Feigning interest

Pteronophobia is what Wikipedia calls it: Who-gives-a-shit-giving-it-a-name is what I call it

2009-11-13T20:47:00.002Z

Since we moved into our house earlier this year, with alarming frequency, I have been the fall guy, the butt of jokes, the much-maligned fool for all the household japes. This seems to happen in every sphere of my life so at some point I may have to accept it as my own doing. NOT TODAY. Although otherwise hardy and without flaw, I do have an unspeakable terror of tickling anywhere on the body but particularly on my feet.

Some time ago whilst discussing tattoos, I idly commented that I'd always fancied something small and vague on an ankle, a spot easily cloaked if needed. "Oh really?" Everyone said, with equal antipathy as I am always making such querulous pronouncements and ignoring them is almost essential for an easy life.

"I think I would get a small, trailing flower," I said. "Or is that too gay-looking? Maybe a word, in Latin, to increase it's enigmatic power! No, no, my first born's name! In Latin! With a flower!"

"Oh dear God." Said Kate. "Right, will we draw one on, just to see what it's like?" Dubiously I poked a pen nib into my delicate arch.
"Oooh, no, that's not nice. No thank you."
"Go on, give us a go." Kate said, grabbing the pen. Clodagh looked up; she loves a plan.

"No, I don't think so, I have extremely sensitive feet." I said apologetically.
"Look, how can you stick a tattoo artist if you can't cope with me and a pen? Cop the fuck on."

A short time later, Clodagh was sitting on my left arm and Kate on my right. As Kate began to draw on my right foot, the screams started. I don't know where they came from; as people involved in great trauma often say, it took me a moment to realise the screams came from my own mouth. All I knew was a terrifying, overwhelming panic and fear of I know not what of. Of course, my pain was everyone else's amusement. Laura jumped up to hold my flailing ankles and all three roared with unimagined joy.

"Kate!" I panted, "Please! I beg you! I'll give you everything I own! Please Kate! Friends down do this to friends, Kate!" She bore down with added glee. My mind sank beneath waves of terror and panic as the interminable prodding and scratching of my poor white foot went on, involving hundreds of pounds of females sitting on me and telling me to shut up between their laughter.

"Quieten down, Luce," Clo said, turning to me in a rare second she managed to stop laughing at my yelps of panic. "You're just making it harder on yourself you know."

Painful seconds later, it was over. I was released, and scuttled into a dark corner of the living room to hold my foot and mope. My heart was pounding, my breath was short, I'd walloped my head off something in my struggles. On my foot, extending from toe to the inside of my heel, was a mawkish flower, primitively drawn with rough, tremulous petals. Also the caption: "LUCY IS GAY HA HA HA".

My captors sat round and watched, grinning nervously, for fear I'd start crying I suppose. Hell no. I cry three times a year, tops, unless I get caught watching Trocaire ads. I wasn't wasting my water on these fools.

I steadied myself; looked up and squared my chin. "I hope you're fucking happy with yereselves. I'll have you know that that constitutes foot rape."

"HA!" They three roared.

Solitary runner; Pterodactyl-spotter

2009-09-14T17:10:00.004+01:00

Just seen strange bird-like creature fishing in the channel by the Back Strand! From my own admittedly rudimentary investigations this creature appears to be either a pterodactyl or harpie-type monster from Philip Pullman books. Unfortunately I had neither independent witnesses nor recording devices at hand so I am attempting an artist's reproduction to illustrate what I saw. Since the artist is me, I drew a stick man, added wings and a beak and then screamed 'fuck you, ART!' at the page and walked away.

If you were interested, I completed my round of the Back Strand in 66 minutes flat today. Nothing seems to be able to top my unprecedented 64 minutes of last week. I can only settle on last Thursday being a particularly cold day with few other pedestrians, so I was able to run for a longer portion of it. I am physically unable to run in the presence of others due in part to my ignorance of any official running technique and my non-possession of an exercise bra. According to my lovely and complementary sister, when I run I look like, ahem: "a spa". To save the mortification of others, I run alone. That's fine with me. I'd rather not have anyone present when I asphyxiate myself on my hoodie (again) or scream and fall over when a seagull startles me (for the fourth time in an hour). Those occasions are best saved for alone-time, thank you very much.

Bangerhead Fest '09

2009-06-29T23:46:00.003+01:00

Banner by Roisin, accompanying laundry by KC

Cake by Superquinn, accompanying mirth by Lucy screaming obscenities

Housewifery

2009-06-17T11:49:00.001+01:00

On Sunday morning I texted my good friend Donna, the obsessive clean freak, the following: 'Can I put any of the following in the dishwasher: Toilet brush, plastic dustpan, non-slip rubbery shower thingy. If not, how does one wash these things?'

Donna promptly rang me back, mainly because she was too hungover to text, and told me that no, noooo, I could not put any of these things in the dishwasher. They would melt, and cause grievous damage to the dishwasher, she said. "Things have to be dishwasher safe to go in the dishwasher," she pointed out, "hence the existence of the phrase 'dishwasher safe'."

"But the scrubbing brushes never melt when I put them in!" I complained. "Similarly, squeegee things are grand, as are flip-flops!"

"... Lucy, don't put any of those things in the dishwasher again" she told me. "Toilet brushes in the dishwasher? With dishes? That is seriously gross."

"Where should one wash one's shoes then, huh? You tell me that, Mrs smart arse!"
"Why do you need to wash your shoes? Shouldn't they, uh, just wipe clean?"
"Well, you tell me how I should get cow shit out of three-year old sandals then!"
With that zinger I hung up on the negative bitch. I don't need nobody telling me how to run my house.

I weighed things up for a little bit, realised I was running late, and fucked the dustpan in the dishwasher along with my scrubbing brushes and portable washing basin, which is handy for a range of things such as cleaning floors, washing me feets, sticking under the chins of inebriated house guests when they look a bit green, and sluicing away dog mess from the front lawn. I fucked the nasty, non-slip, rubbery shower mat in the wheelie bin and put the toilet brush where I couldn't see it, behind the toilet. Then I put three pairs of shoes in the washing machine and got the hell outta the house. If anyone asks, you know nothing about how those things got there, right? JOB DONE.

Something you won't care about

2009-06-12T17:02:00.002+01:00

I'm writing something at the moment. Who knows what it is. Us artists don't concern ourselves with labels like you little people do. Currently it's held up in a mire of plotting difficulties. Bearing close attention to a quote I read from Joseph O'Neill, I am taking care to 'lie as little as possible, tell as close to the truth as you can'. Why? Because I liked the sentiment. Didn't like Netherland though, unlike Obama. Needless to say, consciously not lying is one of the hardest things I've ever done. Lying, or 'revisionism' as I like to call it, is as necessary to my daily life as breathing. Even recounting anecdotes to friends I find myself, almost unconsciously, sexing things up: flat-sounding dialogue is brought to fruity succinctness, dull circumstances glossed over. It's my hunger for narrative, I tell myself and don't get too concerned.

So I don't lie. Or I try not to. Apparently I don't plot anything I write either as everything frequently takes wild swings away from their starting point without my permission. I like to sketch things out in my head while driving 'round town in the evenings but instead I flash past familiar places and people and they remind me of past events and a new insight occurs to me: I'll use that, I think: that's genuine therefore good. Consequentially my cast change personalities almost daily, my hero's motives alter with my own capriciousness. One day I am forgiving towards all men: relationships prosper, goodness is rewarded, and my heroine gets invited to a party. The next I want them to suffer. Stupidity abounds; all humankind is selfish and cruel; unkind wives leave their pathetic husbands. My comic relief gets more and more violent as my mood gets worse, and I'm finding laughs in pushing people over, having them bump their shins, stub toes, lose wallets. I am honest, burningly honest, letting my temper and occasional torments play with my storyboard, rearrange my written world.

This can't continue. This is how children write, it's immature and inconsistent and pointless. Eventually you're not writing fiction, you're just keeping a diary and changing the names.

Hey hang on there a second now

2009-05-25T16:03:00.004+01:00

Did you know that Pluto = not a planet anymore? Seems that theres only eight official planets doing the rounds nowadays, not the nine we all heard about back in the day. Oh, I know, I was flabbergasted to hear the news also. Apparently, this was decided back in 2006. Yeah, I didn't get that memo from NASA either. SOMEBODY is trying to keep me outta the loop. Keep trying, spacemen, I got my methods. Yeah, it takes three years for my methods to come to fruition but still: I'm watchin' you. Be very afraid.

Or just kinda afraid. I got a lot on these days.

Mick Flannery really blew. Luckily, I fell in love

2009-05-17T17:08:00.005+01:00

"Good Lord, Loretta: don't look now but the most beautiful man in Tramore just smiled at me."

"Who?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I meant 'The Most Beautiful Man in Tramore'. He's over there, black top, jeans, cheekbones like cliffs you want to tumble off, shoulders like rocks you want to smack into. Eyes full of sex, lips full of sin!"

"Ohhh. Well, he is very nice alright."

"'Nice', she says! What are you drinkin', lady, 'cos you need to give it up! He's the most fabulous man I've ever seen in the flesh. He looks like Clark Gable only better and less facial hair. Brando, before the weight. The body of a cowboy and the face of an angel. He's like-"

"Yeah, I get it, I get it: you've got the sexual fantasies of a seventy-five year old."

"Well! I like that! I-"

"Shhhh!"

"What? WHO JUST SHUSHED ME?? IS THIS A GIG OR AM I AT FUCKING MASS!"

"..."

"Loretta, I think I've gotta blow this joint, these joykills are really wrecking my buzz."

"Yeah, you probably should. We're getting looks. Also maybe stop talking like a gangster from the thirties."

"HA! You really make me laugh, dollface! Laters!"

ICEBERG, RIIIIGHT AHEAD!

2009-03-16T18:20:00.000Z

I'm having a housewarming/birthday party next weekend. Didn't I invite you yet? Shucks. I've invited everybody. Looks like you're nobody. It's going to be MAJOR. I'm making a mix CD for it right now(Oh I know, right? Mix CD? I'm so with it and down with the kids!), featuring all my favourite jammin' party tunes. So far there's four songs on there and only one of them does not feature the musical stylings of Bruce Springsteen. Like, the Nebraska years. That was not a party-time for Brucie. I need to broaden my musical tastes.

Seriously though, it's shaping up to be the most horribly mismatched evening of all our young lives. When your social circle features anyone whose name you know or whose face looks familiar as you scream 'PARTY, MY GAFF!' from your car window, you've gotta be ready for some fireworks. On Sunday I listed off all the people I had spent Saturday evening inviting and Clo and Laura just frowned at me.

'Aw, hells no' Laura said, barely looking up from the evening of card-cutting and laminating that seems to be the yoke of the school teacher's evening. 'Not him. He's a fucking mess.'

'Yeah, he went to Blathnaid's housewarming and vommed in the bathtub and blocked it and Ciara had to scoop out the sick with her hands.' Clo added vigorously.

'Nuh-huh, it was Blathnaid herself did the scooping, as I recall.' Laura pointed out.

'Dude, it was totally fucking Ciara. She made me smell her hands after. I think I would remember that.'

'Well then it must have been Blathnaid's hands and you were obviously going around smelling so many hands that you can't remember whose hands scooped what.'

'As if! I think I can remember my best friend's hands, excuse you.'

'I highly doubt it. Hand-whore'.

I left them to it and sat down on the floor of my shiny new hallway. This socialising thing has me beat.

Je me fous du passé!

2009-02-16T23:37:00.003Z

Did you know that I saw La Vie en Rose three times? The first time I was drunk, the second inattentive and the third despairing of ever following the ridiculous structure of the damned thing. What I eventually got from it, after some frantic Wikipedia-ing, was that Edith Piaf was fucking awesome. Also a lush and possibly insane. In surprising news, Piaf means 'little sparrow'. Now put that in your pipe and have a chew.

Oh Noes! Poop update

2009-02-15T20:05:00.002Z

Our favourite Vic barwench, Kate C, just rang to tell me that there is a nasty rumour circulating in the Vic that says I made the foul poo and was trying to hide the fact by telling everyone about it! Which is a funny way to go about covering something up.
'Fuck off, no way!' I said, naturally distressed.
'Yeah, Liam had to clean it up, he's gonna start calling you 'Shitgirl' now.'
'That's so unfair! And such a crappy nickname! Anyway, why would I do such a thing? HOW would I do such a thing, that thing was massive!'

This thing has got to stop. I'm making another sign. 'Lucy did not make the poo. Lucy doesn't even poo. The end.'

A Nasty Surprise

2009-02-15T19:31:00.000Z

Last night I found the most disgusting thing in the Vic toilets. It was so disgusting I can't actually tell you about it. It would make you want to die, let me tell you. There it was, ON THE TOILET SEAT, when I lifted the lid. Scandalised, I staggered out of the cubicle and grabbed an innocent girl washing her hands. 'MY GOD,' I panted, 'YOU MUST SEE THIS.' Warily, she allowed me to drag her into the cubicle then she fell about choking when she saw it. 'Oh fuck, that is horrendous!' she shrieked. 'I know!' I shrieked back as another girl came in the door. We, the first girl and I, both grabbed her and said 'You totally gotta see this!' and dragged her into the cubicle. 'Holy sh-' said our new victim. 'I know, right?' exclaimed the first girl, 'and I thought she had just done something she was really proud of and wanted to show it off!' With this she gestured at me and laughed. Ahem.

As they stood around retching and saying 'fucking hell!', I latched onto what little initiative I have not yet managed to drink away and pulled from my bag my trusty notepad and one of the seventeen pens I lug about with me for just such an occasion as this. My two new best buds, girl A and girl B, remarked on my quick thinking. Popping the piece of gum I had been chewing from my mouth, I leaned over and affixed my sign: 'DO NOT USE - TOTALLY GROSS' to the cubicle door. 'Ew', said girl A, 'did you just take gum out of your mouth and stick it to the door?' 'That is fucking disgusting' agreed girl B and the two of them hightailed it from the bathrooms, leaving me standing there sticking a sign over a bathroom full of shit.

I'm having an okay week. Thus far...

2009-01-22T22:58:00.004Z

This afternoon I stood in the centre of the canteen and enacted an amusing anecdote to my coworkers, using all my bodily grace and expressive talents. Actually I was imitating a guy with a funny walk I had seen that morning. It was HILARIOUS. MOVING. Then I noticed Carmel was staring at my chest. No biggie. Happens, let me tell you, all the time.
'Carmel, why are you staring at my chest?' She feigned ignorance. 'Is it the black stuff on my top? Yeah, I dunno where that came from. Hilarious how filthy I look really, isn't it?'

'Actually I was wondering how you got coffee all over yourself so fast,' she said, 'I mean, you've only just made a cup of coffee and you've got, what, four coffee smears on your clothes. Like, what?'

It's difficult to understand, if you know me only through my graceful prose, but I am an extremely clumsy person. Some might call me 'awkward'. I hope you can find it in your heart to think it merely adorable. I can pick up a box of perfectly clean, new books, direct from the suppliers, and by the time I put it down again I will have black smut all over me and my cardigan is missing two buttons. Also, my shoe has fallen into the box. And there's a feather in my hair. How? WHO KNOWS.

I am a slapstick's dream. I have, on more than one occassion, walked into signposts and streetlights. I have closed car doors on my foot, fingers and head. I can, and have, pick up a tray or a plate of something and there it is two seconds later, upside down on the ground. There is not a smooth, unfissured path in existence that I cannot fall down on. Don't even think about putting me in high heels. I could kill somebody! If I am dining out somewhere and I am eating something dry, like crackers, and my dining partner is eating something not dry, say tomato soup, it is entirely IMPOSSIBLE that I will get up from the table without tomato smears all over my clothing. It just won't happen.

Once, I helped a friend who ran an art gallery to clean up after an opening and I broke six wine glasses. SIX. From a box of 30. That, quite frankly, is amazing. Governments should employ me to work for their enemies. I could lean over enemy war crafts or WMDs, or whatever it is the bad guys are working on nowadays, mumbling 'Woah, what does that yoke do...' and WHAM. My watch has fallen deep into the workings and the baddies are running around shrieking. Yeah! Take that, justice!

If ya like it then ya shoulda put a ring on it

2008-12-14T20:02:00.001Z

What do I want for Christmas? Little ol' me? Why, nothing! World peace and harmony maybe, or universal suffrage. And a surprise. Naw, seriously. I'm easy to buy for, I like everything. Ya wanna know what all the kids are getting this year? Engagement rings. Srsly. And alarmingly longsighted wedding plans. 2010? Ya know what happens in 2010? I'll be 27 first of all, so that'll be a huge downer. Also, trillions of my acquaintances are getting hitched. 2010 my friends? I actually have trouble getting excited about anything that is not happening RIGHT NOW THIS INSTANT so I feel literally nothing regarding your wedding. As my ever-graceful mother said: 'Crikey. 2010? Why, to fuck? I swear to God, I've never had a wedding, nor has your father, and it's looking like neither of ye girls will ever either, but I promise you, if you do, and the way I find out about your engagement IS NOT you ringing me and announcing that your wedding has just taken place in a foreign city somewhere, I SWEAR TO GOD: I'll murder you.'

WTF?

2008-12-10T15:15:00.002Z

"Older meanings of FTW

Years ago, "FTW" used to have a very negative meaning: "f**k the world". This was a term commonly used by social rebels, anarchists and anti-authoritarian types to express frustration with modern society."

This is exactly what I thought it did stand for. Oh.

Wordle.net: Some find it diverting

2008-12-04T18:40:00.004Z

This took me FOREVER to find my favourite one. I find it kinda amusing that the words 'shit', 'Lucy' 'like' and 'seriously' pop up most frequently. Haw-haw, I have no vocabulary! Kinda amusing, not hugely so. I'm not completely dense, despite repeated evidence to the contrary.

A startling new hurdle

2008-11-30T20:48:00.003Z

INTERIOR. Late afternoon. A COMELY MAIDEN dozes on a sofa under a duvet. It is LUCY, heroine of our piece.

PHONE RINGS: Rrrrring! Blip-whirr-click!

LUCY: Bleurg. Hello?
MARIE: Hellllloooo!
LUCY: Ugh.
MARIE: Are you asleep?
LUCY: I was trying to...

M: Well, it's five o'clock, you really shouldn't be.
L: Sigh. I'm terribly tired. I was dreaming...of facebook.
M: Good grief.
L: Yeah. Don't tell anyone.
M: Good night?
L: Very much so. Possibly still drunk.
M: Where is Mags? She's not answering any of her phones.
L: She's probably asleep too, if she knows whats good for her. Also her house has ridiculously bad coverage.
M: Ah-ha.
L: Why did you ring me looking for Mags? I'm not her minder.
M: You were my next choice.
L: I'm flattered.

[LUCY coughs loudly and at length]

M: That's attractive.
L: Thank you. I was saving it for ya. Where are you, standing in the rain? I can hear water noises.
M: The bath.
L: Ah, dude! The bath! Stop fecking ringing me from the bathroom, it's starting to make me uncomfortable.
M: I am very comfortable.
L: I don't doubt it.
M: So...tell me stuff.
L: I couldn't be bothered.

M: I'll tell you stuff so. We did the guest list.
L: For...?
M: My wedding? Like, hello?
L: Seriously? It's in two years dude, you surely won't like the same people in two years as you like now.
M: Yes I will! Anyway, mine comes to 150, and Aled's got 60.
L: Am I invited?
M: Like, duh.
L: On which list? Can I be on both?
M: ...
L: And get two dinners and two chairs? That would be deadly.
M: You'll get no dinner and no chair if you're not careful.
L: Well! That's a lot of people! You don't have 150 friends!
M: Yes I do, and anyway, that's people's 'plus one's aswell.

L: Fuuuuck. Do I get a plus one?
M: Of course!
L: Fuck you. Where am I going to find a plus one? The Internet?
M: Londis Corner?
L: Shit shit shit. Will Sally do? Shit shit shit.
M: Ah now. Dial it down, it's in two years.
L: You're saying there's a possibility I might meet and speak to a member of the opposite sex in the next two years?
M: Of course!
L: You're hopeful.

I verily believe...

2008-11-25T19:13:00.000Z

I verily believe all that is desirable on earth- wealth, reputation, love- will forever to you be the ripe grapes on the high trellis: you'll look up at them; they will tantalize in you the lust of the eye; but they are out of reach: you have not the address to fetch a ladder, and you'll go away calling them sour.

Charlotte Bronte, The Professor (Ch. 22)

Absolute rubbish, but you understand?

2008-10-25T16:58:00.006+01:00

Once, my car broke down on the road from Kilmeaden at something like eight-thirty at night. One minute I was driving through the night: smoking furiously and singing along to the Kings of Leon, probably- the next moment everything was pitch black and the dank country swirled bleakly in my ears. Apparently, something moved on the battery and the car just died, cutting out instantly and trickling to a stop in a ditch. That's all very well and good, and I'm glad we all know the mechanics of the situation, but at the time, as my breath froze and darkness slammed into my eyes, I quite calmly responded by putting my fingers to my throat to check for my pulse. Yes; when faced with sudden unanswerable quandaries and shifts in my surroundings, I just assume: why yes, I am dead. That is the only logical answer.

Today, powered only by the shameful thrust of my hangover and litres of toothpaste, I half slumped, half drifted through the day, surrounded by goons and fools, badgering me about the various hundred things wrong with their library experience. For a solid hour, I walked around twenty-five PCs and typed the same password in to them all repeatedly. Futile you may say, and I'd have to agree with you. The public saw it differently though and insisted I keep trying to establish a relationship with the non-responsive Internet. 'But why is it broken?' they sputtered annoyingly, as if I knew the answer. To anything. Ever.

Let me tell you straight off: on a recce of personal days of excellence, today was a write-off. I rocked and I rolled, pointing out the fabulous signage (created by yours truly) explaining the fuck-up in the whole Internet exchange, and finding bizarre, non-existent books without laughing('Pictures of houses of Georgian style, but not actual Georgian houses that were built in a Georgian era nor actual pictures, per say, just an idea because I want to draw my daughter a picture. No no, that will not do: do you not have a book on 'So you want to draw your daughter a picture...?' No??') while still pretending to care about the needs of others. I know. Sometimes I exhaust myself with my selflessness. But the stress! I can't tell you. It was horrendous. I was LITERALLY counting the hours until I could have a vodka. So there I was, serving the public and then... Then- all outta nowhere- a plaintive violin starts up from beneath me and suddenly FLASH FLASH FLASH

Did you feel death over your pale shoulder near the end of the last paragraph? Because, by God, I did. 'Woah', I said to Yvonne, who chose that time to wander the room: I placed my hands palm down on the desk and looked about wildly. 'Did you see that too or did the world just end?'

Yvonne stopped dead and stared at me. She looked at the ceiling, quite seriously. Then she considered the walls, the floor, the windows. 'No' she said, vehemently. 'No, I don't think so.' I checked my pulse, quite seriously. 'Nah,' I said, 'I think we're okay for now.'

Holy cow, but. Turns out it was an exhibition launch two floors down. The plaintive sawing of death was actually the sound of a pretentious pre-exhibition strum; the flashing lights merely the lights of our esteemed local press taking rabid photos.

All the same, I think you can understand why I was perturbed.

Leading you whores to culture

2008-10-22T20:13:00.007+01:00

Do you like art? I know I do. Other things I like: websites, boats, sunsets, redheads. Uh-oh, excuse me: strawberry-blonde heads. I can feel your vehement nods over the information super-highway: I like those things too, you say! Well, what if I told you there was a place you could go to meet all your needs? Now there is!

It's called kensmith.ie, a veritable paradise for all you eclectic boat & art lovers out there. There you can paddle about in all your art-loving glory, doing your arty...things. In addition to painting pictures, our pal Ken enjoys building fabulous websites like this in his spare time. I know what you're going to say: too much spare time. I don't want to be a bitch or anything, but Ken is clearly missing some of the essential criteria for website creation, ie. funny video clips, drunken photography, blatant self-love and interactive quizzes. Bebo isn't a hit for nothing, Ken.

All the same, did Van Gogh have a website? No. Did Rembrandt, Monet, Rolf Harris? NO! Did any of these people have friends as famous as me to leach internet fame off? I THINK NOT.

Magical Evenings in Waterford City

2008-10-18T18:45:00.005+01:00

The other evening, after another day's hard slog serving the public, I was sat waiting for my bus. It was 8.15 at night and darkish and chilly. In an effort to warm up I took to chain smoking. It was a poor idea, born of pure laziness. Slugging from my bottle of Fanta, I raised my eyes from the dull stream of passing cars and they were arrested by the twitching of a net curtain in a first-floor flat across the road. Idly I watched as the curtains were parted by hands and a man came into view, slight in build and wearing a red hoodie. His head, coronaed by the lamp behind it, bent towards the glass of the pane as he peered into the street below. Was he waiting for someone? I wondered, idly. 'Wouldn't it be nice if my bus turned up early' and 'I wonder if that is dried vomit on the bin' were some of the other thoughts that flitted through my head at the time. As I said, idle wonderings.

It came on me, all a-sudden, like a snail attack: his face wasn't scanning the path or the street. His gaze was fixed directly across the road. At me. Does he know he's staring straight at someone? I wondered, a little less idly this time. Really I was getting a bit peeved by now. It is extremely blatant, when doing some idle people-watching, to spy continuously on one lone soul by the bus stop outside your house. Frankly, I'd call that staring. Huff. I pointedly gazed down the road, indicating my absolute disinterest in his actions.

The curtains closed. Well good, I thought; about time. Now where was my bus? A black couple walked up to the bustop and sat down fifteen feet away, inside the shelter, and began speaking French so I had a crack at eavesdropping. Was that 'Je pense'? I know what that means! God, I'm so good at French, I can practically-

The curtains were drawn wide open now and I saw, with virtually no response that the red hoodied man had opened his belt. My mind still crackled with French as I saw the buckle hanging low down his trouser leg: Oh, he's taking his belt off, I realised. I was slowly losing my place in the conversation as I noticed his hands move to the button of his fly and slowly start to peel open buttons, flattening the flap of jeans against the waistband, his hands moving towards each other. Oh, I was wrong, he's taking his cock out, I corrected myself.

Abruptly, not knowing why I did it, I stood up and walked briskly towards the couple in the shelter. They looked up when I sat down right beside them: Do we know her? These Irish, they are friendly! they thought as I shivered melodramatically and grinned: Trop froid, non?

Troubles and Trials

2008-10-17T09:25:00.009+01:00

I've lost my white plastic bangle! What do you mean 'what white plastic bangle?'? My white plastic bangle that is somewhat related to the excellent plastic bangles for charity that everybody likes to wear. What do you mean, 'nobody has worn plastic bangles for charity since oh, 2000'? I have no idea what you're talking about. I wear a plastic bangle, therefore they are hip and groovy once more. You know what else is hip nowadays? Saying 'groovy'. So says I.

Buzzcocks without Bill

2008-10-12T20:18:00.002+01:00

Do not underestimate the resourcefulness of the Augh

2008-10-07T14:42:00.002+01:00

Yes, that is a log.

I broke my bed

2008-10-02T22:07:00.000+01:00

Not through frenzied pillow fights or anything remotely fun. No. I broke it by getting in it one night. 'Why doesn't she lay off those tuna melts and chocolate n' cheese based edibles' I hear you moan. Oh, grow up, I didn't break it with my arse. I am a sturdy and well-built young lady, 'tis true, but I am not remotely near to bed-breaking capacity yet. I blame faulty bed engineering. See that white plastic thing? That was the only support for the middle part of the bed for all these years. Bizarrely, it has stayed put but all the surrounding timbers have given up the ghost. I've been sleeping on what is essentially a precarious hammock for the past three nights because I am too lazy to do anything about it. But what can I do? Can a carpenter fix it? Do carpenters even exist in these fearsome recessive times? Can I stack things under it to act as a support? But what? Will stacks of books and old magazines do as they are the only things I have to hand? Shall I abandon the frame and turn Japanese, inviting visitors to lounge on my futon with me?

Should I (horrors!) buy a new bed?!

Ce n'est pas gravé

2008-09-25T16:44:00.010+01:00

I am home from France. It is cold here in Ireland. I am covered in mosquito bites including one on my eyelid prompting swelling that threatened the sight in my right eye there for a while. Also threatened: my startling good looks. Do you think anyone gave a shit? Not on your life. 'Oh, look at my eye, I am like that Hey you guys dude from the Goonies! Or maybe Paris Hilton, I don't know how bad it's gonna get.' Blank stares is all I got. Not an iota of sympathy, despite the fact that I now could not attempt to seduce the pool man, generally agreed to be the most handsome man in all France and evidently the richest if he can charge that much for 15 minutes work.

I was mislead about my holiday; I thought it was your typical French getaway, occasional swims and forays into local villages the only things to punctuate long spells of sunbathing, reading and lazing in hammocks. In fact it was a working holiday, and I was regularly spun from my book-reading, hammock-snoozing daze to sweep, dust, weed the garden and skim the pool.

I need hardly tell you that I would have thought twice on going on this free holiday if I'd known there would be any work involved. My excessive sleeping habits were commented on at least twice in the last six days, my ability to eat everything around me mocked at least once. And that's not the half of it: suspicious rumblings went round like warm cake when I was found to be hiding in the pool whenever something heavy wanted lifting down stairs.

'Good God, I cannot take these constant attacks!' I screamed but no one was around to hear me because I was in a seven bedroom villa in the South-West of France. 'How am I supposed to live in these conditions?' I asked of my only true friend, but he couldn't reply as he was only an empty champagne bottle, so I tossed him into a shrub and opened another. 'What is there left to enjoy of a persecuted life?' I wept miserably to the fields of sunflowers that rolled over the horizon.