I felt so guilty that I tried not to off-load. After about four minutes I exploded into a pile of confusion. Smiling, in a calm way, she mopped up my messy life into a few manageable pieces of advice, which I'll impart here:

1. It's ok to be the wrong one (this is in relation to an admission that work isn't ticketyboo, and this may be, partly, due to ahem, my attitude)

2. It's good to have a wide range of objectives (this is in relation to a babbling brook of future careers I may wish to pursue like now - ranging from café opener / entrepreneur through psychoanalyst through global explorer)

3. You're not experiencing an existential crisis, it's just your life (this nugget I admit I don't fully understand, but it made me smile so I felt it was useful. The fact that I'm reading Camus' The Fall and that I'm really on a ledge I may not have communicated fully. Plus, and I'm probably being 1 above, but I'm not sure she knew what I meant).

And all the while she smiled, smiled and smiled. I feel much better now, even though I'm still utterly lost.

The only fear I have, apart from all the morbid fears I'm experiencing is that up until about a week ago, when I had a friendly chat with another mate who is going through something, I was feeling fine.

I just hope this precipice stuff isn't contagious, and that I've passed it on to my compass.

The stupidest girl in the class

2006-09-19T22:41:00.000+01:00

A few years ago I made a mistake. These things happen every day, I don't expect sympathy or anything.

It wasn't especially bad, but still. Lord know what overtook me, everyone else I knew just headed to Australia or South-east Asia when they lost their way in those initial years after college.

My freakout took the peculiar shape of a masters in strategic marketing. It's tame I know, compared to trying smack, robbing rare birds eggs or even heading to the nether regions of the globe with only a smelly sleeping bag and some grubby fivers. But I lacked direction, and the course title seemed to suggest some. Plus I was a confused young adult, and as I said it was a mistake.

Even in rebellion I rock too gently I guess.

Anyway there I was, the strange kid in the class who kept mentioning deconstruction while the other kids focussed on the construction industry. It wasn't pleasant for them, and it was hell for me. I took joy in any moment I could.

And while normally my memories come to me as Platoonesque flashbacks, the other night I smiled a nostalgic grin as I remembered the day we studied one Harvard case study in particular.

It was a fraught Strategic Marketing Management lecture (note: the more times Strategic is mentioned in the course and module titles, the more important the course must be) and the class were flipping through their paper, personal organisers and other gadgets with great intent.

I was aping them, albeit a few seconds late, similar to how it was when our school choir would sing at Christmas and I didn't know the words.

The lecturer said, 'I know we're scheduled to look at the Enron case this week, but in light of all the ahem, issues in the press at the moment, well, I think we'll focus on revising our previous cases'.

We sat in silence, one hand wavering alone in the air.

The lecturer nodded at her.

Business students you ignore at your peril, they are so serious they make philosophy students look like comedians.

'I've studied this case indepthly...' she started, 'so I presume that we can use it in the exam, can we? Otherwise it's just a waste of time really, isn't it.'

I laughed, but it wasn't a joke.

The other night, slipping 'Enron The Smartest Guys in the Office' into my dvd player, I remembered that evening, and smiled.

Two years out of my life, a mistake, but hey, at least I didn't lose my pension on it.

Going to the movies by oneself

2006-09-15T20:30:00.000+01:00

Last night I was supposed to go out with a friend, who had to cancel and I was left on my own, on payday.

There was no way in hell that I was going home. It has been a dreadfully tough (aka boring and hard work) week. I left work at five thirty and wandered down town.

I don't often shop for longer than neccessary due to the crowds and the pokey shops, and the fact that generally speaking I don't really get overly excited about the colour of a cardigan or whatever.

Anyway, last night I felt a bit girly, so I decided to browse the shops, and wandered aimlessly around for a bit and bought a miscellany of objects. Exhausted I looked at the time on my phone and realised with fright that it was still only ten to six.

Still I was bored, so I decided to go to the cinema. Now, there are good and bad things about going to see a movie by oneself, something I was thinking about when I bought the ticket for Little Miss Sunshine at nine in UGC. The good thing for me is the sense of complete independence, and the fact that you don't have to account for anyone else's taste.

And I thought it was an interesting, good movie. I felt that it looked at today's world through a caustic, yet somewhat nostalgic eye. There's a moment in the beauty pagaent that I got a jolt, as it's shocking, but then I thought about what it was saying, and I think it's poking at an important message about our society.

It's frigging terrible though going to see a good movie. Noone I know has seen it, and I hate that I have noone to talk to about it.

The Weighing Scales

2006-09-12T20:11:00.000+01:00

I stand, the last in the short queue, coveted pink weighing scales heavy in my hands.

It's late in the evening, they're about to close the department store. Still bright outside, late summer. Only one or two aimless customers wander in the kitchen utensil section, browsing garlic crushers or expensive heavy saucepans.

The weighing scales was the last complete set and it's quite dirty, will need to be cleaned when I drive it home to its next home on my kitchen table.

It's my turn and I place it on the counter, for the price to be taken by the cashier and for the other woman to swathe it in layers of light, protective foam.

The cashier lifts it delicately, and I'm afraid that she'll comment on it's dirt, that she'll shame me into leaving it, even though it's the last one, and if a weighing scales were to be some tool to communicate who I like to see myself as, this is it.

She doesn't comment, she's listening to the other woman who says,

'I'll get you that water Mary now, and then I'll take over from you. It's becoming clear though, that the only way to go is private, and I don't like that Mary. It's costing a fortune, but going public, well it would take a few weeks for him to even see me, and I just can't wait Mary, I think it's serious, you know, I have a bad feeling about this'.

The cashier nods, and finding the barcode, attempts to scan in the price. The other woman hesitates, and doesn't move away, instead continues,

'But do you think I should wait, like, and go public? I feel just terrible Mary, just awful. He's going to have a look tomorrow, but maybe I should leave it and go public?'

The cashier turns and says,

'You can't not see him if it's arranged for tomorrow - it doesn't work like that, and your health is the most important thing, if you think something is wrong, then get it taken care of. I'd like that water, it would be great.'

And the other woman nods, saying,

'I'd have to wait weeks Mary, for them to see it, if I went public.'

The scanner can't pick up the code, so the cashier begins to scrunch her eyes to read it, and then carefully types it, digit by digit, checking each one, into the register,

'Last night Mary, it got so bad that I was in the toilet for an hour and Ciara was knocking on the door, saying 'are you alright in there Ma', it was terrible, I couldn't keep anything in me, all the food from the day passed right through me.'

The price pops on the screen and the cashier pauses, before the other woman says,

'I'll do this one, and then I'll get the water.'

The cashier nods, and hands the weighing scales to her before asking for my credit card, which I hand to her.

The other woman handles my weighing scales carefully, as though she's sizing it, before placing it on the thin sheets of foam.

The cashier places my credit card in the machine and asks me to put my pin number in the keypad.

Somebody stands behind me, and suddenly there's a queue again.

'I don't mean to you know upset you Mary, I know that you, and a couple of years ago and, you haven't had your break yet, what time is it, are we near closing?'

The cashier says

'The water will do me grand, it will be fine. If you're worried, have it seen to, that's my advice.'

The other lady nods.

'Well, Mary, I'll just wrap this up, and I'll get the water. But I'm very scared, really I am.'

She begins to roll a layer of foam on, securing it with sellotape before beginning the second layer.

'Was it awful Mary, was it?' she asks.

I wonder whether they even realise that I'm standing listening, I'd rather not, but I can't help hearing from where I am. And if I move, it will be too obvious.

The other person behind me, who I can't see, must be listening too. Or maybe they can't hear.

'After they took the ovary out, it was over, and I've had no trouble since. If you're worried, get it seen to, that's my advice.'

The cashier says.

I admit that I'm shocked.

I know that she would like her glass of water, and I'm feeling that she wants the conversation to end. If I could, I would get her the water, or better still, walk away, but I'm in the middle of this transaction.

The other lady looks at the cashier who is handing me back my card, and says

'That's where I've messed it up, Mary, by leaving it too long. I should have had it seen to when the problem started, instead of ignoring it for so long. I have a really bad feeling about this Mary, a really bad feeling. I'm scared.'

After saying this, and pausing for a few seconds, she slowly lifts the swathed weighing scales high in the air, and the cashier, understanding what she's doing, places under it a large paper bag bearing the department store logo. Between them, moving each object carefully, they place the inflated heavy scales securely in the bag.

The cashier hands the bag over, without looking at me.

I nod and say thanks, quickly moving away from the till.

flaming nora

2006-09-10T20:01:00.000+01:00

Why is it that a simple invitation to dinner results in my having a stinky hangover and a throat like a chimney pre-smokeless fuel?

There was absolutely no need for me to stay up talking until almost five. In fact, the conversation wasn't that illuminating or interesting really.

I had plans, things to do. My gym bag was packed, I was going to tidy the house, get some preparation in for the interview tomorrow.

Instead an afternoon moping around on the sofa, reading the guardian magazine from yesterday and chortling at the images of Jimmy Carr as Jack Nicholson in the Shining whilst munching crisps and chocolate and generally feeling most unwell.

What was the frigging point of today in my life, like really?

They say that you should never feel you've wasted a day in your life, yet I've wasted years of my adult life through hangovers.

The mandatory Irish lets get pissed. Take tonight for instance, I just know that I'll have at least a can of beer or a glass of wine. Maybe booze is the only requiem in this windswept waterlogged island, but at the same time, maybe if I didn't booze I'd actually get something done instead of being a permanent slacker with a PHD in self-pity.

how do primary school teachers actually teach kids maths?

2006-08-29T23:48:00.000+01:00

With chalk she drew a white circle on the board.

The children watched, pencils poised over paper.

Lily pressed her teeth into her lower lip, 'I'm going to draw it perfect this time'.

John thought about his mother, who was in work. 'I wish she was able to stay at home like the other John's mother'.

Lana couldn't resist and made a mark on the sheet, just a small dot. 'Why did I do that?' she thought, and looked left and right. 'They haven't noticed' she thought, and rubbed it out, brushing the curls of rubber away first with her hand, and then with a deep breath.

The teacher drew a line across the circle.

'So children', she said, 'what has happened to the circle?'

Lana stretched her arm high above her head, so far that her body was forced to stretch with it.

The teacher waited.

John looked behind him at the fancy dress box, where the hat sat. 'If we dress up, I want to be the guard, I would be a good guard, make all the bad people into the jail so all the people are happy' he thought.

Lily looked at Lana and thought, 'I wish I knew like Lana, she always knows the answer.'

The teacher spoke, 'Katie, what do you think has happened to the circle'.

Katie looked at the circle. 'It is hard to talk if you don't know' she thought.

The teacher smiled at her, 'just tell me what happened when I drew the line'.

Katie guessed, 'it broke the circle into bits? I don't know Miss, is that what happened?'

She nodded, 'Katie is right, isn't she? The circle broke into two pieces, didn't it?'

The class chanted, 'yes Miss'.

Teacher gave them a moment to look at the circle again.

'One, two, I think I see two' Lily thought.

John looked at the board, 'where are the...I don't see two circles?' he thought

Lana stared at the board, 'two… two…' she thought

Katie smiled 'I got it right' she nodded, 'how did I get it right?'

The teacher then took the chalk and wrote the digit '1' in the first half, and '1' in the second.

All four children smiled, relieved. They understood. The circle was broken into two.

The teacher then took the chalk and underneath she wrote '1 + 1 = 2'

Lily bit her lip again. 'What does that mean?' she thought.

Lana smiled, 'this is like the tv programme Daddy showed me' she thought.

John blinked and didn't think.

Katie looked out the window 'I wonder if my teddybear at home today is lonely or if he's having fun'.

The teacher spoke, 'one and one is equal to two. One half of a circle and one half of a circle are equal to two halves of a circle'.

She waited.

Repeat after me, 'one and one are equal to two'.

The children all spoke 'one and one are equal to two'.

The teacher asked them to repeat it again, and to copy it into their books. 'I hope they understand' she thought.

Columbo

2006-08-26T19:46:00.000+01:00

He's the bumbling, cigar smoking, disorganised yet incisive Detective of my childhood, and the DVDs are just grand.

Yesterday I cancelled plans of charred meat and pints to sit in front of the box, watching the glass-eyed Peter Falk catching three murderers.

My favourite of the three I watched was 'Fade into Murder' which features William Shatner as a rather camp actor called Ward Fowler. Ward plays a television detective called 'Lieutenant Lucerne', and between the costumes, campness, and murder, I had an extremely entertaining evening.

Who knows what's next - a few DVDs of Murder She Wrote perhaps...

Perception

2006-08-17T21:58:00.000+01:00

Got back from Spain. Here's a brief synopsis, in the tradition of the hot and not list:

What's Hot

The Weather (I felt like Manny in Black Books, suffering from Dave's syndrome - I did, like 42, think that's about, ahem, 30 hotter than an average day here)

Also, the way in which they developed these incredible windy roads where each side of the street practically touches, just so the sun couldn't beat down on their heads.

And the way there are canopies high above the streets to protect shoppers from the sun, I've never seen that before.

Finally, all the sun in the day makes them super chilled in the pm, and means that dinner only happens after 10pm. Every city we were in was hopping well into the early hours.

Really Friendly people (these saint like patient people deigned to smile as we plundered and murdered their language)

Letting oranges plop onto people's heads from trees on the street (I'm such a sucker for fruit growing on trees rather than in plastic supermarket cartons)

Amazing moorish influence - the Alcazar in Seville, the Alhambra in Granada

Strange Food Intriguing menus that I little understood, and yet the food was yum (although it felt like the atkins diet - lots and lots and even more meat. But doughnuts for breakfast? And these people have the best figures...

Art - Me and Picasso, chilling out in the Prado in Madrid, really felt we had a moment. And what about Joan Miro, with his funky colours in Barcelona.

Not Hot

The beer (because it's chilled like)
The buses (because they're airconditioned like)

Also, I thought this is worth mentioning. When I got home, gushing like a broken hose pipe about Spain and the Spanish, I was telling a mate how gorgeous and thin most Spanish ladies are, and how I felt like a heifer until I landed in Dublin Airport where I coincidentally seemed surrounded by larger ladies and felt reasonably ok. Well, we were sitting there, tucking into chocolate and cakes, as one does, when my friend nodded and said,

'Yeah. But they're just built differently from us like, you know, they're just you know, lighter'.

I took another square of the obligatory airport Toblerone. Chomping this, I thought about the situation. I'd like to agree with her, but the reality is we're such pigs. They simply don't go around with their hands permanently going from crisp packet or chocolate bar or burger to mouth. They don't have a convenience store every 10 feet where display cabinets are strewn with layer upon layer of every type of candy coated confection man has developed over the two odd thousand years we've been doing so.

holiday! celebrate!

2006-08-07T10:10:00.000+01:00

Go on holiday.

Forget your job, responsibilities, credit card balance, mortgage, whatever.

Just go.

Aw yes, I am liking Spain...

sore head

2006-07-30T20:30:00.000+01:00

If you had a great night, does that mean the sore head was worth it? And is it alright not to be the perfect guest at every function - if you perform at 140% one night, will 60% suffice the next day?

Today, I walk around in a daze. I'm just back from a lovely bar-b-que where lots of interesting types congregated over sausages and beer, yet there I stood under a beautiful tree, cranky because the brownies didn't have chocolate in them.

'Why bother putting together such a pleasing looking cake if you're going to spoil the effect by having it taste icky?' I thought, frowning and squinting around the garden as the conversation sparkled.

Normally I'd love such an afternoon, frankly I'd still be there, listening to people chat about the interesting lives they've lead saving Goats in Guatemala, or whatever. Sure beats my life of sitting at a desk stamping things and trying to make jokes to keep my colleagues from banging their heads off a wall, or listening with an interested face to their dull stories, whilst inwardly shrieking 'enough already'.

Not today. Today, with my throbbing headache, dry throat, stubbed toes and general drowsiness, everything was as you might say, 'pissing me off'.

The german smiling lady cooking the meats. My return smile was more of a grimace. Old fat man holding court beside the Easter-Island esque statue, I snarled at him when he told me not to stand on the wildflower, retorting, 'what was the ground made for if it wasn't for us to trample upon' - very unhippy and unme like.

And it's all due to my stonking hangover. Dancing at three in Voodoo was amazing, the fitting end to an excellent day. The pizza slices were a bonus, and I didn't even mind dancing on my seriously disfigured toe, which I destroyed whilst walking home from the pub on Friday. In fact, I was the one who piled people into taxis, listened to the sad stories, mopped the weary brows and generally had people on the dance floor giving it welly.

But today, a weekend of excess has caught up with me. And I left the bar-b-que this afternoon, in a confusion of guilt and rage. Had I gone home after Carnival, if I hadn't been skulling Stella in Voodoo an hour later, perhaps I would have been a better guest this afternoon.

Yet I can't help but feel that it's not very rock and roll to regulate the level of enjoyment you have of an evening.

Connections

2006-07-20T21:08:00.000+01:00

From time to time a person's name or something they said will flit into your mind.

It was years ago, and you sometimes can't even remember why you lost touch or when it happened.

Sometimes I think 'maybe I'm possessed with psychic powers, and am going to bump into them'

Or: 'are they thinking about me right now?'

Or: 'I hope they are ok'

Or: 'who cares'.

I never ring them or anything like that.

But one friend of mine does. I know this as she contacts me every few years.

It's strange really, I haven't seen her since we were sixteen. She was my exchange student. Lovely time we had too.

I don't mind or anything. In fact, it's kind of cool that she bothers to ring me at all.

The reson I think it's strange is that there are about ten other people who were really good mates of mine at different points since I was sixteen, and they've vanished into the mists, to stay forever, hanging in suspended animation, in my memory.

Take J - she's always there, age sixteen. She's so cool, and beautiful. We were best buds as kids, but we didn't know how to talk to each other as teenagers. Pity.

Or PP - forever a sarcastic, caustic twenty. She didn't like my college friends I think. We were in touch on and off until the day before my twenty-first, when she insisted we go to town. She went over the top and bought me a lovely present and then rang on the day of my party to say she was sorry she couldn't make it. Never heard from her again.

A is waving goodbye after dropping me home from a weekend away. I must have said something, or maybe she did. Who knows, we never got in touch again.

S had her own issues, I could have listened more, but was too self absorbed.

There are many more of them, crowding my memories, people who were so important at different times in my life. We shared secrets, laughed at things we saw and people that said things stupidly. We talked earnestly about saving the world, or just whales and dolphins, and whatever boy we fancied, or whatever music spoke to us at the time.

And then there are the friends I have now. I'm sure I'll lose touch with many of them too, they'll become distant fond memories.

At the end of a life, how many must there be. Is that what they mean when they say you see your life flash before you. In that second before nothing, all those people's images flickering in front of your eyes.

It's so simple though when someone just fades from your life. It's much easier than when they're gone forever.

You know, if it wasn't for those long distance phone calls from that friend of mine who always rings me, I don't think I'd even get nostalgic for some of those people.

Why it's important not to let bad things get you down

2006-07-18T22:39:00.000+01:00

Life in Dublin can grind even the perkiest bunny down at times. Granted the weather is casting a beautiful golden glow across the city, and as such it is hard to imagine being annoyed.

However, even when the sun isn't out, it is probably best to avoid bad things getting you down.

Take last Saturday night. After a lovely day hanging out with nice people, and an evening watching Firefly (it's a bug, I've darn caught it like these folks) I was on my way to a party in Stoneybatter. Wandering along chatting on a nice quiet warm evening. Lovely. WHAM:

Splash all over me goes a can of cider. Probably Olde English or Linden Village I suspect, not even Bulmers.

Smell central. Wet central.

The smell of burning rubber and the monkey calls of skangers echoed around.

It was sticky.

My initial reaction was to wonder 'what is it about me that made them throw that can of cider at me?' In that few seconds I even thought to myself 'they are the type of people who would be perfect at carrying out a genocide' (tend to over-react). Then more practical:

'Was it my outfit, my dress was a bit groovy. Or maybe the way my hair was, how we were laughing and joking, enjoying the evening?

I always liked Stoneybatter.

I've always hated skangers, since the first time I met one back in 1988. Silkies we called them then on account of their tracksuits. The female variety wore their hair scraped back into a ponytail and constantly tried to bully me with their witty repartée about my choice of outfit, and when they failed miserably just shouting or trying to beat me up. I was never beaten up, and besides I was able to take the mick, but still...'

I was having flashbacks.

I had a choice:

a. be furious and let it get me down.
b. laugh it off and go enjoy the party

1988 is a long time ago, and besides, I wanted to go to the party and I wanted to have fun. So I got over it. And I'm glad. The party was good, the people were interesting. I might have sourced French lessons and I got a lesson in playing decks. That was far more productive than spending an hour railing like a right-wing freak about eugenics being a proposed solution for skangers.

I'm happy with the choice. And besides, life inevitably tosses us really awful things from time to time, and if we spend most of the time enjoying the little things, then maybe the bad times won't be so awful and then we'll have good memories to buffer us against little blips in our lives of relative ease.

Of course, all this sanctimonious waffle is a bit hypocritical as typically I am the first to get in a right too-do about low level yuck, so if this were a hat, I would be chewing its ribbon, etcetera.

things that make one smile

2006-07-12T21:00:00.000+01:00

It was lunchtime and I was busy working. After a few days off, it felt as though I had never left and I was trapped in the office. 'Enough of this drudgery' I thought, 'they may take my soul but they don't own my lunch-time'.

The man who works in the Italian café where I buy my salad and americano makes me smile. Today when it was my turn in the queue, he gave me a big smile and with a swish of his long ponytail he said, 'ciao bella, what can I do for you? Do you want to have your salad here or take it away?'

I smiled at him, in spite of myself and said, 'take it away, but do you have any salad dressings?'

He came out from the counter and searched the fridge and said, 'sorry that we run out, I get one especially for you' and he smiled at me.

As I paid, the lady who manages the till and usually looks unhappy was smiling as the Barista made my coffee and I noticed the newspaper photographs of the Italian team taped to the side of the machine.

'Maybe it isn't so bad that Italy won' I thought, 'even if they didn't deserve to'. Then I thought, 'just as well I didn't say that aloud, they might kick me out of here'. They are very proud people working in my coffee shop, and they have commented to me about customers before, 'He's rude' they have said, and I have nodded.

The man came back with my salad dressing and said, 'there you go bella, enjoy'.

I couldn't help but smile all the way down the road. Even the Big Issue seller gave me a nod, and Dublin seemed like an alright place to be.

people who have more interesting jobs than me

2006-07-11T21:32:00.000+01:00

This weekend I met a lady with an infinitely more interesting job than I and yet in typical Irish fashion, she politely tried to convince me that my life was equally interesting.

In possibly the most random place in Ireland for a chocolate factory, in the middle of nowhere in a beauty spot on the Ring of Kerry, this lady and I discussed her lot while she chopped the sweets and I chewed. And the chocolate was divine - all handmade, you could taste the care and attention that went into each bite.

I love food, this is no secret, but I only ever lie about it to the host(ess) - so you can trust me when I say it is delicious. And the wonderous thing was they have flavours I've never tasted elsewhere. They let you try it out, and then if you fancy some, it's there to be bought. Along with liquor based chocolates and truffles she let me taste lemon and orange chocolate... I said 'you know what would be lovely? Ginger chocolate' and she said, 'well, we have a little bit of that for the German market - it's very strong though'.

Then she sneaks me out a bar of the richest, most unusual tasting chocolate, which of course I purchased along with many more (currently being depleted rapidly from the fridge).

And the most lovely thing is there wasn't a touch of the Willy Wonka madness from her or her delightful family - instead they welcomed questions and were happy to talk about the chocolate and how they had ended up running the factory, as they slid slivers of the dark stuff in my direction.
She had left Dublin with her husband to take over the chocolate factory. Seems she had an office job, but managing a chocolate factory was a more attractive proposition (I can so relate to that).

There are so many people with interesting jobs, all around the place. And yet there are so many of us stuck in offices. I don't even know how I got into the office, and yet when younger people I know say things like 'oh I don't think I could ever work in an office' I nod sagely, knowing that I too once voiced these feelings and yet couldn't seem to avoid being sucked into the desk, phone and computer cage.

But meeting lovely people such as the polite chocolatier gives me hope and something tasty to eat while I wait for an opportunity to escape the drudgery to fall on my lap.

So for any loser such as I who hasn't found their muse and is waiting patiently but wishes to have a tasty treat to ease the pain, here is my gift to you: skelligs chocolate

favourite dinners

2006-07-07T00:25:00.000+01:00

dinner nostalgia can be a strange thing. A conversation today revolved around dinners that formed an obsession at various phases in my life to date - I find if I really, really like a dinner (I'm not talking posh dinners, rather your common garden variety) I'll tend to eat it as often as possible for many months untiil I get tired of it.

There was the mini pizza and broccoli phase - mini pizza equals island, broccoli equals tree, mouth equals world catastrophy.

Then the cheddar cheese sandwich phase - I was a latchkey kid, and my mother bought bread and cheedar.

Followed by the cheddar cheese applied copiously to mini pizza phase - as I entered the key developmental phase of learning about fire (or in my case the Cooker switch).

Cheddar cheese on it's own was a late variation of this phase. Following an incident involving being starving and an entire block of cheese, I have never really bothered too much with the stuff.

As I entered double digits on the birthday front, sophistication began with phases such as the tuna sandwich phase, burger in a bun phase and latterly the lengthy love of chicken koka noodles.

Curry koka noodles still are palatable, but due to ODing on the chicken variety, even the smell can create a rash.

College coincided with a flurry of invention with noodles, featuring dishes such as the curry noodle toasted cheese sandwich (edam naturally, cheddar is so passé).

Thus, a plastic packet of euroshopper mini pizzas, stalk of broccoli, block of cheese and a package of curry koka noodles invariably invokes a nostalgia for my youth.

last night i dreamt of some baker, seems like yesterday not far away

2006-07-05T21:49:00.000+01:00

It's only twenty eight days until Spain. And I'm reading portions of the rough guide and googling so I'll:

a. know what I'm looking at/for
b. avoid pissing off the local people
c. am not exposed as the fraudulant not knower of Spanish life that I am.

If I were living in a computer game, Doom say, well I would be running akimbo collecting facts instead of health packs, facts such as: Franco equals BAD, Gaudi equals GENIUS, Guernica is a sketch not a picture, Catalonia separate state discuss, Spain has a king, Spain were robbed of the world cup (just thought they might like that one... don't really know, personally thought the Germans were fab).

But it is all unravelling. I talked to someone today and it was a bit like this:

me: 'I'm going to Spain.'

she: 'I'm going to Pompeii'

me: 'Yay, holidays. What are you going to get up to?'

she: 'Well we'll probably just go straight for an Irish pub.'

In a mildly racist way, I'd always presumed that only English people felt like this. I know it's awful but this was based primarily on two events in my life. One age seven on beach:

english 7 year old: where are you from then?
me: Dublin
e7yo: that's in Scotland, in'it?
me: no.

Two age twenty five when I overheard this english woman in Rome in a restaurant. She was sitting at the table beside us and I was marvelling at the carving of a big Parma ham, until:

italian woman (patiently resorts to speaking English after many attempts in Italian)

Italian: you like to order that Pizza?
english 47 year old: oui
italian woman: what?
e47yo: Ja
iw: (is walking off. not happy)
e47yo husband: That was French Margaret
e47yo: What does it matter... French - Italian. It's all the same

green giant

2006-07-04T20:21:00.000+01:00

Though the green giant is dead, and it would inconvenience him greatly not to be, I wish he wasn't, as he may be the only one who can save me from the invasion of the tomato plants.

From one little pouch of seeds bought for a squid down in Woodies has grown in the region of twenty gazillion green plants of varying lankiness.

At the start, I had humble notions.

I was pissed off a few months ago, felt a bit useless, and bored, possibly missed my cat Arthur who was run down by a rabied skanger last year, so I went on a ramble and bought some seeds. And then some tomato food. And a few bamboo sticks, twine, pots, compost, all the necessities.

As I rambled home, my ideas grew and I began to imagine that I may set up an organic tomato farm from my ex-council home, heck who wants' tomatoes nowadays, maybe it could be an italian tomato sauce factory, if I could get some basil from Tesco to take on my window-sill and a few empty jars. The label artwork was all worked out.

Memories of my Rocket growing adventure from two years ago resurfaced, but this time it would be different, I was more responsible. Anyway the rocket was lovely if a little ungainly and wild.

Into a pot full of compost I popped all the seeds. It wasn't as much fun as I'd imagined, and I had a movie to watch as I recall.

They grew and grew and I watered and fed them. From time to time I got bored and abandoned them, but it was tragic, they would flail around helplessly and besides when you starve them for a while and then feed them water they zing! in a most impressive fashion.

Eventually I repotted some of them, but got bored, so they adorn various window ledges in differing experimental forms.

One of my visitors this evening commented that they look like hash plants, but as his girlfriend said, 'only if you don't know what it looks like'.

Unfortunately they just keep growing, and I couldn't be bothered repotting them, so they fall over from time to time. It's all so tedious cleaning them up. My visitor who knows what hash looks like suggested that I tie them with the twine to my curtain poles as they've outgrown the bamboos, so we stretched and yanked and they currently are marionette like in my front window.

The other day I noticed some flowers on them, yellow ones. Then in one of them I noticed the flower was falling off, and there is the teeniest tiny green sphere. Although they're monsterous and the pasta sauce making factory is unlikely, it's terribly exciting.

reasons i shouldn't join the library

2006-07-03T21:51:00.000+01:00

a. always forget to bring the books back (two month out of date books currently on desk).

b. i'm no good at these lending communal things - my xtra-vision account is as large as some people's overdrafts, i use my credit union account like a deposit account and my mother once said in an ominous tone, 'never a lender nor a borrower bee'.

c. i'm twenty eight and occasionally wear a suit and yet i stand in front of the xtra-vision man saying 'can i just pay fifty cent today, i'll pay the rest later, promise'.

d. the second time i go to the library i try to show off to everyone by taking out 'difficult' books.

e. they're too hard for a pea-brained one such as i to read and sit on my desk as a consequence of the fact that i'm too ashamed to bring them back (see a. above)

f. i'm a messy book reader, adore dog-earing pages and munching sandwiches, twixes and other assorted foodstuff including crisps and coffee whilst reading and thus should not be allowed access to books that other people possibly may want to peruse afterward

g. if a writer is good, i tend to glut on them until googlyeyed, such as ian rankin, ian mcewan or any ian's generally speaking, this coupled with a. above means that my fellow citizens are famined of certain writers for lengthy periods

h. hobbies, which the library urge you to try, are something i like to try and thus i take books out on random subjects (such as an Irish novel, a Jungian psychology book for dummies and a learn to speak Spanish kit) which i never get beyond page IX, lesson 2 or whatever and thus feel really really inadequate

i. i tell everyone in the known universe, even strangers about how wonderous the library is, and when my interest abates they tediously remind me of it and ask what i'm reading, and then i have to lie or worse show off, and it's just a web of deceit and could end in potential misery

in conclusion there are many reasons why i shouldn't be part of the library, so i'm going to drop those books back under cover of darkness and rescind my library card for another three years.

transcendental moment

2006-06-14T00:28:00.000+01:00

Did I fall asleep in the yoga class or was it a minute of sheer transcendental nothingness? Fact is, I'm lying there, tired out from all that stretching and she's saying the same patter in that serious soothing 'just relax' voice, exactly like last week and the week before. And then nothing.

Absolutely nothing, until I find myself sitting up. Everyone is yapping away and I'm convinced I must have been asleep, but I'm not sure.

I walk down the street like a zombie, get on the bus, dishevelled and messy. Even now I'm bewildered by the whole event.

At the start of my yogic adventure, back last September, there used to be a rather large man, shaped like a laughing policeman, a most unlikely character. Each week he would snore like a contented puppy and she would say, 'you did it again, fell asleep' and we would all chortle in a gentle fashion secretly thinking 'what a sap, thank God I have some self control.'

So, eight or nine months on, it's really just not cool to be kipping in the class, and people such as laughing policeman have dropped out eons ago. Sh*t. What if I snored?

Nah, I'd say I was just at a higher stage of consciousness. And if I made a noise, I'm sure I was just trying to get deeper into the moment loike.

sugar and bitter pills

2006-05-30T20:09:00.000+01:00

Try to convey the fact that I'm one of those ladies who knows better than to believe a myth, and yet there I was last Thursday, payday, standing in a chemist, like a child in a sweet store with her pocket money.

Fiddled through sparkly things, and makeup of varying qualities, even looked at an odd pair of shoes that every madser in Dublin is currently wearing, apparently they make you walk with the gait of a Masai warrior and thus improve your posture. Never mind that I've not seen a Masai wearing shoes of this nature.

But am I one to talk? Hardly, given that I coughed up over ten euro on a package of 'slimming tablets'. Made from a herbal tincture, apparently.

Well, I don't know what it was, but I was compelled to buy them. At home, I looked at the packaging and read the small print. Nowhere does it say how they'll actually work. I popped one, no effect, two, no effect. Three, I felt a little peckish. Then I forgot.

A moment of panic when shrieking with laughter about a teenager I know who succumbed to the lav after knocking back three packets of some mint 'clear your breath' sweetie whose packaging had in small writing 'may produce laxative effects'. Then I realised I hadn't graced the toilet in awhile.

Here I am, days later, still maintaining adequate padding, still swallowing the pills when I remember.

Checked comments online. Apparently four weeks produces optimum effects. Blah to that I say.

In other news, I had two bitter pills to swallow in work over the past few days. Fair enough, the sugar coating helped get them down, but to be honest, gimmie a break God/Buddha/Mohammad/the robot in the sky. Blah to that too I add.

Rebel Rebel

2006-05-23T19:35:00.000+01:00

Last Friday as I stood in a local chipper waiting for my cod to crisp and the spice burger to cook, the ground began to shake.

The lady in front of me, who had a very particular order for a burger 'no onion' and 'lots of ketchup', the sturdily built woman behind the counter who was making deft paper chip holders with a single movement of her hand, and the Chinese man who was nimbly flipping the burger while tossing the cod all looked up.

We turned towards the door.

A hoard of young men, citykids on the brink of adulthood, adorned with flags and pride, earrings and gobs the size of the Aillwee caves strode toward us.

The shop was visibly shaking, as were it's inhabitants.

The leader of the group began the chant 'YEAHHHHHHH' and they all joined in, fists raised.

As they came closer we looked at one another in terror.

The sturdy chip paper maker broke the tension with a smile, 'we'll need some more chips there Yang' she said.

He quickly lifted a big bucket of freshly sliced chips and they tipped them into the pan.

The first of the hoard made their way into the small shop.

Surprisingly most of them passed on, and we began to realise that they were heading towards a match, not heading up a mass revolution.

'How much is the chips missus?'.

'Two-fifty'.

'Wha?'

'Two-fifty'.

'Jeazus. Comeon and giz a chips then and a bottlacoke'

The woman winked at me 'I'll just get rid of these first' she said, 'and then I'll get your order'.

One of the lads dropped his money into the bag of the lady in front of me.

'Missus, I droppda my money in youra baga'

The lady looked on in shock.

The woman working behind the counter deftly packed the chips and said

'Aaaa gerra way outta that, you bagsnatcher ya, salt n vinegar on the chips then?'

The lad looked shocked. 'I'm only kidding ya' she said, 'two fifty please?'

rain it all away

2006-05-22T23:36:00.000+01:00

The city is clean after 48 hours of rain, my local river was gushing water and the puke and mess of last weekend has disappeared from the streets.

Trees and plants are lush and green, and people are beginning to come out of their hibernation.

When the weather is that bad, it forces you to do things, such as book a summer holiday to Spain. I just hope I'm not overegging the proverbial pudding by trying to fit in too much - Seville, Morocco, Toledo and Barcelona in less than two weeks.

Aw well, sure if I get too tired, I'll just have some OJ in Seville and some Gaudy Gaudi in Barcelona before bringing my lobster pink frame back to the rainy country to cool off.

faking it

2006-05-16T22:59:00.000+01:00

Increasingly, perhaps due to the sunshine, I'm finding it harder to fake being an office worker type.

I couldn't give a frigged coconut about working in an office, size of envelopes, oh i'm so upset about my little problem nonsense right now.

It's sunny between the rain folks. Get out and enjoy it.

Nah, instead I cluck and oh that's awful and ew that's horrible at intervals, when really I want to be heading away in a plane, or even by bike, to somewhere warm and interesting, where the tempo is slower and the craic is mightier and everyone is smiling, dancing, singing, kissing, whatever ing rocks their thang.

So here I am, my body in Dublin, my mind in the clouds.

sunshiny days

2006-05-09T20:05:00.000+01:00

My dad called me and we met for lunch today.

It was beaming down and we sat outside that lovely eaterie/drinkerie in the Italian quarter, or Wallacevera dependint on what you make of it.

I never know what it's called, but it is a blissful place to imbide a bit of wine and italian cheese and bread.

It was so lovely, sitting there, my dad and me, like we never do, having a chat and a laugh.

Enjoying each other's company. I was so happy and content.

The waitress was a gem, smiling and happy.

After our pasta he ordered a black coffee and I said I'll have a cappuchino.

Then I felt stupid and added, 'I know you're not meant to order them after lunch, but they taste so good'

And she smiled, leant in and said, 'don't worry, I drink them after breakfast too'.

My dad was mystified, as I explained that the Rough Guide had said it was a real touristy cultural offence to order cappuchino after 12ish as they are a breakfast drink.

He laughed and told me that one of his mates, on a business trip to Paris a few years ago, had been treated to a lovely fancy dinner. After the meal, which involved copious courses and frothy fancy confections, and dinnery items galore, as the light dimmed and the other guests began to leave, the waiter asked him would he like coffee.

'Oui' he says, in his best leaving cert French, 'un café au lait, s'il vous plait'

The waiter sniffed, tired of this philistine.

'Avec croissant?' he asked, in heavily sarcastic tones.

Of course we have the breakfast roll I suppose. And you'd be hard pressed to find a nice one after lunch-time, not the done thing at all really.

Limey Bstrd

2006-05-05T19:45:00.000+01:00

It's the same feeling I used to have doing knick-knacks all those years ago - total spazzed hysterical fear ridden hilarity - if I must put it into words.

Following dinner in a Phibsboro eaterie, nice it was too, we decided to walk home. Had a lovely chat with the off-licence lady and she advised me that limes weren't available there, but my Corona might find it's bitter companion in a pub or a local shop or something.

Sun was shining, but there were no limes to be had all the way home. We chatted and smiled in the sun, and then we were nearly home.

There's a pub at the end of my road that we're both a bit scared of, and I think he was bored of stopping in every shop in my quest for limes. Let's face it, his Sam Adam's is just dandy without it anyway.

He's across the street, tapping his foot impatiently. There's the pub and nothing else between me and my beer.

Scr*w it, I think, and push open the door, imagining that if I weren't so shortsighted I would see his jaw hitting the pavement as I walk into the pub we're a bit scared of.

Inside I suddenly realise that it is full of men. Little ones, big ones, old, young, poor, angry, sad, men, men, men. The pub seems bigger and bigger. Men stretch away into the distance like one of those trick mirror infinity situations.

My breasts seem bigger, my hair seems longer, my accent seems posher. The fear is growing.

I stride quickly to the bar, and the men stare.

Behind the bar there's a little tiny bar boy type creature and I say, 'can I buy a lemon please', as in a flash of inspiration I realise that this bar full of men and sadness and weariness is not going to stock any lime unless it is that which resides in a cordial bottle.

He squeaks incoherently, or maybe my ears have stopped functioning.

The men stare.

A big man comes to the small man's aid.

'Can I help you'

He says.

The men that were selling tickets to the other men, and the men who are not full of sadness listen intently.

'I'd like to buy a lemon please' I say, 'that's if you have one' I add in a helpful fashion.

He looks at me.

'A lemon?' he says

'Mnfewpophrm' I think I say, suddenly wishing the ordeal would end.

'Here' he says, and tosses one to me

Years of missing and I catch.

'How much is it?' I ask

'You can have it' he says

'Thanks I say' as he nods

I leave the bar trying not to run, but it feels like a driveway years ago, and as I leave the big huge pub and go away from all those men, outside, I'm bursting, like I was years ago, to tell someone, to laugh.

I walk across the road, tossing the lemon in the air, and the sun is shining, I could be walking back victorious in a game of kick the can.

Fifty Ten Million Times Better Than The Alternative

2006-04-30T21:23:00.000+01:00

You find you're getting a bit cynical about new music and then something wonderful like the Fifty Ten Millions (excellent name - formerly the Leeches apparently) come along and your face lights up, the toes tap and you're on your feet rocking the Annesley house, or maybe that was just me.

Last night, as wisps of joss stick smoke wafted in our noses, the Fifty Ten Millions stormtrooped their way through a pop-synth-rock set, headlining the intimate gig, which also featured Kevin Treacy, cheeky young troubador with the voice of a jaded angel - the crowd likened him to Dylan in Greenwich village, one to watch.

Check the FiftyTens out on MySpace - but word of warning, their music is not given justice online. Live they are explosive, heavy, throbbing and immediate, you just can't help but feel moved and involved in a way that to be honest, I now realise I haven't been for ages. Their edge is honesty - singing their stories in their own voices, intelligent and witty lyrics, excellent music, and of course the secret ingredient, whatever it is, that they have in spades.

They'll be playing the Hub in mid May - or so I was told by the modest Trevor, ponytailed guitarist - if last night is anything to go by, this will be well worth a visit I reckon.

Betsy getting a check-up

2006-04-25T21:10:00.000+01:00

All the time, I hear people doing it with their pets. 'Oh Jack' they'll say, 'he's a fierce goodnatured chap, very protective of me, you know?'

So mine is a car. Well, I would be precious and mummyish about my cat if he hadn't been run down by an overexcited skanger who probably has a horrible backstory and little future, but you'll understand that my sympathies are with my poor Arthur, may he rest in peace beneath the dandelions and small alpine strawberry plants.

Back to Betsy, my old friend. We've had laughs (at other drivers expenses, usually), tears (her tyres are forever letting me down) and good times, whizzing up and down the motorways and other laneways of Ireland.

And tomorrow she goes for another check-up... Two years ago I stood watching her being prodded and tested, and now it's all happening again.

I know people who trade their cars in like fancypaper on a second class lunchbreak in 1987, and yes, they usually have either more money or less fear of debt than me, but I just like Betsy.

She's reliable, compact, loyal and I'm pretty confident that I can get her in and out of most spaces. I don't want to buy a new car, I just want to stick with her.

Even if the ads for C3s suggest that I could have a transformer once again, and even if I love the sleek cuteness of the mini cooper. I am happy with my Betsy, she'll do the job.

Well the garage have done their bit, and I was out tonight again with the hoover and the polish. Nothing left to do but cross my fingers and remove her hubcaps.

I hope she passes her NCT.

Signs of ageing

2006-04-17T19:12:00.000+01:00

Idle moments when I was young, I would wonder about the line between youth and age.

I know now that these thoughts were childish, there is a blurring, like the gradual loss of my distant sight.

Still, as with every journey there must be a point of no return, I suppose.

I've had a grey hair frequently enough by now, just to pull it out silently and make a silent vow with myself not to think about it.

Those moments where someone asks if I'm a student are welcomed with big smiles and eyes to heaven and secretly wishing that I had a USIT card to once again avail of the discounts.

I fear a moment where it is not respectable for me to go drinking alone - you know that fifteen minutes where you wait for a mate. Not so many girls, or I should say women, drink alone. Couple that with my ocassional effort to dress in the clobber of today, there is a danger I could be mistaken at playing at being a lamb.

The strangest thing I find, is my growing conservatism, not politically of course, but in terms of making involuntary 'tsch' noises when I see parents treating children in a fashion I deem wrong. Or anything I deem wrong actually.

Last Saturday in Habitat I saw a woman treating her coworker with utter contempt and the 'tsch' was out before I could stop it. When paying for my coffee and bun, and all the way around the shop, I muttered to my friend about how unreasonable it was, and how unfair, and how I wanted to do something about it, as she made soothing noises.

One trait I thought would be gone by now that shows no sign of moving is that of weltschmerz. If anything, as I age my world sadness grows and grows. It can be anything - in Eason's two weeks ago a young man, who was on the cusp of being a dude, made me cry.

It wasn't his fault.

He was talking and flirting in a most honest, genuine, innocent, happy way with a girl who was smiling. This boy looked beautiful to me, all young and that, but I know that he would find it hard to get a girl.

Her friend wasn't involved, and was pissed off. As the man went down the escalator, the friend grabbed the girl and left the man going away step by step from the two girls.

His face fell, so gently that you might miss the drop. The friend flirted, and showed off to her friend on the first floor.

The boy stood, unsure what he should do on the ground floor.

I was between floors, and helpless. I wanted to protect the boy, but I couldn't. I wanted to shake the friend and tell her she would get her moment some day and not to be so greedy, but I wouldn't.

So I reached the ground floor, and looked away, catching the tear before it left my eye.

Sods Law

2006-04-15T20:58:00.000+01:00

A few days off work, yay I think.

Then my throat starts to ache,

My head starts to throb,

Temper gets worse and worse.

I'm so tired.

I sleep, then I wake, then I'm bored

I'm too tired to do anything.

This Easter equals no fun.

BLAH, I hate everything.

EASTER!

2006-04-14T13:37:00.000+01:00

Once again, I pleasantly realise that Easter is an underrated holiday in Ireland.

Christmas always seems like a gloriously long break when viewed from November, but when it comes to it, what with family and excessive drinking, eating and sleeping, it flies by and sooner than expected, there we all are blankly staring at our computer screens in work, the tinsel looking a little glum and our colleagues extremely crabby.

Whereas Easter, hah, you can't help but forget about it each year, except for the idle rescheduling of meetings etc.,. off in the distant future of March or April. This vagueness is assisted by the fact that it never falls at the same time, which I find a little confusing as does this indicate we're a litle vague on when Jesus was crucified, yet we remember each step of the journey intimately.

And also, I'm quite confused about what we're celebrating - the chocolate and all that. Is there a link between the terribly graphic death of Jesus, then his hasty recovery, temporary visiting of mates (who have already forgotten what he looks like) and the glorious levitating to heaven and a chocolate egg? Or is it some pagan feast getting mishmashed with the religious stuff?

Not that it matters very much really, I suppose. I shouldn't question the indulgent eating of chocolate, mmm. And what is really excellent about Easter is that I have a long, long weekend, F.O.C. mmmm...

day before payday

2006-04-12T22:34:00.000+01:00

If you're broke, and yet you know tomorrow is payday, it is hard to be restrained.

Especially if you're a spending junkie.

Lunchtime today, I salivated my way through oodles of shops looking at tops and dresses and shoes.

I couldn't afford a nightie in Penny's (ok, slight exaggeration, but I am saving for my trip of a lifetime), yet each item shone like a gem.

Everything glimmered and called out 'wear me, you'll look amazing in me'. I tried on some things, and deluded myself that they looked good, yet I wasn't satisfied.

Then into furniture shops, I looked at cow printed sofas and oak tables.

Back in work I was on myhome.ie, browsing mansions and houses and penthouse apartments.

And tomorrow, when I divy up my spoils on the mortgage and bills, and then try to work out what meagre allowance I have each day until next pay day, gone will be this consumer-girl to be replaced by a scrooge character.

But today, and tonight, I live in consumer heaven, dreaming of all that I might own.

The lipsticks, perfumes, funky impractical coats, sexy shoes, groovy coffee tables, wide expanses and mansions.

What a fickle moment it is, the satisfaction of anticipated consumption.

ice age too

2006-04-12T00:35:00.000+01:00

People who go to the cinema for a chat with their mates - whether it is those that are sitting next to them or those that are on the mobile - well, it's rude. If I ruled the world or just the cinema even, I would force them to sit through that Smart Telecom ad for a day, followed by the Audi radio ad that plays a single note on a jazz flute for an eternity (imagine the pitch in the agency - we could get some jazz music but hey there would be royalties, so instead we'll just play an F Sharp for twenty seconds, that'll have them pulling out the SSIAs, I tell you Damo we're on to something')

But kids who have a genuine stomach pumping old giggle in the cinema, they kick ass, and should be encouraged to snort their slush puppies in their enthusiasm. Take Ice Age 2 this evening for example - the excitement was palpable as the squirrel like animal tried again and again to get his acorn. Shrieks and hoops abounded. It made an enjoyable experience classic.

To contrast this honest enthusiasm with people going 'Rooight Damo, PHNAR PHNAR PHNAR, wot an aaaaaarsssssssse'ol PHNAR'.

Is it my biological clock ticking, or do grown-ups just suck?

Well, it just aint rooight, I tell you.

bad things happen on a random tuesday

2006-04-11T23:40:00.000+01:00

If you really love someone and another person does something vile to them, something you can't do anything about. Well, it's like what I imagine being kicked by a horse feels like.

In real life I was once tapped by a donkey who didn't like me getting too close to him, and it hurt.

What I found out about today is out of my control. I'm wishing that I could be there to take the force of the blow for him, but I can just listen to the song and I'm so powerless.

And what will become of us - the observer, the young man and the heinous bully - only that we'll grow old and weak and vulnerable. All three, stooped and exhausted and resigned.

But today and yesterday and tomorrow, that small dicked wonder has a choice. And I have no choice. All I can do is advise, listen, support and let the young man do what he chooses, for its not my life, its his. And while I wish I could do something, I'm powerless.

bump in the night

2006-04-11T00:02:00.000+01:00

Driving around Kildare today was great - sun was shining, even the roadworks every half a mile didn't get me down. Later, I must have been wrecked, or reacting to the lack of TV, lack of soma put us in a coma, I digress.

After dinner at the table, how civilised, we staggered to bed lusting for kip. Three hours later, bump wallop bang.

The neighbours have moved in, I said, to his bleary eyes. 'I hope it won't always be this noisy' he said, standing at the window.

Don't let them see you, I said. My morbid fear of being caught staring out the window must come from that time twenty years ago when we knickknacked on the strange man five doors up, snotting ourselves with excitement, only to shriek when looking back we realised his shadow was looming in the porch.

'It's the collection' he said. And we remembered that the council are taking unwanted junk tomorrow. Our hacked sofa in the side passage had to be brought under cover of dark, and there was every chance some mice are residing there, so I was on tea duties.

Later though, I stood outside, beside the yawning springs of what was our sofa, watching him knock wheels off the broken computer chair, in a brave attempt to make it less appealing as a mode of conveyance to skangers. After the Jackson Pollack incident with the paint in the skip and the artistic skanger, we've become very community spirited.

A van drove slowly by, eyeing up the broken fridges, ancient beds and skeletal frames of what was once beloved furniture. I shivered, feeling a bit nightmareish, as though I hadn't woken properly from my sleep, as though the world had tilted slightly on it's axis or Salvador Dali was painting the scene.

Anticipation

2006-04-09T14:30:00.000+01:00

Oh, you just have to see it, I say to him over and over, so eventually we agree to go on Saturday night.

I check the paper, but there's only one show left in the Savoy, and I prefer going to the cinema in town instead of in a sterile shopping centre populated by people who have forgotten how to imagine.

It's at 8.05pm, and during the day, as I do my thing, I am always checking the clock to make sure we're on time. Other times, one of us will become too comfortable or busy with something else, and then noone sees the film.

After the show and the supermarket, I listen to the Folsom Prison album reading the Guardian magazine. Busy myself cooking, make a banana bread and some soup from bits and pieces of vegetables. And I wait.

At seven, he comes down from his room and we begin to walk in the evening light, passing Mountjoy jail, we wonder whether people find drugs in the grass, and I say I read that the jail was originally a resting place for prisoners on their way to Australia in the 1800s.

Even Parnell Street looks well, basking in golden light, and we're glowing after our walk. It is good to feel that you can walk into town from your home.

The Gresham Hotel looks well, and he nods at the perfect pint through the window. Tickets are bought and the girl urges us to get our seats, 'it's about to sell out' she says. He rushes me upstairs, and when we are seated, in the perfect seats, he says he thinks she said, 'it's about to start'.

A cross-section of Dublin sits in the tiny cinema, where it has been sent for the end of its run. I hear accents from the southside, northside, Poland, India and many other places besides. The sounds run one into the other making a happy sound, relaxed. Mild panic overtakes me, I feel as though we're in a plane, but then I put the feeling aside.

The film begins, and it's different the second time. I wonder what it is about this story that touches me - there's the love, certainly. But more than that, the interpretation Joaquin Phoenix takes of this man's live, his passions, the rage and hurt.

I remember that day a few years ago, listening to Johnny Cash's honest and beautifully sad version of Trent Reznor's 'Hurt' and Gerry Ryan announcing his death bringing tears to my eyes as I drove through town.

Johnny Cash - Joaquin Phoenix - Trent Reznor - each of these and others besides, touch on that struggle. The fine point, knife's edge... the danger within dealing with the reality without.

without you-eh-hew-eee-oooh

2006-04-08T17:40:00.000+01:00

Since the ntl man came and took you away,
I've been able to read the paper
Make banana bread
Watch Adam's Rib
And Chaplin too.

Goodbye my TV
You're beautiful, it's true.

xx

2006-04-03T19:06:00.000+01:00

Bloody yoga is back on tonight. She shouldn't have given us last week off, I just don't feel I could be bothered with the stretching and bending.

Foul humour really. No idea why, but generally feeling a bit peeved with the world.

I'm going to divide my world into nice people and ick people. The nice people today knew I was a bit off and were nice to me. One person was a nice and I could feel my voice begin to warble, stupid. Still. She was nice. Other nice people were funny or distracting. The ick people never think of anyone else and even if they do sometimes, I don't care, I'm in a bad mood so as far as I'm concerned they're nasty. Feck it. Anyone I don't like today is an ick.

Even one of my best mates is currently in the ick pile. Not her fault really, but there she is, in the ick pile, all the same.

Melancholia is funny. Take when I was logging in to blogger. I just remembered that my password is the name of my dead cat, who was alive back when I gave the password, I'm not that weird.

Blah. I miss my cat.

City of contrasts

2006-04-02T20:48:00.000+01:00

Summer is in the air today, I think, walking into town, sun is shining. In the supermarket this morning, smiles abounded, men making way for me and my basket, their women talking about cakes they would bake or meat they might roast.

Signs all around for Easter Opening Times. A man buys a huge chocolate egg, I wonder who for. When is Easter? I ask the lady at the checkout. 'Week after next' she says.

On the way into town, children are playing kick the can in Iona. There is hardly any traffic, and walking around Mountjoy Square, fathers are bringing their children to the new playground.

I think about match days, wonder when the championship will start, and I know that I'll be back here, wearing blue, probably rushing, late again, to Croke Park.

Temple Bar is full of hungover tourists, the middle-aged look jaded, the hard drinkers are already in pubs, sinking back a few drinks. I remember last night, driving in to collect people, and that man who tried to get into my car, wanted me to be a taxi to bring him home. His girlfriend's stricken face, I wonder how their heads are this morning.

My friend is a bit late, so into Keoghs for a coffee and I start the book, again. Why is it so hard to read nowadays.

We do the hellos and then wander the streets, contesting with tourists for seats in cafés. Dublin is such a weekend break place we say with half hearted disdain. Sudden shower of hail rains down and the streets are still warm from the sun, so we stand in a doorway with others, all grinning at the absurdity of Dublin weather. In a café across from us, smokers shriek as they run in from outside, the hail lashing off their cups and plates.

Forget this coffee nonsense, we'll go to Peter's Pub, where the beer is good, and there are seats at the bar. The Barman jokes that I'm going to stab him, and I think he's lost it, until I realise that I've been distractedly messing with the wine opener, as he demonstrates. We consider switching to wine to see it work, but stick with the beer.

Later, I walk home, back up through old Drumcondra, but it's raining.

the magic formula to make strangers talk to you

2006-04-01T23:55:00.000+01:00

Today I must have oozed some odour of friendliness or intrigue. In Phibsboro, no less than six people had a conversation of sorts with me.

Firstly, in a charity shop (currently again experimenting with little/no tv... not voluntarily this time...) buying books a white haired man leaned over to let me know that there was another Chuck Palahniuk book that I hadn't picked up -

White Haired Man 'Excuse me - Do you want that one there?'
Me, 'no, thanks though... I've read it already'
WHM, 'was it good? do you think I should buy it?'
Me, 'well, em... (meanwhile thinking: would my dad like Chuck? would this man like Chuck?)...well, it's a bit risque (..what? risque? sounds as though it's a carry on film or something... cringe)'
WHM, 'oh, I do like a bit of risque, don't you know'
Me, 'hahaha (eek weirdo alarm ringing eek)

Then in my enthusiasm to dispense my non-wealth, on leaving the shop, I promptly expelled all change from my wallet on the ground. Rethinking my gesture of generosity, I began to scramble for the coins

Helpful man 'I'll help'
Me, 'thanks'
HM 'It's just like one cents or something'
Me, looking up, realise the HM looks down on his luck. 'Oh, that's fine, just keep it'
HM (smiling) 'Thanks'
Me 'No worries'

I amble to the cake shop where the lady behind the counter is a bit unhappy looking and our conversation was a bit non worth writing about, but hey, I'm happy as her confectionaries look nice, so I buy many of these and she places them delicately in a box. I walk back towards Tesco, and this man who is trying to I don't know, impress his mate or something says,

Impressive man 'Do you need help'
Me (daydreaming of cakes and flowers and dandelions)
IM 'I SAID DO YOU NEED HELP WITH THAT?'
Me 'Sorry?'
IM 'I COULD TAKE THOSE CAKES FOR YOU LIKE<>'
Me, 'No thanks'.

In Tesco the English lady on the till is nice and also quite the wit and says,

EL 'Aw, how kind of you, buying me cakes'
Me 'I do try to please'
EL 'You shouldn't have'
Me 'I think it's important, you know, to let you know that we shoppers are grateful for your hard work'
EL 'You're too kind'
Me 'I know'
EL, 'Aw, now you're taking them away, thought they were for me'
Me 'Bad for your figure, you'll thank me for it'

So, the secret to chats with randomers is: a. buy second hand books, b. buy cake.

stage fright

2006-03-30T17:05:00.000+01:00

For some reason, self-loathing or self-mischieviousness, I'm putting myself in the unfortunate state of being laughed at this evening, by a live audience.

Things I'm learning about stage fright in this reality car crash tv without the tv experience:

a. Rabbit in the Headlights - This is a true statement (my pupils currently are larger than my eye sockets)

b. Butterfly in the Stomach - This is a true statement (although crashing elephants reside within mine, none of the delicate fluttering more of the heavy pounding)

c. S*itting oneself - Where's the bathroom?

snots.

2006-03-22T23:31:00.000Z

I like booze... mmm.

Black to the future

2006-03-21T19:50:00.000Z

To all the skangers who slagged my outfits, malaise and generally sneered upon my teenage years, check out what the Guardian have to say about it in their article 'I have seen the future - and it's goth'

Oh, I forgot, you can't read.

terms of endearment

2006-03-15T22:14:00.000Z

Thought that as you age, you're supposed to be treated with more respect, but I seem to be treated to affectionate terms from strangers on an ever more frequent basis.

Take Mahaffy's at lunchtime today with my mate.

me & mate (m&m)'Two ham sandwiches please, oh and some chips'

pert engaging tenderer (PET) 'that's fine, love, did you order them yet?'

m&m: 'yes, thanks, I said it to the woman at the counter'

PET: 'Thanks sweetie, that's fantastic. That will be twelve euro, when you're ready darling'.

m&m: 'Here you go'

PET: 'Oh you're great, sweetheart'.

FINE, fine, fine. Except then afterwards in the shop buying chewing gum

PET: 'Is that everything, love'

me: 'YES'

PET: 'here's your change then darling'

AAAAAAAAAAAAAGGHH.

I must look like an idiot in my suit jacket with a big smiley face.

Years ago, when I was an angry young woman in a sharper suit with a grimmer face, I doubt any of them would have dared to 'sweetiesugardarlingpet' me...

Now, I've chilled out a bit and must look like the resident village idiot or something. I mean, I'm all for the hard working staff of the service industry being able to vent their spleens, but really, must it always be on me.

Real danger is, I'll end up copying them and randomly splurting these terms of endearment at randomers I meet in the course of my life, sweetie.

Cripes Jessica, pass me the cyanide

2006-03-14T21:05:00.000Z

You Are 52% Evil

You are evil, but you haven't yet mastered the dark side.
Fear not though - you are on your way to world domination.

How Evil Are You?

Paddy's Day

2006-03-14T20:19:00.000Z

Green seepage abounds. Took nearly two hours to get to town (three miles) this morning, the annual carnie is being set up in Merrion Square, so the city comes to a standstill.

I was chilled, but the driver of some type of lorry thing (think it was a window carrier or some such vechicle) behind me couldn't take the traffic, or possibly the radio, and randomly beeped at anyone on our slow trudge down Gardiner Street.

He even beeped in the general direction of the nice Lollypop Man of Gardiner Street, a stoic and interesting looking older man, who always deserves a smile and a nod of respect for his bravery stepping as he does out to protect the little kids of that area from angry commuters who would probably prefer to be in bed reading the funny pages instead of listening to Morning Ireland telling us how terrible Ireland and the world is generally.

Typical morning show will include at five minute intervals the crew relishing the fact that a gun, or a dead person or a depressed leprechan or a homocidal commuter mysteriously tuned into R1 has been found in (and it is always - lets face it 3m of the 5m in the country must live there if the stats are anything to go by) 'WEST DUBLIN' (except every twelfth tuesday when it is) 'LIMERICK' in a flying moon you might hear 'SOUTH DUBLIN', but generally only on the financial reports.

And, the best bit of course is whenever Bertie is mentioned. Cathal sounds as though he's sneezed up some particularly painful snoodle of phleghm as he says 'nnnnnnnngggghhhttttthhhoooaaaaaaaoooisiGGGGGHh', you can't help but choke on the cornflakes, and wish that Cathal could get on first name terms with the man.

Brings to mind those Irish speakers who delight in outcomplicating one another with their prononciation. Jesus, I don't even dislike Irish, but what's with that ad for 'Gobblin the Gook' or whatever that kids book of what I believe is supposed to be Irish is called - some Irish speaking presenter in a really diddlededee cuhntry achcent 'I lhhuvved dhis buvk whhhen I wvas a chhhildh' while the poor child is forced to sing or chant these strange sounds into the mic, I mean it isn't even Irish, it sounds like Indian or possibly voodoo chanting 'faelweivo ewfl vdsoi ferw'.... ick.

I dunno. Shan't be buying that book meself or for any kids I know, loike

Black Books

2006-03-13T22:59:00.000Z

It's official, I think that a bookshop is where I would thrive.

Following Bing's advice, and my newfound devotion to all things Niven, I went in search of 'the moon is a balloon'.

Although Waterstone's was where I found the tome, Hodge's Figgis is where I want to work.

It is:

a) peaceful & you can judge people depending on which section they are draped over thumbing through books (e.g. religion - not my thing, thus viewed with suspicion... psychology - perhaps they will understand me, thus viewed with immense awe).

b) full of interesting potential work colleagues - they seem to be perma chilled, and smile at you when you ask re: books. Their karma buzz relaxes you to the point that you're all 'I'm just looking for, you know, a book and stuff'

cue interesting, pretty lady bookseller with strange haircut and funky rasta hat to say,

'Oh, right, like, that's cool'

and me to add, 'yeah, that's cool'

Pause. Ten seconds of mutual smiling.

Ok, so we didn't find the book there, but I learnt all about the film section's filing system:

potential future work colleague (pfwc): 'Did you look under films?'

me: 'Naaaaaah.... Biography?'

pfwc: 'Aaaaaaaw... Yeah.... I get that... Well, naaaaah, maybe film.... might be under film'

me: 'Coooooool...'

pfwc brings me to section: 'But......not sure where......'

me: 'Aaaaaw, Yeah...... maybe 'N' for 'Niven'......I dunno.....'

pfwc: 'Naaaaaaah... (laughs)... maybe..... but Naaaaaaaah...'

me: '(series of gentle question marks)??????'

pfwc: 'There's like two managers of that section.....and one, like stores them under name..... but the other one (laughs)... she stores them under like, theme or something'.

me: 'Oh yeah'

pfwc: 'just have a root, you might find it ;0)'

me: ':0)'

Didn't find it. Waterstones was the same buzz, only more brusque and less amusing. Got the book, but won't be applying for a job.

Also, the funniest quote I've heard in the past two days - Sarah Silverman (as per Alex Renton, Observer Woman Mag):

'If my boyfriend (who's catholic) and I (who's jewish) ever have a kid, we'll just be honest with it. We'll say that Mommy is one of God's chosen people, and Daddy believes that Jesus is magic'.

David Niven

2006-03-12T14:56:00.000Z

If you ever get a chance, read David Niven's book 'Bring on the Empty Horses', which puts in my opinion the anecdotes of modern celebrity to shame.

The Hollywood stories, of happiness and tragedy and the droll one liners all exude glamour and intelligence that seems long gone from our current celebrity gossip.

Take the story he tells of George Sanders, a Russian actor who was married to Zsa Zsa Gabor. When Zsa Zsa and George split, she took up with Profiro Rubirosa.

What really piqued George's ire was the financial implications of their divorce and David quotes him as saying 'This is no time to behave like a gentleman - I am a cad and shall react like one'

George and his lawyer went with a ladder to catch the lovers in action in the bedroom. However, unsure that the window would be open, George brought a brick. Although the lawyer was satisfied that George was entitled legally to enter his own home through a bedroom window with a ladder, he had reservations that a brick may be seen negatively. No problem to George, he wrapped the brick and said it would be a gift.

Lawyer and George climb the ladder, and sure enough get the picture to much excitment and drama. They enter the bedroom and following an animated chat with the lovers begin to make their descent down the stairs, emotions calmed for all. Zsa Zsa, remembering it's Christmas, says she has a gift for George and goes to the tree where she finds it and gives it to him.

'My dear, I have a gift for you too' he says, and hands her the gift wrapped brick.

to hiace drivers

2006-03-11T15:55:00.000Z

This morning I was forced to acknowledge that a cliche may be true.

Hiace drivers may be nasty folks.

I implore nice hiace drivers of Ireland to unite and to make your kin more friendly.

At Texaco this morning, I parked in a spot and bought the papers.

As I sat into old Betsy (my trustworthy 97 D fiesta), Mr Grease Pants pulls in behind me, making my exit an unnecessarily fancy driving manoeuvre.

He realises I am planning to leave, and smiles merrily, gesticulating that I should do my twenty four point turn.

It's the morning, I'm a bit tired and hungover, so I smile back and gesticulate that it would be great if he could reverse.

He hops out of the Hiace and stands with an evil type of a grin, daring me to say something.

I open the door and smile, nicely. No point in making Mr Grease Pants more angry than he seems to be by nature.

'Hi' I say, 'could you do me a favour? It would be great if you could reverse out to let me out'

He looks at me and says 'No... You just turn it around'. Then stands there, his legs spread, knees bent and gesticulates some sort of a turn around with his fingers.

I look at him again, and smile gently, 'it would be easier for both of us, if you would just reverse though? Please?'

He shakes his head, most pleased with himself, I imagine he enjoys a morning barney and thinks I am going to provide him with today's amusement.

'Where would I park then? It wouldn't be easy for me' he says.

'But you could just park where I am now, and then you'd have a space and everything' I say, appealing to logic.

'No' he says.

I'm bored, but he's enjoying this so much, and I really just want to see how irrational he's going to be, so I say,

'Please, for me'

He shakes his hands, smiles, bends his knees (just to make his manhood a little more prominent I imagine) and slowly gesticulates that I should do the twenty point turn.

'I'm just going to ask you once more, if you'll reverse, it would be great if you would'

He shakes his head again, and does his little finger ballet.

In a nice, sweet, non-angry pretty girl voice (thank goodness for those acting classes, anger management is a great thing) I say, 'Thank you, you really are a charming man'.

He smiles... I think the irony took sixteen of the twenty point of the turn to sink in.

It occurs to him as I hit my seventeenth move that I may be in danger of hitting precious MickeyHead (his Hiace) and he comes back to skulk staring at me.

I complete the arduous man made manoeuvre and thanking God that this is probably the first
misogynist I have had to encounter in twenty eight years on earth, I wave kindly at Mr Grease Man.

I hate to admit it, but ten seconds later I was shaking - with sadness, anger and fear.

His gurning face, his leecherous, dangerous pose.

The man is a bully. I doubt he is married, or has daughters, sisters or a mother, but if he does, I hope treats them better than he did a hungover polite woman in a little car this morning.

beached

2006-03-10T12:09:00.000Z

I'm just back from Donegal, where the beaches are spectacular, even if you're peering at them through the rain.

Rossnowlagh, Murvagh - practically empty this time of year, and in the summer they team with surfers and sun-chasers. Felt like celtic warriors walking along this empty stretch of sand where the only noise was the waves and the birds calling to one another.

Saw the first signs of spring with lambs who thought I was going to feed them - kept saying 'maaa ma maaaa' like starving children. Frog-spawn was easy to spot in the ditches, but you had to stay very quiet for a few minutes before the purrrr of the frogs would begin and they would come back from their hiding places to protect their little zygotes. We spotted over ten in one ditch, amazing to listen to the slimy ones having a good old chat.

In the internet café come shop, I actually had a smile filled conversation with the owner. Went to the cinema, there was only one other couple there to watch 'The Constant Gardener' and we nodded politely at one another. The cinema in Ballyshannon is run with such love and affection, what can be nicer than the owner of the cinema asking you what you made of the movie?

Spent an hour in a neighbours house catching up on the Donegal gossip, before regretfully saying goodbye and heading back home.

Dublin late last night was traffic and people. Walking through town a drunk man behind me began to sing loudly, and I smiled. If I hadn't been in my urbane hurry, I would have almost turned and joined in.

foolish romantic

2006-03-07T16:07:00.000Z

You can track how romantic an individual is by the number of past lovers they include in group email travelogs sent from the mysterious wanderings our lusty generation are so fond of undertaking.

While there is a sense of the longing of a individual to make themselves appear exciting and unusual in this practice, you can sense the loss, of someone who was once important, and the reaching out, wanting to keep that connection, no matter how far away, no matter how long ago.

Imagine a generation ago, this was never possible. You simply couldn't let someone know just how excellent you had turned out to be, how brave you had become without them.

Unless you wrote for the National Geographic of course.

Confusion

2006-03-04T17:03:00.001Z

Last night was grand.. I went to the launch of the twenty-first issue of 'The Stinging Fly', a Dublin magazine featuring new writers.

At some stage like many of you, if I get my s*it together, I would like to be a new writer from Dublin, so it is only fair that I support anyone who already is.

It was interesting and good fun, so I was full of beanieness and free wine, and went to bed happy and cosy. Only to be assaulted by bad dreams...

I happen to be reading this book called 'The Historian' which is a real page-turner. However, be warned fair reader, you may have unwholesome dreams as a result...

The subject matter happens to be Count Alucard, or to any of you non-backward readers Dracula, but don't let that put you off if you're looking for a big book to take on hols that is light enough to romp your way through and dark enough to hold your interest with its mystery.

I'm wondering though if the horrible dream I had last night about my leaving cert Irish paper was inspired by reading a bit of a horror? Or am I like Wallace, eating too much cheese before bedtime.

Even this morning going about my business, I had a bad taste and the fear of Gaeilge, which is strange as I went to an all-Irish school and normally I find these nightmares are about maths anyway.

Bad dreams are so weird.

This afternoon, full of plans after a busy morning down at the radio station, I read a little more of the tale of bloodlust before falling asleep on the couch. I found myself taking my friend to a match in Croke Park in a rush to get there on time. She kept saying 'hurry, hurry, we're late' and I kept saying, 'it's fine, I know this secret way'.

I found this door at the top of some stairs (I find lifts, stairs and these type of useful upward perambulators spooky under the guise of sleep), and was all, 'see I found it, we're fine'. But as I went to open the door, the handle came off in my hands. Just before I woke up I got the handle back on and opened the door, but the damage was done.

My mobile phone was ringing and I had a chat with a friend, so I'm now full of plans and intent for the evening, but that bad dream is casting a shady sinister shadow over me.

Of course, I might just be having a scary dream before going to see the Dubs play tonight in Parnell Park, I often fear these events - not to say I ever (ahem) lack confidence in the boys in blue.

I guess I've just got time for an hour more reading about the vampire search before another spooky nap and then the match and pints. Lord only knows what my crazed irrational mind will conjour up tonight - Stephen Cluxton not saving a goal, an enormous pint of Miller chasing me down the road - I doubt it will involve vampires though, my mind, while distressingly literal seems to be avoiding the obvious.

My mood is one of sheer confusion - pass the wensleydale Gromit.

music = soul food

2006-03-03T10:12:00.000Z

The other evening I was at a night of song and colour held in a house in Dublin. All sorts of interesting and different people were there - aged 10 to 70.

People were shy about singing at first, and then as the evening wore on we heard everything from Cuban pianists to soulful and love tunes and those you know well with the odd traditional air thrown in to the last one, an original song that would have a stone reaching a contemplative thought, and a softie like me getting a tear in the eye.

There were candles and a fire burning. Atmosphere was peaceful, a million miles from celtic tiger greediness. It was comfortable and interesting and so so simple.

All it seems to take is good will, a few guitars, maybe a piano - wine optional, burning fire a bonus.

If you are a sqwalker like me, well that's ok, you make the good singers shine the brighter.

I've given you the recipe, now go make some noise. xx

white midday

2006-03-01T00:08:00.000Z

The drone and whirr of the office was making me nod off around midday when my colleague shrieked 'look - SNOW'

We pressed our noses to the glass, which was extremely cold, and feverishly began praying to the God of pavements that it was cold enough to stick.

I ran to the canteen to make a cup of tea and to generally make the most of the snow story, the security guard told me it was never going to last, and when I asked why, he said 'smog of the city, you see, it keeps it warmer here, that's why you'll never get snow in the city'.

I don't like to argue (at least not at work) so I made soothing mmmm noises of gratitude for his words of disappointing wisdom.

There was no milk left and I wanted to go out anyway so down to the local shop. The snow was landing in clumps on jackets, and everyone I passed was smiling. I said 'hi' to a middle-aged lady and she said 'hi' back, positively friendly.

A builder grinned at me and nodded as I walked into the shop, and it was nice. Paying for the milk at the counter, I couldn't contain myself and said

'great snow, isn't it? I hope it sticks'

The man at the till looked at me, looked at the till, took my money and then.

I thought he hadn't heard me, so I was a bit embarassed.

He looked up again, and said,

'To me, this is nothing snow. In my country there much snow'.

I was so relieved that I hadn't made a fool out of myself and that he hadn't been the icegrinch of citycentre arctic afternoons that I said,

'Well, for us, this is great snow, really lots of snow'.

Seconds later, when all had turned to water, I began to realise that I made a bit of a slight exageration.

Oh well, maybe tonight!

mum goes techno

2006-02-27T21:47:00.000Z

It still has to be grinned at, the thought of my mum sending me emails and rude forwards.

The woman who put the prim in primark (ok, so that makes no sense), the lady who refused point blank to refer to sex as anything other than making love, regardless of context.

Imagine my angry young idealist teenage debates about right to choice, lone parenthood, legalising condoms (how unhip were the 90s in Ireland, really - my 16th b.day diary entry has a bad illustration of a condom and reads 'now they are legalised and I am legalised, I can buy a condom' - took me many years more to know what to do with one....I blame my mum) being totally derailed by her referring to the 'responsibility that goes with making love'

even yet I cringe!!!

And now, she's sending me forwards of lusty men...

Plus: religion which was like God to her (hee hee) is now replaced by Angels.

Angels? I remember her going ballistic when I got a chain letter back in fourth class and telling me all manner of hellish things would rain down if I obeyed it's seemingly innocent request to send a postcard to ten randomers. Same lady is now asking me to send all my friends info about angels or ELSE!

why...

2006-02-25T20:44:00.000Z

We had visitors last night, up from the country, and I wanted to be a good host.

They asked me where they should go today and I listed all sorts of wonderous Dublin places to shop, browse, laze and gaze romantically into one anothers eyes in.

Waved them off, smiles and hugs.

Two hours later, with my brother and cousin, both teenagers but on good behaviour as they are out for the afternoon with me, we're making our loud, chatty way towards IMMA to partake of a bit of cake and maybe a slice of art, when we get stuck in traffic on the quays.

The news starts on the radio, and we hear that there are riots in town. We are joking and laughing, but we begin to listen to it, and all of us feel concern.

We decide to head towards home, and stop for coffee on the way, talking all the time about how strange and untrue it sounds that cars are being torched and building slabs thrown on our shabbily not chic but loved by me O'Connell Street.

Then I remember where I've sent my guests, and phone calls are made. They were caught up in it unawares, and had to run along with crowds of people down O'Connell Street. She had been shook by it and I just feel awful.

Later on TV, we watch the footage. My city, probably not beautiful by anyone elses standards, and I see these people with scarves on their faces, running riot wanting to create fear and mayhem, rejoicing in destruction.

I think of a million things - anger, fury, fear, sadness - I wonder what compassion it is that these people lack.

There is so much trust in the lives we build here together, that we choose to live. And if we aren't careful, it seems on a moment's notice, a knife's edge, that the laughter can be replaced by terror, by tears and loss.

It isn't a perfect life we have, I'm as easy to point to it's flaws as those wearing scarves to mask their faces. I will sit at a table with any man or woman and listen to their words, their perspective, and even if I don't agree, I will allow us to come to a consensus about the way forward.

But these men with anger so vicious they don't even need to form an argument or a perspective, that they think they can wreck havoc on my fellow dwellers and users of this city today, for these I hold no hope, I see only shades of black.

snow

2006-02-22T23:17:00.000Z

People in work were saying that the wise folks on tv said it might snow tonight, and then they were saying that it would be hard for them to get to work in the snow.

I would like lots of snow, so much snow that we had a day off.

It would be lovely to be snowed in. That never happens in Ireland.

We would all eat things from cans and light candles and dig out our sleeping bags.

Someone might even make a sledge.

We would all have fun and antics and get to know our neighbours better.

I keep sticking my head out the window, and while it is cold, I don't see any white flakes.

me day

2006-02-21T22:33:00.000Z

Sometimes life can be hard for whatever reason, I don't need to be specific.

Maybe you have just had mildly awful news, nothing too serious mind or an appliance has broken, it could be you're snuffly, or you feel the chasm of hopelessness that any of us do from time to time.

I do not mean to take away from the blackness that some of us live through, but the feeling of hard life I refer to here is that just generic, 'ho;hum' why"£$£"! blah'.

Yesterday, FtheB was feeling a bit like that, he was fluish.

So we sat down after work, with a homely roast dinner, real traditional, and began to watch the Lord of the Rings, which of course I've already seen, and he has seen more often than that again.

And we just got lost in a world of elves and hobbits and rings and great injustices and wonderous overcoming of the odds.

It was like having a bedtime story read to us.

When I sat, I meant to get up and do things, but it was a blue Monday evening, dark outside, and I felt a sympathy pang of fluishness.

It was sheer bliss. I would recommend it to anyone who feels like that. Didn't even drink booze, I had a warm ribena. Aw.

And today was just heavenly after it. For some reason I was gabbing with everyone, nothing was stressing me out. Lousy traffic was just a giggle. I went to the gym after work and didn't scowl at everyone and every machine, I was all sunshine and light at the water cooler, having a chat with a nice friendly woman from Blanch.

So if you're feeling crap, just drag out whatever video or dvd that tickles that inner child and cosy up with a warm berry beverage, skiv off what you should be doing and hopefully the next day you'll be all the better for it.

gob a colb

2006-02-17T22:34:00.000Z

Feeling a bit snuffly and sorry for oneself today, I limped around the office in a pity me state which gained me a little sympathy, yet more of the being treated as though I had a bell around my neck such as those that the lepers of old wore.

Once the wardens liberated us for the weekend I perked up.

Suddenly dinner and drinkies seemed quite the thing.

Went to Café Fitzers in Skuzzy Bar for the Early Bird, cos we were.

The food was nice, but the theatrics were better.

A man threw a glass on the ground and shouted in a most angry fashion at the kitchen staff before shrieking and flouncing out the door simultaneously.

So much the fury that after he stormed off the cops came in.

All most alarming yet entertaining as one ate their chilli jam and fishcakes.

We supped the vino and speculated.

Perhaps a lovers tiff? Maybe a chef who was not happy with the quality of the onions? What about a customer who is allergic to peanuts and yet spotted one in his hummus?

I dunno, but sure it was fun guessing.

Now for the Grub Critic Piece: Top Tip - the early bird in Café Fitzers, Skuzzy Bar was about twice the price of a much nicer meal in the Independent Pizza company, Drumcondra - can't guarantee the same drama though.

day after yesterday

2006-02-15T18:01:00.000Z

Writing letters in work today, I was thinking how strange it must be to receive letters dated on special days. Not that today was a special day in particular, but say if you got a letter dated 9/11/2001 or your birthday, or something like that.

An innocuous letter, mundane - bin charges or library fines - yet with your birthday on it. Would you have a little grin, even if you weren't happy about the letter?

I'm writing this from an internet café in Temple Bar - I'm just after trying on the most lovely jeans in Urban Outfitters, and, joy of joys, a Jem T-shirt. Good old Jem and the Holograms.

They just don't make toys of that ilk nowadays, or if they do, I guess I'm just not to exposed to them - my family is rapidly running out of young folks - not going to dwell on this one though, seeing as I'm the eldest of the youngest on both sides, dangerous talking about the need for offspring (of the literal not musical variety).

A childhood friend of mine was spoilt beyond words, she had a Jem and a Roxy doll. By proxy I got to play with them, and it was with fond memories I donned the T-Shirt. Damn this saving for trips of a lifetime though, jeans and t-shirt had to be given back to the trendy lady of the changing rooms.

Also on offer were Rainbow Brite t-shirts, which I may go back and try on now.

guns and roses

2006-02-14T19:56:00.000Z

Valentine's Day 2006, who would have thunk it. Axl et al must be delighted to see that the headlines are awash with tales of guns (Cheney) and Roses (romantic peops buying one another gifts).

Would love to have an mp3 player so I could listen to this, reckon I'll have to trade in my poor old Commodore 64 (ok, I'm being a little unfair to my computer) or wait until next Valentine's day to download it. About time I figured how to use the proper computer and discarded this Snoopy stickered beige yoke once and for all. (only joking Pentium Two, I scorn not your simplicity).

In other news, Dublin was awash of angry looking bankers wielding teddies and balloons in a 'don't mess with me, I'm running for the Dart' fashion. Why people bother pretending to be grown-ups baffles me.

The girls in the office were in a flower war, to see who had the biggest bunch. I admired the floral displays easily from my rose free desk. Rang boyf to complain and he reminded me I had told him never to ever send me things in work. Funnily enough, I don't remember that.

Bonded with a girl I'd never noticed before in our lack of petaldom, probably will never speak to one another again, but hey, we can always say we had today.

In other news, couldn't find the Beckett book, the wrinkly one is avoiding me.

coincidences

2006-02-13T12:02:00.000Z

Not to dwell on that whole unanswerable question regarding fate and all, but if something say pops into your life a few times in a week, should you pursue it?

Am I getting little nódanna (I love the Irish for 'hint' - kind of like a nod in the right direction) from some otherworldly source? Or am I just superstitious.

And this coincidence is so minor, so miniscule, it shows how empty my life must be for me to notice it.

Yet as it is to do with someone of intellectual standing, such as Samuel Beckett, I have to admit, I am determined to pursue it. Generally my coincidences involve purchasing Jellybeans or watching the same episode of Hollyoaks twice.

Mr Beckett, a man who I know zilch about, has been suggested to me by several people who's opinions I respect as a man of great wit and intelligence. It has even been brought to my attention that his finest works reside within this very room in which I write.

I do imagine he's terribly clever, yet, despite fulsome recommendations - the latest of which was in Cara magazine (hello, I'm taking the advice of an inflight magazine? Pass the valium Hilda) - growing up with Sean Hughes doing the Beckett thing and terribly serious documentaries about him, I just can't see how he could be funny. It took me a lengthy search to find a photo were he was smiling. I imagine he had searched for his glasses and was grinning self-depreciatingly as someone pointed out they were on his forehead.

I'm lazy, and can't help thinking it is irritating that I'm going to have to read him to find out if he's funny. And our books aren't stacked in alphabetical order, so I'll have to bypass the Copeland, Weir and countless Crime Fiction books (gore, I adore) to find this book. I can almost hear my muttered grumbles as I eventually sit down to read this piece of literary caviar.

Beckett, this better be good.

making bets with oneself

2006-01-31T20:08:00.000Z

Or the day I realised I suffered from o. c. d.

This afternoon I fell foul of one of my quangos, namely the habit of making bad bets with myself.

A friend had just suggested a dastardly plot that sounded too good.

So I was nice and polite, but didn't get too exuberant, thus ensuring that if it came asunder we would still be friends and if it came to pass, I could then get excited.

Fifteen minutes later I'm doing the simplex crossword on the Irish Times website, simian sole that I is.

And then, the clue: 9 across 'divide into two equal parts (6)'

The bet was out of my subconcious before I even read the damn clue.

If I had read it first, I would never have bet on it.

It wasn't even hard. But I had to cheat to get it, and therefore I lost the bet.

Doom will fall upon my plan, just as well I didn't get too happy about it.

And worst of all, I'm back in my o.c.d hell of making bets.

Visions of my future include me drawing a chalk circle around myself and living inside it.

What fun.

Ho hum.

Moral of my story: read the clue before making the bet, and remember to establish ground-rules: cheating doesn't affect outcome.

The difficulty with Pi

2006-01-28T18:25:00.000Z

I was never good at maths or resisting cakes.

In other news.

Green Party - John Gormley TD, very kindly agreed to be interviewed on my radio show about the Council of Europe interim report on illegal detentions. We talked about rendition flights and the possibility that these have landed in Shannon.

The US refute that the flights landing have been on their way to Guantanemo or have had illegal detainees aboard - yet we aren't allowed to check.

But if there is nothing to hide, then surely it is in everyone's interests - the US and Irish - that these flights are checked.

So why aren't the Irish government pushing this?

I would like to urge any politician who wants my mere scant scrap of a vote to push this.

making a fool of oneself

2006-01-26T22:14:00.000Z

If I were funny, it would be that self-effacing sort of humour - you know how it goes.

One of my favourite such sketches is that classic Dudley Moore and Peter Cook one, where Dud is auditioning for Tarzan. Poor Dud, as enthusiastic and gushing as can be, hopping on one foot, trying to convince the casting director that he would make a great one-legged Tarzan.

The acting class is getting serious, and I am beginning to realise that I'm not really the best student in the class.

This is fine, or it would be fine, if I didn't enjoy the classes so much. That's the tragedy, I mean, when I was twelve, I was a grand wee performer.

But now. Well, I try me best, and sometimes the lines I come up with are ok, but generally speaking, if I were to get a report card, it would say something along the lines of D+ 'She tries her best and is always on time to school'

The thing about being a grown-up, apart from the greying hair, the pleasure I derive from cuddles, the news (when did that happen) and the growing crumudgingliness, is that you can face home truths without collapsing in a fit of visible pain and anguish.

The tragic thing about this of course is that I were a bit less stoic, and a midge younger, I could collapse in a fit of visible pain and anguish, rather than act as though a pole might be thinking of placing itself in my dexterior.

Oh well, I guess I make the other folks look that bit better.

the cringe-factor

2006-01-24T21:54:00.000Z

Ouch. Sometimes being a human is enough to make me want to metamorph into being a cuddly toy, or perhaps a crash helmet.

Take now. Or don't if you would rather not. Just change the url and pass by.

Anyway, here I am, sitting in a cringed up position - I mean, I'm twenty eight, who am I kidding?

Myself allegedly.

Here I am, betwixt my Yoga Class, my Acting Class, my radio show, and my dull job. And now, I'm applying for a job which:

a. I won't get
b. If I did even get, I would be too chicken to take
c. Could be potentially embarrasing if anyone knew about it. Anyone who knows me that is. I doubt anyone reading this knows me.

Blah, bluh, ick.

Where did I go wrong?

Until the age of thirteen, I was an affable type. Then on stage, doing a mime (oh the shame), my friends stood up in the audience and skwalled 'Aoife - there's Aoife'.

Now, I would take a bow. Nah, I just wouldn't be miming at all.

And yet, the exhibitionist lurks within this upstanding librarian-esque person I've become.

Like ying and yang or possibly Jekyll and Hyde, I live in a state of flamboyant existential angst.

A number of years ago I came to the conclusion that I am a dapper gay man trapped in the body of a oversized girl.

Bluke*

(Bl-uke: combination of blah and puke, to feel stupid and nothing whilst also being compelled to vomit - commonly experienced by camp women who wish they still smoked, anything really)

To the future I say!

2006-01-21T17:29:00.000Z

Isn't it strange that if you took the media as your main source of facts, which of course none of us worldly types do... ahem... that older people would seem a bit dotty, irrelevant, or more likely invisible.

Yet, day on day we get older ourselves, and the majority of us would prefer that we have the opportunity to continue motoring on for a good while.

I don't understand the logic though - surely we should want to make oldness sexy (or if that's too contraversial for you) at least cool? I mean, it is where we're all headed after all.

And take your average famous old person at the moment - Mick Jagger, Yoko Ono, Paul McCartney, Ozzie Osbourne, Robert Redford, Paul Newman, Joan Rivers. In general they are or at least were in their day - eviler, odder, more musical, more bat eatinger, sexier, cooler, funnier than those that proport to the mantle of fame these days.

I feel mostly bored and irritated, but in gentler moments, sorry for so called celebs. Take Ashley Simpson (think that is her name) - seems like a normal vacant teenager with a large nose. But why, when I turn on the TV is she there yapping on about not getting nominated but wanting to be nominated for a grammie. Who cares.

And, sure even as a minor celeb, you do care, well, keep it to yourself.

Isn't it nicer to be humble. 'Qui? Moi? Un Grammy? C'est magnifique?!'

Than a bumbler 'me i oh my, why not me i oh why iii i i me me my?'

Ick.

I like the old people, they rock a lot more originally and bolder than any of the sappy bunch we have now.

Special People

2006-01-19T18:17:00.000Z

We were wonderful, special and wholesome types, who felt spectacularly wonderful and in the know, as we sat spellbound listening to Noam (we spent an evening together, don't you know).

Fancy, Noam Chomsky, he who is in touch with truth of the struggles of the whole world in a far greater and deeper way than I am in touch with the truth of the struggles of my own life. Imagine, this man, this insightful commentator, visiting us in Ireland. Our opinion is important, we are important.

He may have called us shoe-shiners, but to him we matter.

Afterwards, with pints, being the Irish way of mulling over things, we gushed and blurbled. Noam, was of course, sadly absent.

Then it occurred to us.

Ireland is only like the size of Manchester or something (one of the drinkers posited Connecticut, but I know not enough of this far off place, so I'm not sure).

We don't matter.

We really don't matter.

Still. Good talk though.

Matching Socks

2006-01-15T16:31:00.000Z

In my local shop there was a sign advertising an expert ironer. The possibilities were endless - I would generously employ someone who clearly was devoted to their expert subject and in turn could devote the additional free time to my favourite hobbies, or just to those endless nameless ways I spend the hours when not working or sleeping.

She was a lovely woman, yet her expertise was clearlyfar beyond that which I needed. €1.50 per garment, except for as she put it, 'like a big thing - a dress or that'. Fortunately I don't posess many dresses, being more the skirt and top type of gal, yet unfortunately I don't posess the €1,500 it would take to clear my hot press nor the further €2,000 it would take to clear those items currently acting as insulation or a sculpture akin to that in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, which I fondly refer to as the washbasket.

So yesterday evening, I valiantly dug the iron and its board out and set them up in front of the TV. Immediately I was struck by the need for a snack. A healthy snack. Some herbal tea and a tangerine later, I felt energised, and decided to practice my yoga moves. Following some limber moves accompanied by Boards of Canada, I was exhausted and not a little hungry. I decided to make a roast chicken dinner. Yum.

Several hours and calories later, I began my quest. But Joan Rivers was on the box, and she's hard to hear over the hissing of my iron, so more sensibly, I decided to match socks.

Well I would have, if I could have found a pair.

Totally riVeting TV

2006-01-14T20:13:00.000Z

What has happened to the last two hours of my life? They've disappeared, into the unknown, as I sat riveted to 'Shipwrecked 2006 - Battle of the Islands'.

Naively, I believed that reality tv had gone the way of the dogs, what with celebrity BB platforming once-noones as they crumble further into a state of mental unbalance.

Not to say this doesn't entertain many people, it's just not to my own taste.

Perhaps if the people were less faux, and more good looking, and stranded on an island vying with the other island, such as on Shipwrecked, I might of course acquiese.

The dealio is this. Five people on each island. The Tigers have a school education and the Sharks have a college education (this being the hook so to speak - although to be honest that's not what has me hooked - we're not talking about a team of Oxford boatees versus Thems down the Mines).

Each week a Newbie spends three days on each island and on the seventh day, they decide where they want to comfy down for the remainder of the show.

The show takes place over a five month period.

Aw, now to the good bit.

Island 1 (Tigerland): two men, goodlooking in a 'ibiza lad' fashion, one girl just out of a posh boarding school, one girl just come out to her folks, and also just lefted school (local comp I think), and a bisexual cute young boy. All of the Tigers think they rock. They work hard building and have little squabbles and bickerings.

Island 2 (Sharkland): one man who is a bit 'oh I say' yet cute enough - but total nerd (wears panama hat), one man who is barkers - apparently he has ADHD, but he is also really annoying to the other Sharks (and fascinating as a result, tee hee), a surf chick who's nice and has a great expressive face that shows exactly what she thinks of everything (espec: barkers), a beauty who is a designer and seems a bit arty, a mouthy young one who reminds me of a young Janet Street Porter. All of the Sharkies think they rock. They are as lazy as sloths, a bit em, frothy on the brain-juice and think they are clever. They have out and out arguments, and can't agree on anything to do with building so spend their time 'discussing' things.

It was class. I really enjoyed the beautiful islands, the cute faces, fights, squabbles, sadness and joy. Blah, I don't think I've liked a show this much since BB3.

I hope next time it lives up to today!!!

kitten

2006-01-10T22:32:00.000Z

Tee hee - check this out, it's cute, fun and a little bit evil: kitten war

Pets are great. I'm not going to get a new cat even though I'd like one. For ages after Arthur, my furry friend, was run over by some twit (it has been almost a year and still I can't forgive) I didn't want to have another cat.

Now, I wouldn't mind, but it just isn't right, so I'm not getting one - we live on a nearly main road, I'm going travelling within the year, and besides, I'm still in mourning. But I have to say I miss his antics - he would bite the hell out of my hand, but he loved to climb on my knee or to play with a toy if you through him at it.

other people's quangos

2006-01-10T21:14:00.000Z

It may be the first sign of my growing madness, but I've just decided that instead of trying to fit in with everyone else's viewpoints, I'm going to define normal as myself and all else as absurd.

Aw, the relief.

Seriously.

I went to school with this girl who when (as we oft would do) we would say someone was wierd, would interject 'define normal'.

To be honest, she was very normal and therefore fitted right in.

Still, her erudite observation has lead me to be tolerant for the past decade.

Nah.

I've really only been pretending whilst harbouring simmering tensions about people's opinions barely under my surface.

Take this man I was watching on a programme 'It's the dog or Me' (I think that is the name of this Channel 4 fly on the wall) who said that if his dog, which humped (mock) all in sight regardless of their age, sex, type of animal, was castrated, it would be (and I quote) 'like taking my balls'.

Em.

No.

It would be nothing like taking your balls. Ok, so you don't like the idea. That's your choice. But having a pet castrated is not like being castrated. That is just weird. And I defy anyone to define normal.

inky evenings

2006-01-09T22:47:00.000Z

I'm definitely going travelling, that's my resolution. Now, the dull cold reality - eleven months of saving my butt off. And five years of paying the loan back.

But it will be marvellous. And you folks will be the beneficiaries of a not so clever world tour.

Anyway, all this self sacrifice means that I'm sitting at home instead of the pub. And we're getting videos (gosh showing my age) DVDs and crisps instead of the live theatrical performances and champagne we enjoyed chez moi heretofore.

So yesterday evening I watched Gus Van Sant's 'Last Days'. While

a. I enjoyed the visual unravelling of the character much in the manner of watching good video art (in my interpretation good video art is that which you watch without yawning or pretending you're enjoying yourself of just walking off)
b. Kurt Cobain was zeitgeist for my generation and thus v intriguing and any insight into his world is thus rendered interesting
c. I just darned kindof liked it (i.e. 6/10 on my scale of 0= Matrix Reloaded 10=Eyes Wide Shut)

I'm having angst as I don't think you can just say you liked a film like 'Last Days' that posits itself to be an insight into the last days of a man's life, surely 'I liked it' belongs to the category of films that begins with Back to the Future and ends with anything by Jim Carey/similarly enjoyable entertainment but not purporting to be much more?

Don't get me wrong, I love entertainment, it's just that I think I should have an opinion on anything opinionated.

Purchasing Sofas Sucks

2006-01-07T20:24:00.000Z

This house, which is often a nice place of comfort, has conspired with Classic Furniture, to make today a bit of a bad Saturday.

Now, it started off well - we had spent time chatting carefully with a salesperson, who assured us that our sittingroom would be a cosy pleasuredome on receipt of our new corner sofa. I duly signed away my hard earned cash (well, I will earn it, and that's what plastic is for, right?).

Then, with much kind assistance from my Dad, we hacked our old sofa apart in some paganesque frenzy last night. It currently resides in a bundle of fun out the back garden ready to be fit into my little car and driven to the dump.

It was all planned. The men would arrive with the shiny thing of bumfort and we would spend tonight in luxurious pleasure.

Naw.

They arrive and declare our house is too small. Nice. I guess I'd better get another so.

Then they remove the sofa.

So there we are, without anything but bare planks of wood upon which to plonk. Today is the first time in five years I had cause to think that carpet might have been the better choice.

And after gurning, wailing, laughing and walking about bewildered with tape measures and frustration, I decided to go visit the sofa company to ask for my money back.

Hah.

They think I should remove my window.

I rang a window company who told me that they might (not will) be able to do it for €150.

I tell this to Sofa-Charm Boy and he says, 'I think that was a bit expensive, in all fairness'.

I ask for my money back and he says, get this, 'I can't do it'.

Now I have potentially three choices:

1. get window removed at great expense and hope that someone buying my house likes my style in sofas
2. buy a sofa that costs twice the price (I'm broke and trying to save for holiday of a lifetime)
3. knock house down and build bigger one.

Blah.

In other news, sitting on a cold floor on a Saturday night sucks. I'm off out.

About Town

2006-01-07T00:32:00.000Z

Not warming to the place due to the name, I avoided going to Gruel for probably oh a year or so, imagining some Dickensian overpriced experience.

I always thought I was too literal.

Eventually persuaded by someone who always knew the best places to be, I tried it, and enjoyed balancing on those old style boho chairs whilst chomping wholesome chow and feeling a little interesting.

Despite the shabby-chic it can be dear enough, plus many others I find also feel a little over trended by the name or the nature of the place so I don't visit as often as I would like.

Tonight four of us were feeling a little sad and in need of nurture of the edible kind, so we went and the waitress was lovely and the food was lovely, but the best things were:

1. the music: the cure, aw, the memories.
2. the fact that when she brought the brownie and ice-cream, she included four big spoons, even though we hadn't asked and then she asked me, as I was the orderer, if we wanted to share. So we did.
3. outside during a smoke-pause I had a nice chat with a trendy lady who was supping beer whilst smoking and I said that was very cool, and she said, yeah, but possibly illegal, and I said, sure that's even better and she smiled.

Not many people smile at you in the city, and I felt the ice melting away.

health food junkies

2006-01-05T13:15:00.000Z

Why is it that we're driven to make resolutions to give up the simple pleasures that we love? If your only respite from a dull day is a pint or a slice of cake, I thought that logic would dictate that you would eat or drink even more.

Dublin is very cold today. Everyone I talk to wishes they weren't in work today, that they were doing something else. Why do we always want to be doing something else?

Rain

2006-01-04T13:28:00.000Z

Sometimes when it rains outside, I don't even notice.

Some people who see the drops, feel the wet.

Cold and horrible, maybe they think there is no end.

Sometimes it drips, leaves are pushed down, or

When its heavy I can't even see the road clearly.

If it rains for a long time, you look forward to the end.

The smell will be clean and the plants will look glad.

The street will be shiny and the day will be new.

In praise of little 'uns

2005-12-21T13:17:00.000Z

Aw kids of Dublin, you make me smile.

At the ChristKindl festival yesterday evening I was merrily walking through looking at the sparkly lights of the merry-go-round and sniffing the Glu-Wein filled air and admiring the smelly candles and funky jewellery and assorted craftytypes who were selling same. Even though all were housed in garden sheds, the general ambience was one reminicent of a US feelgood xmas film.

This general shmarm-disneyfest was going down very well with me, it must be acknowledged. I was feeling the love for my fellow Dublin folk. On my way out though my bliss filled smile turned to a grimace and then a full out laugh as I watched the kids of Sherriff Street being held back from joining the fun by the burly bouncers. This was very annoying to me, until I noticed two of the kids shimmying through the gap at the bottom of the metal barriers erected I'm sure to keep them out. Vive la Revolution!

shadows

2005-12-20T13:51:00.000Z

I'm posting from a café in Dublin listening to DJ Shadow being piped out as the brisk typers frantically finish college essays, the home-searchers browse DAFT and the gadget lovers look at glossy images of things I can only imagine are necessary to the daily life of your average underachieving overqualified man who I am very jealous of as I have to go back to work and he doesn't, evidently.

Bah, poor me. This morning I didn't even have time to look at the swans on the canal, meetings and phone calls and letters and blah was filling up my head.

The men and women handing out the Metro and Herald AM caught my eye, wonder what it must be like plying people like me, who have no use for thepaper - do they wish they were me, making my way to an ugly office out of the cold, or do they despise me for refusing their paper, see me as strutting around the place in my suit and jacket, barely remembering to smile when saying, 'thank you, no'.

This morning was Kris Kindel. I'm not a fan, bad memories of getting a 'Moody Judy' kids book a few years ago (unfortunately I think I know why and from whom). But this year a kindly sort bought me a beautiful bling bling shiny thing for my arm.

Yay, evening of hanging with mate at home in an alco-lite evening of sticking sellotape to my lips in an effort to wrap gifts.

Strange and Wonderful Things

2005-12-13T23:00:00.000Z

1. Fianna Fáil posted into my post-box a newsletter from Noel Aherne that I didn't really want, but none the less I had a look, and was surprised to see that the first prize for their xmas raffle there is a car. Does Ivor propose to dispose of his PA's unwanted gift thus?

2. On the Royal Canal in Dublin of a morning just beside Mountjoy, you may see an overgrown cygnet hanging with his folks, he doesn't want to leave them, and he's half ugly half swan-like and most beautifully awkward as a result.

3. A wise man told me today that when the first aeroplane flew someone who was thought to be wise said that if you calculated the mass and shape and general physics of a bumble-bee it doesn't make sense that they can fly. He then told me that it was just as well noone told the bumble-bee that.

4. In a toy-shop buying a gift for a young friend who is imaginative and interesting I was dismayed to see that all the toys for young girls were terribly boring camply pink stereotypical tat with no imagination or interest, and I became annoyed that I had no choice but to buy a gift that went against all my beliefs and also was crap. But today in her house, down on her floor we spent a whimsical while making interesting and strange characters from a gift I had bought her last year after getting annoyed at all the cruddy toys in the same shop and I vowed to always look harder.

Do you need booze for a good night out?

2005-11-27T22:41:00.000Z

I'm not going to bemoan the impending dullness of getting older, nay, I will use it as grounds for research. For example last night I had the joy of experimenting with being both non and boozed up.

First part of the night I spent guzzling an array of drinks - beer, wine, rum - whilst chomping overpriced tasteless grub in Eliza Blues, although in credit to them, the presentation was purdy and the Hen party suitably tacky.

Conclusion: My arguments and entertaining quotes were widely enjoyed and when the waitress accidentally flung a knife at me, I didn't mind, just joked that I daren't say the wine was off as she might throw another one. Also, I was less irked by the nearby vocal Hen party than the non-drinking chums - apparently the Hens were shouting, but I just heard gentle clucking.

Second part of the night we listened to pseudo jazz in the Westin (Mint Bar - not my stylie, but the chums I was with were into it) and as my fellow boozer had departed for her leaba, I was left alone with two drivers, so I began guzzling diet 7ups.

Conclusion: I still danced to the jazz version of 'Love Cats' (it is kind of possible to sing a Cure song in jazz mode, not so sure it worked with Radiohead though) despite sobriety, and was less annoyed by enthusiastic dancing people than chums. But I did get a little bored about two hours before we left, although that may have been due to the fact that the bar was predominated by men in suits (hello - on a Saturday night?) and that overall it was boring.

Blah, where's me bottle of Ameretto, mmm.

Freedom is never free

2005-11-23T22:07:00.000Z

Haven't met or voted for him, but now the big flea, freudian slip, I mean fella, wants to protect my freedom so much that he would consider bombing a TV station, and then wave the Official Secrets Act about if someone wanted to tell me about it.

Did the other, more linguistically proficient George (Bernard Shaw), have the spectre of politics future whisper persuasively in ear when he said:

'England and America are two countries separated by a common language'

Joy to the world - Xmas #1

2005-11-22T23:37:00.000Z

Can't remember how I was directed to JCB Song a while ago, but apparently it is touted to be the Christmas Number One tune - well worth the download, and the animation is a corker.

Aw, listening to it now, so sad...

Bray on a frosty morning

2005-11-22T22:53:00.000Z

Following a slow, slow commute across the M50 this morning, arriving as Bray woke up for another day, the beauty of the area sang to me.

In the shop buying a paper, I was too early for my meeting, the woman was really warm and friendly.

'Oh love, you look cold'

'Fierce cold, isn't it?'

'Fierce'.

'Start of the winter, I reckon'.

'It's lovely out here though this morning'

'Ay you're right, it is lovely today'.

I wish I had got a chance to walk down the Prom at lunch. Maybe tomorrow.

On the way home, listened to practically all of 5-7 live. It isn't good to expose your ears to that volume of disdain and unhappiness with society in one bout. Plus the AA girls kept saying 'traffic is quite heavy on the M50 northbound' (duh) and Philip Boucher-Hayes was all a fluster about hypothetical €70 child care payments, and after an hour of guff, he decided these payments are terribly hypothetical and that Brian Cowen has probably made up his mind already anyway seeing as the budget is due in two weeks.

I wanted to butt in with a helpful opinion, listening to them prattling whilst sitting in dense traffic wasn't pleasure, but then me and bright lights (the bum of the car I became friendly with over the two hour journey) inched around a corner and the whole of Dublin was twinkling yellow light, and between all red brake lights around, I was reminded of Christmas, which is soon. Sigh.

And time goes by, so slowly (on the M50). So on with 98FM and the music wasn't great, but what the hey, I sang along anyway.

Advertising Bah.

2005-11-21T22:42:00.000Z

Despite attempts to be a Guardian reading, organic buying, literature reading, closed minded to I'm a Celebrity Culture type of person, sometimes the sucky advertising works.

Take cars, which I really have little interest in (except for Betsy who is almost part of nature at her advanced age - almost ten - and her moss growing windows and teeny engine so that doesn't count...)... I want a new Mini Cooper (yup dreadfully four years ago, but Matt Damon in the Bourne Identity, sigh), a Citroen C5 (yup, car = transformer, fulfilling so many childhood fantasies),

And beyond this, I would love to waltz into work in a sleeveless 1950s glamorous dress, with matching make-up and jewellery (yup, Mars Delight ad).

I'm irked beyond belief. I had one of those bars - disgusting - a hybrid of a marshmallow and a sweet, both individually good ideas but leaving a icky sugar glaze on my teeth in reality, not good.

And who are Mars to advocate that I choose a 'new' way to go to work, as they do on a big billboard which is strategically placed just as I pass the point of no return on my lovely morning stroll into my hamster cage.

Also, I think that Nutri-grain bars should be banned - they promise a delightful mouth watering treat which is almost home made. Yeah right, they are just cardboard mixed with saw-dust with nail-polish squidged inside.

And in particular I object to the cinnamon-y mid morning snack, it looks squelchy and moreish, but it is just outright lies, the cinnamon is only a scent callously added afterwards.

I don't even normally buy these bars, but today I had to due to hunger, and even looking at the selection brought back grim memories of breakfasts past.

On the plus side, it was utter bliss to walk into town this morning through chilly fog - reminded me of that Prague Vista in the INXS video 'Never Tear Us Apart', minus the architecture, snow and pretty permed man. Sigh.

Kung Fu ~ distant relative of Fianna? Discuss

2005-11-20T23:25:00.000Z

Watching Kung Fu Hustle (which was in the words of Peter Cook's character I don't know who, that guy who sat in a pub with Dudley Moore, 'funny') and Faraday posited that there are great similarities between the action of the 'masters' in kung fu movies and those of the Fianna (Fionn, Oisín, all those dudes).

Well, I know I've had a glass or more of red wine, but 'yup' I agree. And suddenly all these matrixesque moves and Jackie Chan movies seem more realistic or failing that relevant.... So why doesn't someone make a kick-ass Fianna story - surely there's one in all the throwing of boulders to make a path to Scotland and bounding across counties in one move and murdering rabied dogs with a sliotar.

Or does Lord of the Rings count? Faraday has suggested that Tolkien was on some Celtic Buzz when he wrote that.

In the meantime I'm going to watch Die Hard 1-3 again - it's at least a year since John McClane ruled my small screen, plus its nearly xmas - Ho Ho Ho, now I have a gun too, etc.