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Friday, October 29, 2004
I Cant Stand the Rain
God, it's wet. I am not really a person who minds the rain in general, mainly because I don't spend nearly enough time on my appearance to care about it getting spoilt, but also because I am quiet a pathetic soul at heart and crave the kind empathy one can share with a bus shelter full of equally wet people. Also I am not much of a conversationalist and relish the weather playing up so I can bellow cheerfully about it to acquaintances and co-workers in lieu of actual attempts at small talk. But this isn't about me. It's about you!
Or whoever posted that mildly insulting comment here the other day. I stumped home merrily in the rain last night, the property section of the Indo held over my head to avoid drowning and to provide a marker for my rescuers should I happen to tumble down a drain. After arriving home and cleaning the newsprint off my forehead, I waited patiently for young Aoife to wander in with young Grainne, both of whom have decided that Thursday night is now 'Lucy night'. 'Lucy night' consists of getting slightly jarred and laughing derisively at Lucy for the entire evening. Wonderful fun, tickets available at the door.
I hate rain competitiveness. 'We got soaked!' gasped Aoife, falling in the door an hour later.
'So did I.' I groused.
'We had to walk out in the road to avoid a massive puddle and almost got killed by passing cars!' said Grainne proudly.
'I fell into a puddle and started screaming "fuck!" at it, really loudly and this old lady gave me a dirty look!' I countered.
'We got drenched by a bus!'
'Two buses!'
'Three, and we nearly dropped the vodka!'
I gave up. Sometimes the sign of a true victor is in knowing when you're beat. Or something equally life-affirming.
'Someone posted a really mean comment on my blog today.' I announced sadly a short while later. Gra and Aoife glanced up from their pint glasses of vodka and coke.
'Really? What did it say?'
'Something about me being an insulting bitch. And pious, for some reason.'
'Pious? You? Hardly!'
'Yeah, that's what I thought.'
'You should write back and abuse them and tell them to keep their nose out of your fucking blog!' advised Gra.
'That' I said regally. 'Would be lowering myself to their level.'
'Ahh.' They said, and nodded appreciatively and looked on me with awe.
Yeah right. More like stared at me for a moment before returning their attention to their glasses. I sighed internally and went back to trying to stick post-its to my eyelids. I know my place.
Or whoever posted that mildly insulting comment here the other day. I stumped home merrily in the rain last night, the property section of the Indo held over my head to avoid drowning and to provide a marker for my rescuers should I happen to tumble down a drain. After arriving home and cleaning the newsprint off my forehead, I waited patiently for young Aoife to wander in with young Grainne, both of whom have decided that Thursday night is now 'Lucy night'. 'Lucy night' consists of getting slightly jarred and laughing derisively at Lucy for the entire evening. Wonderful fun, tickets available at the door.
I hate rain competitiveness. 'We got soaked!' gasped Aoife, falling in the door an hour later.
'So did I.' I groused.
'We had to walk out in the road to avoid a massive puddle and almost got killed by passing cars!' said Grainne proudly.
'I fell into a puddle and started screaming "fuck!" at it, really loudly and this old lady gave me a dirty look!' I countered.
'We got drenched by a bus!'
'Two buses!'
'Three, and we nearly dropped the vodka!'
I gave up. Sometimes the sign of a true victor is in knowing when you're beat. Or something equally life-affirming.
'Someone posted a really mean comment on my blog today.' I announced sadly a short while later. Gra and Aoife glanced up from their pint glasses of vodka and coke.
'Really? What did it say?'
'Something about me being an insulting bitch. And pious, for some reason.'
'Pious? You? Hardly!'
'Yeah, that's what I thought.'
'You should write back and abuse them and tell them to keep their nose out of your fucking blog!' advised Gra.
'That' I said regally. 'Would be lowering myself to their level.'
'Ahh.' They said, and nodded appreciatively and looked on me with awe.
Yeah right. More like stared at me for a moment before returning their attention to their glasses. I sighed internally and went back to trying to stick post-its to my eyelids. I know my place.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
Lucy's Guide to Living
Having spent most of the morning in quiet meditation on life and other stuff [other stuff being the reading of The Phoenix and the review section of the Independent from cover-to-cover; this gig is a job in name only], I have come up with a new approach to life. Not merely a set of guidelines, this philosophy for living is so all-inclusive as to be practically a religion. I, naturally, am head and greatest prophet of my new-formed religion. Not too bad for a Tuesday morning!
Up to now, brothers and sisters, I have led a life that could be kindly classified as misguided. If I had a mantra, it could best be described as 'Do whatever you want as long as you can tell funny stories about it at parties'. But like many lost souls, I had to hit rock-bottom to find my way to the top again. Rock bottom came for me as I stood in the Baldy on Saturday night, watching the scenes of revelry and drunken debauchery that is a Saturday night in any licensed premises in Ireland revolve around me. Is this it? I questioned, somewhat in the manner of the Strokes, although less musically adept. Realizing I had reached a crucial stage in my life, I felt it necessary to confirm my suspicions by getting drunk again on Sunday night. Yes, I ascertained, I had been correct in my previous assumption; I was in fact experiencing a spiritual epiphany.
Spiritual epiphanies can be rather tricky to detect. Speaking from my own experience, I can tell you that they feel uncannily like standing up suddenly or like having a few drinks and no dinner. In other words, unusually, unnaturally woozy, rather light-headed and a little nauseous. Mine left me hungover and in desperate need for change in my life. And so I formulated my new credo.
1: Give up drink
2: Give up chocolate and crisps
3: Take long walks every evening to ponder one's life
4: Instead of internally cursing and thinking up ways to painfully murder anyone who skips ahead of me in the queue for the bus, think calming thoughts and radiate inner tranquility
5: Reflect on the joys of housework and spend evenings cleaning parts of home instead of lying on couch watching telly while painting fingernails with yellow highlighter
6: Decide what I wish to do with life, so that, when people ask me 'What's next for you, Lucy?', I will have something to say other than 'Marry a rich man' while laughing feebly
7: Spend more time with friends, even the boring ones like Marie
8: Eat sensible and nutrional meals, instead of starving self until 8pm at night because 'am not very hungry', then gorging oneself on crisps and chocolate. Give up crisps and chocolate entirely. Have I said that already? Mean it this time
9: Read more poetry. Listening to rap doesn't count, even if it does rhyme
10: Buy less books. Instead, join library and read classics. And not just rereading parts of Pride and Prejudice with Mr Darcy in and other books where I quite fancy main male character (ie. Dobbin in Vanity Fair; Sebastian Flyte [despite implied homosexuality] in Brideshead Revisited; Sherlock Holmes; Peter Wimsey in Gaudy Night [and yes, I am aware that it is silly to classify detective fiction as classics!])
11: Practice guitar playing. Saturday night's very public display of misguided narcissim with Gary Kent's guitar was dismal
12: Study for Driver Theory test. Must pass. Anyone want to lend me a book on it?
13: Rinse out drink cans and plastic bottles before putting them in recycling bin instead of burying them under a load of old newspapers.
14: Alter smoking habits until I can stomach the taste of the weird menthol ones Janine smokes. They smell really healthy and minty. Pity the are so vile
15: Learn to spell properly as cannot rely on Word's spellcheck forever
16: Watch intellectual documentaries and educational news programmes on telly, instead of stupid reality shows on MTV and semi-pornographic music videos on TRL
17: Drink more green tea as is apparently cleansing
Seventeen steps to happiness and inner fulfillment! Enriching, I'm sure we all agree. Actually, I just came up with these right now because even though I went to Eason's at lunch, I was unfortunately scared away from the self-help section by the fearsome amount of absolute losers pawing desperately at the shelves. Uh oh;
18: Be less judgmental. Instead, love all mankind. Except Pat Kenny, naturellement
Anyway, I wandered instead into the poetry section and very nearly bought another book of Christina Rosetti poems. Seeing as I have lost two books of her poems already and I only buy them because I am looking for one poem that I can't remember the title of and I am severely strapped in the cash department, I should really know better. Unsurprisingly however, I don't.
Up to now, brothers and sisters, I have led a life that could be kindly classified as misguided. If I had a mantra, it could best be described as 'Do whatever you want as long as you can tell funny stories about it at parties'. But like many lost souls, I had to hit rock-bottom to find my way to the top again. Rock bottom came for me as I stood in the Baldy on Saturday night, watching the scenes of revelry and drunken debauchery that is a Saturday night in any licensed premises in Ireland revolve around me. Is this it? I questioned, somewhat in the manner of the Strokes, although less musically adept. Realizing I had reached a crucial stage in my life, I felt it necessary to confirm my suspicions by getting drunk again on Sunday night. Yes, I ascertained, I had been correct in my previous assumption; I was in fact experiencing a spiritual epiphany.
Spiritual epiphanies can be rather tricky to detect. Speaking from my own experience, I can tell you that they feel uncannily like standing up suddenly or like having a few drinks and no dinner. In other words, unusually, unnaturally woozy, rather light-headed and a little nauseous. Mine left me hungover and in desperate need for change in my life. And so I formulated my new credo.
1: Give up drink
2: Give up chocolate and crisps
3: Take long walks every evening to ponder one's life
4: Instead of internally cursing and thinking up ways to painfully murder anyone who skips ahead of me in the queue for the bus, think calming thoughts and radiate inner tranquility
5: Reflect on the joys of housework and spend evenings cleaning parts of home instead of lying on couch watching telly while painting fingernails with yellow highlighter
6: Decide what I wish to do with life, so that, when people ask me 'What's next for you, Lucy?', I will have something to say other than 'Marry a rich man' while laughing feebly
7: Spend more time with friends, even the boring ones like Marie
8: Eat sensible and nutrional meals, instead of starving self until 8pm at night because 'am not very hungry', then gorging oneself on crisps and chocolate. Give up crisps and chocolate entirely. Have I said that already? Mean it this time
9: Read more poetry. Listening to rap doesn't count, even if it does rhyme
10: Buy less books. Instead, join library and read classics. And not just rereading parts of Pride and Prejudice with Mr Darcy in and other books where I quite fancy main male character (ie. Dobbin in Vanity Fair; Sebastian Flyte [despite implied homosexuality] in Brideshead Revisited; Sherlock Holmes; Peter Wimsey in Gaudy Night [and yes, I am aware that it is silly to classify detective fiction as classics!])
11: Practice guitar playing. Saturday night's very public display of misguided narcissim with Gary Kent's guitar was dismal
12: Study for Driver Theory test. Must pass. Anyone want to lend me a book on it?
13: Rinse out drink cans and plastic bottles before putting them in recycling bin instead of burying them under a load of old newspapers.
14: Alter smoking habits until I can stomach the taste of the weird menthol ones Janine smokes. They smell really healthy and minty. Pity the are so vile
15: Learn to spell properly as cannot rely on Word's spellcheck forever
16: Watch intellectual documentaries and educational news programmes on telly, instead of stupid reality shows on MTV and semi-pornographic music videos on TRL
17: Drink more green tea as is apparently cleansing
Seventeen steps to happiness and inner fulfillment! Enriching, I'm sure we all agree. Actually, I just came up with these right now because even though I went to Eason's at lunch, I was unfortunately scared away from the self-help section by the fearsome amount of absolute losers pawing desperately at the shelves. Uh oh;
18: Be less judgmental. Instead, love all mankind. Except Pat Kenny, naturellement
Anyway, I wandered instead into the poetry section and very nearly bought another book of Christina Rosetti poems. Seeing as I have lost two books of her poems already and I only buy them because I am looking for one poem that I can't remember the title of and I am severely strapped in the cash department, I should really know better. Unsurprisingly however, I don't.
Monday morning blues on a Tuesday
I have just spent the last ten minutes wandering around in the cold loading bay behind my building waiting for some kind hearted smoker to let me in or out. I went out to put newspapers in the recycling bin and it was with a shudder of bitter resignation that I heard the cold click of the emergency door behind me. I have been waiting all weekend for something like this to happen to me. You see, I deserve this. I deserve to be stuck wandering around tips mid-morning in the freezing cold with no coat, because I am a vile, despicable alcoholic.
Dodging quickly through an open gate as a delivery van reversed in, I slunk back to the front of my building, ignoring the odd glances from passers-by at my coatless state. As I trudged wearily past the drunks and junkies on the dubious corner of Marlborough Place, I considered grimly my lot. I am poor. Broke, would be more correct actually. I am tired. I look a state. And I am constantly guilty. All these are symptoms of my one fatal flaw [one?!]:the demon drink. Being tired and looking a state are easily understandable physical side-effects; being broke is the unfortunate financial consequence of drinking to excess. Continuous, crushing guilt and shame is my own unique addition to this fearsome condition, and unhappily, the most adherent of alcohol-related side-effects.
Guilt is the sick feeling the morning after, which you know probably isn't a hangover, when you first encounter your mother as you stumble down the stairs. The steely look in her eye says it all; the only question is which misdemeanor is she pissed off about? The noise you made coming in at all hours last night? The state you left her kitchen in making yourself a late-night snack? The leaves you picked off trees on your way home and left strewn across the hallway with your shoes, handbag and a small fortune in copper coins? A veritable mystery, I think we can agree.
Shame comes later, with the enquiring text messages and phone calls mid-morning. Did you make it home last night? Do you remember what you said to so-and-so? Do you recall demonstrating your Beyonce-esque grind in the middle of the bar? No?! How much did you have to drink?! And so on. Shame lingers rather longer, mainly as your mother can be left behind at home when you head back up to Dublin, but the vague cloudy memories of your behavior, sadly, cannot.
I confess that I probably encourage such behaviour. After all, what would you talk to people about if you didn't behave badly on weekends and regret it bitterly for the rest of the week? Actually, guilt and a misguided sense of obligation is just about all that gets me up in the morning. That and Aoife banging noisily round the room. This, I conclude, is a very negative way to live. I need a new, more positive central core to my life. I plan on heading to Eason's on my lunch and swotting up in the self-help section. I may adopt a mantra. Please join me later, when I will have worked out my new plan later which I will gladly share with all. My love is your love, and so on.
Either that or I will just retire to a bar and get sloshed. Tricky one, that.
Dodging quickly through an open gate as a delivery van reversed in, I slunk back to the front of my building, ignoring the odd glances from passers-by at my coatless state. As I trudged wearily past the drunks and junkies on the dubious corner of Marlborough Place, I considered grimly my lot. I am poor. Broke, would be more correct actually. I am tired. I look a state. And I am constantly guilty. All these are symptoms of my one fatal flaw [one?!]:the demon drink. Being tired and looking a state are easily understandable physical side-effects; being broke is the unfortunate financial consequence of drinking to excess. Continuous, crushing guilt and shame is my own unique addition to this fearsome condition, and unhappily, the most adherent of alcohol-related side-effects.
Guilt is the sick feeling the morning after, which you know probably isn't a hangover, when you first encounter your mother as you stumble down the stairs. The steely look in her eye says it all; the only question is which misdemeanor is she pissed off about? The noise you made coming in at all hours last night? The state you left her kitchen in making yourself a late-night snack? The leaves you picked off trees on your way home and left strewn across the hallway with your shoes, handbag and a small fortune in copper coins? A veritable mystery, I think we can agree.
Shame comes later, with the enquiring text messages and phone calls mid-morning. Did you make it home last night? Do you remember what you said to so-and-so? Do you recall demonstrating your Beyonce-esque grind in the middle of the bar? No?! How much did you have to drink?! And so on. Shame lingers rather longer, mainly as your mother can be left behind at home when you head back up to Dublin, but the vague cloudy memories of your behavior, sadly, cannot.
I confess that I probably encourage such behaviour. After all, what would you talk to people about if you didn't behave badly on weekends and regret it bitterly for the rest of the week? Actually, guilt and a misguided sense of obligation is just about all that gets me up in the morning. That and Aoife banging noisily round the room. This, I conclude, is a very negative way to live. I need a new, more positive central core to my life. I plan on heading to Eason's on my lunch and swotting up in the self-help section. I may adopt a mantra. Please join me later, when I will have worked out my new plan later which I will gladly share with all. My love is your love, and so on.
Either that or I will just retire to a bar and get sloshed. Tricky one, that.
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
What not to Wear: Crooked fringes, less than two coats and ponchos
I have made a terrible mistake. Last night, in an inexplicably idle and reckless state of mind I happened upon a pair of scissors lying on the dressing table in my room. Hmmm, I pondered, my fringe was looking a bit straggley recently. And so I cut my fringe. Lying on my bed, in the near dark. With such background elements, the outcome was never going to be good. A wiser person might suspect self-hating elements repressed in my psyche, but I know the truth; I am thick. Asymmetrics are back in this year, right?
On a happier note, I have recently discovered the secret to staying warm in winter. Staying in bed all day, ha ha. No, seriously though; wear two coats! I t's easy and a whole lot cheaper than having to buy a new winter coat! The benefits are numerous- you get more pocket space, more padding against unruly passers-by who jog up against you as they brush past and don't forget, the always excellent more-places-to-conceal-items-you-have-stolen-from-the-office-stationary-room. Brilliant, absolutely brilliant.
Apparently, ponchos are the new black. As in common, ubiquitous and slimming (hang on a second...!). God, I hate them. They are right up there on my Top Five Most Hated Woolen Items EVER, nudging matching hat, gloves and scarf sets out of the top spot. But I am part of Generation Y, the generation who embraces change and pursues compromise! So, if you must wear horrid woolen items, I merely advise you accessorise accordingly! With a poncho, the correct accoutrements are a sombrero and some tequila; with matching hats and scarves, facial hair and a job at Santa's grotto is recommended. Heed my words, friends and you shall not go awry!
On a happier note, I have recently discovered the secret to staying warm in winter. Staying in bed all day, ha ha. No, seriously though; wear two coats! I t's easy and a whole lot cheaper than having to buy a new winter coat! The benefits are numerous- you get more pocket space, more padding against unruly passers-by who jog up against you as they brush past and don't forget, the always excellent more-places-to-conceal-items-you-have-stolen-from-the-office-stationary-room. Brilliant, absolutely brilliant.
Apparently, ponchos are the new black. As in common, ubiquitous and slimming (hang on a second...!). God, I hate them. They are right up there on my Top Five Most Hated Woolen Items EVER, nudging matching hat, gloves and scarf sets out of the top spot. But I am part of Generation Y, the generation who embraces change and pursues compromise! So, if you must wear horrid woolen items, I merely advise you accessorise accordingly! With a poncho, the correct accoutrements are a sombrero and some tequila; with matching hats and scarves, facial hair and a job at Santa's grotto is recommended. Heed my words, friends and you shall not go awry!
Friday, October 15, 2004
No Regrets
Oh, sweet Jesus. I am still drunk. I just stuck my tongue out at someone. IN WORK!! I stuck my tongue out at someone I work with. I don't know what came over me. Five pints of fat frogs last night, maybe. I am such a lush.
Went to a lovely place last night, called Barcode, which is over a swimming pool. Felt very swish walking in over the pool, very Dallas. No, I don't know why swimming pools remind me of Dallas, they just do, okay?! The Dallas effect was slightly ruined by the boys making me run even though my left shoe kept falling off and I was crying plaintively 'wait, wait, don't run!'. Bastards. That and the ludicrously coloured beverage in my hand at all times. Did you know mixers and cocktails only came into vogue during prohibition era in America when spirits had to be disguised to avoid prosecution? Interesting...
Went to a lovely place last night, called Barcode, which is over a swimming pool. Felt very swish walking in over the pool, very Dallas. No, I don't know why swimming pools remind me of Dallas, they just do, okay?! The Dallas effect was slightly ruined by the boys making me run even though my left shoe kept falling off and I was crying plaintively 'wait, wait, don't run!'. Bastards. That and the ludicrously coloured beverage in my hand at all times. Did you know mixers and cocktails only came into vogue during prohibition era in America when spirits had to be disguised to avoid prosecution? Interesting...
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Social Regression
As I write, this sixty or so of my colleagues are up the hall working hard to get drunk and eat as much pizza as they can. This orgy of consumption has been prompted by the company launching a new website, something I knew nothing about until the other day. That shows you how involved in my work environment I am. Why am I not at this reception?
Either,
a) I have a strong work ethic, or
b) No-one likes me and I have no-one to talk to.
SIGH! Guess which one it is? I did go up for a while, slugged back one little glass of vinegary wine and stood by the bin, but really, I can't say I enjoyed it. The pizza didnt even look nice. All the toppings were those posh ones that no-one likes- pineapple, cajun chicken and mushroom. So there's boxes of the stuff sitting up there still, as everyone devotes themselves tirelessly to the wine and beer. Lovely.
God, I'm such a loser. What am I doing down here, seriously? The problem is it is very difficult to return to a party if you have already left. Shows defeat, really. Then again, nobody notices me anyway so I could just sit under a table and get locked on the free booze. God, I'm pathetic.
Either,
a) I have a strong work ethic, or
b) No-one likes me and I have no-one to talk to.
SIGH! Guess which one it is? I did go up for a while, slugged back one little glass of vinegary wine and stood by the bin, but really, I can't say I enjoyed it. The pizza didnt even look nice. All the toppings were those posh ones that no-one likes- pineapple, cajun chicken and mushroom. So there's boxes of the stuff sitting up there still, as everyone devotes themselves tirelessly to the wine and beer. Lovely.
God, I'm such a loser. What am I doing down here, seriously? The problem is it is very difficult to return to a party if you have already left. Shows defeat, really. Then again, nobody notices me anyway so I could just sit under a table and get locked on the free booze. God, I'm pathetic.
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
A Rose By Any Other Name...
YOUR PORN STAR NAME:
(Name of first pet + street you live on)
Tiger Shanard
YOUR MOVIE STAR NAME:
(first exotic place-name that enters your head + Grandfather's first name)
Kerry Joseph
[...? At a loss for exotic place-names]
YOUR FASHION DESIGNER NAME:
(First word you see on your left + favourite restaurant)
Russian Romanos
"FLY GIRL" ALIAS (a.k.a J. Lo):
(First Initial + First Two or Three Letters of your Last Name)
L. Aug
ICON ALIAS:
(Something Sweet Within Sight + Any Liquid in Kitchen)
Banana Milk
DETECTIVE ALIAS:
(Favorite Baby Animal + Where You Went to High School)
Puppy Stella Maris
[Seriously, I have to have a favourite baby animal? I have trouble picking out socks in the morning!]
BARFLY ALIAS:
(Last Snack Food You Ate + Your Favorite Alcoholic Drink)
Taytos Heineken
[Now, that one rocks!]
SOAP OPERA ALIAS:
(Middle Name + Street Where You First Lived)
Sarah Priest
ROCK STAR ALIAS:
(Favorite Candy + Last Name Of Favorite Musician)
WineGums O'Connor (!)
(Name of first pet + street you live on)
Tiger Shanard
YOUR MOVIE STAR NAME:
(first exotic place-name that enters your head + Grandfather's first name)
Kerry Joseph
[...? At a loss for exotic place-names]
YOUR FASHION DESIGNER NAME:
(First word you see on your left + favourite restaurant)
Russian Romanos
"FLY GIRL" ALIAS (a.k.a J. Lo):
(First Initial + First Two or Three Letters of your Last Name)
L. Aug
ICON ALIAS:
(Something Sweet Within Sight + Any Liquid in Kitchen)
Banana Milk
DETECTIVE ALIAS:
(Favorite Baby Animal + Where You Went to High School)
Puppy Stella Maris
[Seriously, I have to have a favourite baby animal? I have trouble picking out socks in the morning!]
BARFLY ALIAS:
(Last Snack Food You Ate + Your Favorite Alcoholic Drink)
Taytos Heineken
[Now, that one rocks!]
SOAP OPERA ALIAS:
(Middle Name + Street Where You First Lived)
Sarah Priest
ROCK STAR ALIAS:
(Favorite Candy + Last Name Of Favorite Musician)
WineGums O'Connor (!)
Monday, October 11, 2004
Conclusive evidence
Finally! Just when I had lost all faith in the world due to recent disappointments (Cian O'Connor, Brian and Kerry and the death of Superman), some good news appears on the horizon. Almost makes getting out of bed when its still dark outside and forcing one's sensitive bed-warmed flesh into the icy morning air worth it. Almost.
Thursday, October 07, 2004
My name's fat frog and I live in a swamp...
Fat frogs. Very bad things. So bad they're good, even. So bad, they linger blurrily in your mind and on your furry tasting teeth for twenty-four hours after consumption, their strange greenish-blue hue an ever present smear on your retina. I distinctly recall dropping one (a fat frog, not a retina. I would definitely recall dropping a retina. ), hopefully one of Annies, laughing hysterically, and buying two more. That is the logic fat frogs forces you to embrace.
In other news, I am hopefully, due in the main to repeated bullying from Annie, on my way to a new job. A very lovely man in a recruitment agency has promised me this and I see no reason to doubt him. This forecasted development was my ostensible excuse for acting disgracefully and without inhibitions last night. That, and the joyous news that Grainne W., intrepid traveller of North America's finest establishments, has returned to the fold almost two weeks earlier than she was expected. Hurrah! I predict a repeat of last night's drama on the weekend when Gra is unveiled to her adoring fans in the hospitible interior of The Baldy Man, Tramore. Splendid stuff!
Speaking of splendid stuff, check out the Splendidiser on the website of Stephen Fry's adaption of Waugh's Vile Bodies, Bright Young Things. Simply too, too divine, darling.
In other news, I am hopefully, due in the main to repeated bullying from Annie, on my way to a new job. A very lovely man in a recruitment agency has promised me this and I see no reason to doubt him. This forecasted development was my ostensible excuse for acting disgracefully and without inhibitions last night. That, and the joyous news that Grainne W., intrepid traveller of North America's finest establishments, has returned to the fold almost two weeks earlier than she was expected. Hurrah! I predict a repeat of last night's drama on the weekend when Gra is unveiled to her adoring fans in the hospitible interior of The Baldy Man, Tramore. Splendid stuff!
Speaking of splendid stuff, check out the Splendidiser on the website of Stephen Fry's adaption of Waugh's Vile Bodies, Bright Young Things. Simply too, too divine, darling.
Friday, October 01, 2004
Series of Unfortunate Events
Out December 17th, starring Jim Carrey, Billy Connolly and a load of kids. Smashing stuff.
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