Trouble Ahead?

Burt, it would seem, does not embrace the particular brand of joie de vivre we cherish so dearly in our house. On Friday night, on the dancefloor at Break for the Border he announced he was moving out. 'I'm moving in with Gary and the lads on Friday!' he roared over Beyonce's Crazy in Love.
'What?' I screamed back. 'Why?'
'Cos I fucking hate ye! And the house is a dump!'
Eh, hello?
'But... what will I blog about if you go?' I implored.

This did not sway him. I tried the tough approach to get him to stay. I threatened to reveal a piece of information he told me on Thursday night. I will share this with you now in case he kills me and this nugget is lost forever. When Burt saw Braveheart for the first time, aged about fifteen or sixteen, he was so scared he didn't sleep for three days. Braveheart. An historical epic. Also, Notting Hill is his favorite film. Two excellent pieces of blackmail material, one would have thought. Burt ignored me completely, however. Foolish boy. I shall raze his reputation to the ground I vowed and shook my fist angrily at the ceiling of the club.

Later, moved to desperation at the thought of having to cover his rent for the next month, I sat outside his bedroom door after he went to bed and sang Dido's Don't Leave Home. Not a flicker. The stubborn bastard went straight to sleep.

It remains to be seen whether he will move out or not. If he does I plan to stick him with a bill for €103 for the oil, gas and electricity bills. I would have left him off the €3 before Friday night but now my back is most definitely up. Suffer my wrath, Burtenshaw.

A Diversion

Because of recent ruptures in my household, I am unable at present to relate to you any of last night's events until I consult my legal team. Instead I will share with you something entirely irrelevent and frivolous. Lucy's Top Ten Favourite Songs! At the moment, naturally. I reserve the right afforded all women to change my mind at any time I please.

1: Can't Let Go- Lucinda Williams
2: You're Pretty Good Looking (For A Girl)- White Stripes
3: I Wanna Get Married- Nellie McKay
4: Desdemona- From Verdi's Othello
5: Somebody Told Me- The Killers
6: UnWritten- Natasha Bedingfield [I'M SORRY, Ok?]
7: Lonelily- Damien Rice
8: Use Me- Bill Withers
9: Spiral Staircase- Kings of Leon
10: No Cheap Thrill- Suzanne Vega

Now! Doesn't that give you a little more of an insight into the wonder that is Lucy? In fact, if you were a real fan you could make up a mixed tape of all those songs and sit in your room and listen to it and imagine you actually are me. Wow.

Over-Indulgence

On Friday morning Burt got his Christmas bonus from Super Valu, where he works, in the form of €100 worth of shop vouchers. By half six that evening, when I returned from work, my living room was filled [Not exactly filled; it's not that small] with one hundred bottles of Stella Artois. Normal people would have bought some food with their vouchers, perhaps a slab of lager. I personally would have bought twenty jars of gourmet jam. Not our Burt! Why waste money on food when you can buy more beer than you can carry? He is now working his way gradually through the beer lake by having a bottle in his hand at all times. Before we went out on Saturday he and Kellyo drank thirty-one bottles of the stuff. Thirty-one bottles. In two hours. That's fairly impressive in my book.

Blog Visitors: 64

I am climbing the charts! Slowly but surely I am edging up my visitor numbers! Not through anything of my doing, obviously, because I am terrifically lazy and would very much like to become an internet celebrity through someone else's hard work, but it is happening none the less. I expect this is what Girls Aloud felt like when they were going for Christmas number one. And then they were pipped by that crummy Band Aid single! What a con.

Nobody comments though. Don't you know that comments are my lifeline? I understand if my colossal intelligence is intimidating and you really can't think of anything to say that might equal my hilarious anecdotes but please, do comment. Even if it's just a simple 'Lucy- you rock' or 'Lucy- you are the most fabulously lovely creature I have ever seen, can I take you out for a drink? Or, since I am not worthy of your fabulousness, let me post you the money in an envelope and you can buy yourself the drink.' All good things, people.

My sister has developed a slight complex regarding my blog. Having read it once or twice, she has concluded that everything she says is fair-game to be uploaded and shared with the world. Last weekend, while recounting a humiliating romantic disaster she had suffered during the week, she paused eyed me suspiciously and said, 'You're not going to put this in your blog, are you?'
Not likely, I exclaimed. Why would I post about other people when it is obvious that there are sixty-four people out there that like to read about me, and only me? I ask you! The vanity of this girl!

So why no comments, people? Where is the love, as the Black Eyed Peas might say. And Valentines is coming up and all!

A Grievous Error

I have just been appraised of some awful news. RTE's long running soap, Fair City, has no fan-site. Why is this? Are Fair City fans not people too? Do they not deserve a forum where they can meet and mingle with other fans? Or are they desperately sad and ashamed about their Fair City obsession and meet in secret in back-alleys? All good questions, friends. None will be answered by me though, because I am working and have no time to ponder such things.

I mention this only because the other night, while the lovely Aoife and I chowed down at a local eatery we were struck dumb by the sight of one of the actors scoffing white wine and pasta with a blonde at a neighboring table. I'd tell you his name or even that of the lad he plays on the telly but I don't have a clue. [Mark this moment: Lucy admits to not knowing something. This will not happen again.] Naturally, I hot-footed it on to the net the next day to post my sighting on some fan-page's message board. I was toying with working the event into a bit of a drama with me walking up and slapping his face for getting off with his teacher last year and since taking up with her daughter, when I gazed in surprise at the screen. No fan-site! No online shrine to the wonder of Carrigstown! What am I to do? Who can I brag to, if no hapless obsessed fans exist? They must be out there, though. In hiding no doubt, but they are there.

I challenge you all to find a Fair City fan today! Find them and bring them into the light! You have a moral imperative to free this sadly maligned group from their isolation! We shall start our own web community and begin stalking all the actors! Eventually we will become legendary and iconic and we will get all the shit-cool merchandise all the Buffy fans get! I shall see children carrying a Harry Molloy lunch box yet!

God, I'm good. Sometimes the brilliance of my plans sends small shivers down my back. And sometimes I'm just cold.

Uh-Oh

I am now, for the first time in my life, officially in debt to a financial institution. I have just rung up my bank and asked for an overdraft. It was very frightening and I had to take a few deep breaths to get through it, but I managed. The worst part is that I will have to make sure I do not get fired this month or I will not be able to pay it back and the bank will track me down and shoot me in the legs. Naturally I am always trying not to get fired but seeing as there is now an actual life and death reason for not get fired...I'm concerned.

A Confirmed Loser

Oh dear. This morning I took the plunge and installed a blog counter thing. If you can't see it it's down a bit to the right. See it? Don't laugh. It's not my fault I'm still in single digits. It's horribly depressing though. It just sits there and looks at me, reminding me that only four people have visited my blog today, two of whom have been me. The other two are meaningless and transitory as they did not comment nor leave me any sweets. It's so pathetic and needy. I'm thinking of taking it down. Like I needed another thing to fret obsessively over anyway.

Think I'll go off and read this. That might calm my fears of rejection.

What just happened?

Oh. My. God. The boys bought washing-up liquid yesterday. AND WASHED UP. Something is seriously wrong. The world is spinning backwards. The may be plotting something. Watch this space...

Failed Experiments

Last night saw the first official guests arrive at the Lucy Aughney B&B, located in the heart of lush Dublin suburb, Santry. Lucky first-time guests were Ms Margaret O'Neill and Mrs Joanne Gillane (nee O'Neill), vacationing overnight from Tramore. Said Mrs Gillane to questions posed by journalists: 'I knew it was going to be a dump, but seriously: mould in the bathroom? And what's with the weird brown stains on the sofa?'
Said proprietor, feisty Ms Lucy Aughney: 'Bite me.'

Yes, friends, last night I had Mags and her sister to stay. This morning they flew out to Swansea where Mags is interviewing for a course, and if my fiendish plan went correctly, they will never ever return to my home again. Despite early troubles on the way up from Waterford, where Lucy managed to forget where she actually lived and had trouble directing Joanne due to a small problem with telling her right from her left, we arrived fairly unscathed outside the pile of rubble I call home late yesterday evening.
'It's not that bad' declared Joanne kindly. 'I mean, it's got walls and a roof at least.'
'And windows!' helped Mags. 'And a door.'
Wait till you get inside, fools, I thought.

Upon entering, I sped instantly up the stairs with a bottle of cif to clean the bathroom and forbade anyone to enter the kitchen before I had a chance to hide all ketchup and curry stained plates in a press. 'Alright' I announced once I had this done. 'It's not so bad now.' Only to find the girls perched warily in the sitting room surrounded by empty beer cans and congealed taco-fries. Joanne was peering doubtfully at a stain on the couch. 'It's soy sauce!' I insisted. I hurried them back into the car to get something to eat and hissed at the boys to do something about the mess while I was gone. They didn't of course. They hate me.

'Do we have to go back?' asked Joanne sadly as we sat eating chips in the car.
'Yes.' I said sternly. 'It's not so bad, it's only messy really. Like, I don't think you could actually catch anything.'
'It's cos it's a student house, Jo. You're used to more civilized people.' Mags insisted.
'Eh, no, actually, it's not. 'Cos only David is a student, see? The rest of us are normal.'
Joanne looked unimpressed.
'It's 'cos they're boys, Joanne; they're messy by nature. You know the way boys are!'
'My husband was never like that. He's a boy.'
'Yes, but before the civilizing influence of you came into his life, I'm sure he was inclined to leave the odd take away rotting on the coffee table for a few days, hmmm?'

'You and Aoife aren't boys.' Mags pointed out.
'Yes, but we are very busy. And we're teaching the boys a lesson about cleanliness. We're not cleaning till they cop on and clean too.'
'Really? Is it working?'
'Well, we've been teaching them a lesson since November, so....no, probably not.'

Shocking!

Wow! Ashling's gone all pink and girly! Who would have thought it? Wouldn't have taken her for a slanderer though. Slapper.

Score! Bingo!

Misspent life commented on my blog! And Topic Drift has me linked! Ah, the magical nature of the internet that allows me to pretend I have friends!

I'm Torn

There is a helicopter downstairs. I swear to God. My question is, just how did they fly it in here without me noticing? Is there an dastardly kidnapping plot afoot in DIT? Is the president or Bono visiting, and no-one made parking arrangements for their vehicle? Or is it just some stunt they're pulling for tomorrow? I'm torn...

The Highlight of my Week

, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Last night, searching for sewing needles on a stand in EuroSpar, I managed to knock a shelf of tights all over myself. I say shelf, because the tights were not stored according to logical retail practices on hooks and according to size and shade, but instead merely jumbled carelessly on top of each other on a shelf. As the packs containing sherry, nude, calypso, natural, tropical and mediterranian tan rained down on to my unsuspecting head, I let out a peal of madwoman's laughter. Seriously, fellow Spar patrons looked nervously for the nearest exit. This, I thought, is the funniest thing to happen to me all week. And that's a pretty sad way to be.

Verbal Abuse

I have recently become aware of a somewhat upsetting fact. Before I moved into the lovely, if rather shabby home I am now in, the boys made a bet with each other to see who could make me cry first. Aoife, in her usual perceptive way, found this out and called a halt to it before any damage could be done. All the same, I worry that there has been some kind of unofficial recommencement recently. In the past week, I have fled the sitting room five times in an effort to avoid extremely explicit banter. This, admittedly, was unwise. Sensing my discomfort, the boys have stepped up their antics and expanded their vocabulary considerably. Both are already committed fans of the seedy underworld of porn, human perversions and extremely criminal behaviour which features frequently in The Sun and other such rags but the last few days has tested even their limits of imagination and experience.

What began as lewd and demeaning comments whenever a female came on the screen or was mentioned in conversation has degenerated into a foul onslaught of curses, obscene suggestions, gratuitous toilet humour and the passing of gas. 'I love it when she puts her fingers to her temples and sighs, don't you?' chuckled Burt last night at my response to his description of exactly what he would do to Angelina Jolie if he ever got a chance.

This cannot go on. I am not cut out for situations like these. I'm just too much of a lady.

Garfield

Garfield, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Seriously. I am shit hot at this posting images malarky now, aren't I? I expect I could build a computer from scratch now, seeing as I'm so clever and all.

DorothyLSayers

DorothyLSayers, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Emphasizing my extreme, exhalted intelligence, it has only taken me seven months to figure out how to post a photo onto blogger. So? It took Albert Einstein till he was 26 to get published and another two years before he got offered a teaching job. So screw you. You're not a complete failure till you hit 27. That is my newly adopted dogma.

Ladies Don't Squat

There was me thinking Manual lifting would be a breeze. Hardly! Maybe it was because I was sniggering all the way through the talk and trying to make one of the boys laugh by throwing my pen on the ground and making him pick it up, or maybe it's because I am dense and can't do anything right, but the course leader kept picking on me to demonstrate how not to lift things. It's not my fault, I have a natural tendency towards grace and poise and therefore am dis-inclined to squat and stick my elbows out and clutch boxes to my chest. And then she kept pissing me off while talking about the skeletal system. It's all very well to say your spine supports your head and all that, but calling it your 'big, heavy head' and 'heavy arms' and even 'massive vertebrae' just gets my goat. Can we not even maintain any bodily dignity anymore? I feel used.

Vicious Circle

I like to keep notebooks by me at all times. Not that I ever write anything worth reading, but because I have a horrendous memory. Truly awful. Back in November I couldn't find a notebook to write 'pay electricity' in and yesterday we recieved a third and final notice to pay five months worth of bills. See what happens when I have no notebook? See?

Last night some random thought occurred to me as I lay in bed, exiled there due to the boys' insistence on watching darts on the television downstairs and Aoife not being around to scream at them for me, and found I had no notebook to hand. What a to-do! All my notebooks have, at various points, had important things written in them and and then been left, unwisely, in my locker at work where I can never get at them because I forget to look for my key. My umbrella is in there too! And it's lashing out! Woe is me.

So I actually had to get out of bed and search for something to write on. All I could find was the back of a tights packet. Which is why an empty tights packet bearing the words: 'Shoes from cobblers. Buy vodka. Figure out DVD player. Sew button on coat. Buy toothpaste. Buy more tights' fell out of my pocket this morning as I demonstrated lifting to a height this morning at the manual lifting course. This tights packet contains my life. And everyone else at the course saw it. I am undone!

Hurrah!

My bronchitis is gone! All that lingers is an unfortunate hoarseness of the throat which affords me the extremely displeasing sympathy of errant students I attempt to scold. 'Ah!' cried the blonde undergraduate I was extracting a fine from this morning. 'You poor dote! I'm in pain just listening to you!' This will not do. Pity does not command respect. Also, I am starting to sound like a pre-pubescent boy, with my voice wheeling and wavering and cracking at inopportune times. Inopportune times means, in this instance, when you are telling noisy students to shush, or making announcements over the intercom, or singing 50 Cent's Many Men in the staff room thinking you are alone but actually are not. One's gangsta machismo falters slightly when one is suddenly singing in a little girl falsetto.

Good Luck With That

In the year 2005 I resolve to: Get the chick next door pregnant. Get your resolution here

Unappreciated in my own time

Bah. No-one believes I have bronchitis. I tell you, it's true! Last night I overdosed on strepsils before bedtime and had horrible hallucinogenic dreams all night. When my alarm went off this morning I moaned 'this is going to be a rotten day, I can just feel it.' Unfortunately there was no-one around to hear me so my forecast went for naught. I often feel that someone should be following me around, writing down all the clever wittisicms I utter. I mean, Oscar Wilde surely had someone to write down all his stuff, right? And I've already got the hair.

Er, what?

A three-minute silence for the victims of the Asian tsunami has just ended in the library. Everyone is looking around in confusion at each other. This is a library. Does this mean we are allowed talk now?

Also, I started typing before the announcement to say it was over, and all the students scowled at me in disgust. I am a godless, irreverent hind. And I haven't given any money to the disaster appeal yet. I am going to hell for sure.

Calling Time

I am just back from the shoe department in Brown Thomas on Grafton Street and let me tell you, I am not impressed with what I saw there. Rich people's shoes are pretty much the same as the rest of our shoes! This whole designer shoe malarky is a con, and I'm calling time on it. Alright, they're made of divine, supple leather and suede, studded with gems and satin ribbons and graciously stamped with an elite logo, but really, what have you done for me lately? Scuppered, Mr Jimmy Choo! You've flogged your last betassled, jewel-encrusted stiletto, Mr Gucci! Prepare to see the Moschino empire fall to pieces, all on the basis of my word!

Aye, me!

Oh dear. It looks like I do have bronchitis. This is terrible. How can I look Aoife in the eye again, knowing that she has been right about something? Also, I now have to monitor the colour of my mucus to make sure I am not dying a horrible, phlegm-soaked death. Nobody else would notice if I died anyway. Except maybe when the rubbish starts to pile up and they realise I haven't been putting out the wheelie bin.

Heigh-ho

Well. Me and Aoife discussed our highlights of 2004 last night. Then I coughed solidly for half an hour and Aoife suggested I maybe had bronchitis and I wrote that idea down in a notebook for consideration later. Aoife's highlight of 2004 was hearing the Pixies sing Here Comes Your Man in Phoenix Park in June. Mine turned out to be waiting for a bus one rainy morning in October. Who would have thought it? That's just the way things work out, I guess. Then we considered what might be our highlights for 2005. We couldn't think about philosophical things like that so I asked Aoife 'have you seen my tin whistle?' and she wisely feigned sleep.

I can see the flag of the Croatian Embassy from where I'm sitting. At least, I think it's the Croatian Embassy. I'm not as up on my flags as I once was.

Mairead Adds A Further Perspective...

'...And then we were walking into the Baldy and I knew you were having trouble walking in your shoes-'
'The heel fell off one.'
'So I said to you to straighten up and walk proper so that the bouncers wouldn't give you any hassle but you said you were grand-'
'I was grand.'
'So then when we were going in, didn't you stop and start talking to one of the bouncers! And you must have been talking about some film you had seen or something-'
'The Sound of Music. I was telling him he reminded me of the Mother Superior.'
'Yes, because you were doing all these gestures, and then you were singing a Johnny Cash song and saying 'now that was a great man'.
'Uh-huh.'
'Then I got you inside and put you sitting down but you kept getting up and running off when I turned my back.'

'And what about the fight?'
'Oh, I don't know what happened there. It was over so fast and when I asked what had happened, you tapped the side of your nose and said you had it all sorted. And that Dell wouldn't be bothering anyone for a long time.'
'What does that mean? Was I organsing a hit?'
'A what? I don't know. You were pretty locked. You wouldn't get in the car to go out to Brian's house unless we all agreed you were stone cold sober. Then you fell over getting in.'
'Nicely done. Ironic, you might say.'

'Do you remember yelling 'Here's to 2005, fuckers!' at people out my car window?'
'... I don't remember. Period. It wasn't a good night for memories all round.'
'How about you sticking your fingers up at the angel on Brian's tree cos you said it looked at you funny?'
'No. That sounds like a good memory though, i'll pretend I do. God, I'm such a fool! Such a drunken idiot! Do you hate me? Does everyone hate me?'
'No. Everyone was drunk, it was New Years after all.'
'You weren't drunk.'
'That's because I was too busy watching you fuck up.'

Utter Drivel

Happy New Year! Did you have a good one? I had to kiss Jenny at midnight because I couldn't find a young man equal to my exacting standards, but all in all it was good. I mean, Jenny is a very good-looking girl. I have a good feeling about 2005. I can safely say that this looks like my year.

And like all good things, I feel it should start with a bang. Hence my little display in the ever-lovely Baldy Man last night. Before I tell you what I did, I must ask you a question. I must insist that you be frank in answering it. How do you feel about fiery young ladies who blatantly faff about drinking wine and whiskey (separately, naturally) though they are fully aware of the existence of the proverb about not mixing the grape and the grain? And what do you think of people who take their shoes off in pubs and stupidly sit on mucky walls in their new white skirts? Who wander around asking people 'have you seen my husband? He's the rich looking chap, I cant think where I left him!'? Who forgoes conventional money storage solutions and keeps all her change in her bra? Hmmm? Pretty bloody cool, I think we can all agree.

Also, I was almost in a fight. Me! In a fight! I wouldn't know a fight if it came up...and punched me in the face, actually. I would like to pretend it was over the honour of an honest maiden or something, but I am done with falsehoods. It is my new year's resolution: Give up smoking and falsehoods. I would also like to say that it was the kind of event that will remain lodged in my mind forever, a tense and profound insight into the vigour of quick-simmering violence, but I am afraid I had had quite a few drinks and am a complete blank on the subject. In fact, I didn't even know it had happened till Mags rang me this morning.

'Do you remember fighting with Dell last night?'
[Ahem. I should point out that in this instance Dell is a person, not a computer manufacturer. I have no quarrel with Dell the computer crowd. Lovely people, I'm sure.]
'Eh, no. What about?'
'He came up to you and said "Rachel is gone off upset, will you go look after her?" and you told him to fuck off and mind her himself since he was the one to upset her and he said you were a crap friend and you told him to go fuck himself and the next thing we knew the two of ye were bawling at each other and you were going for his neck. It was deadly, I had to hold you back.'

Now. 'Gobsmacked' is a word I don't use very often but I think I can safely say it fits here. 'Holy shit' fits here too but I've done quite enough blaspheming in my lifetime so i'll leave it at gobsmacked.

'Wha- seriously? I tried to hit him?'
'But he tried to hit you, Luce.'
'A girl? He tried to hit a girl? Aren't there, like, laws about hitting girls? That is scandalous, I am shocked.'
'Well, you did keep screaming 'no, no- fuck you!' at him. I wanted to hit you.'
'Mags! I'm hurt.'
'You've never seen you drunk, obviously.'
'Hmmm. Ah, well. Good night altogether, wasn't it?'

Learn your lesson and move on. That is my other New Year's resolution. That and to avoid saloon brawls if I can help it at all.

Why?