Friday, March 25, 2005

Lucy goes a-courting

If you are planning on falling in love with someone in the near future, there are a few things you should know. First of all, who ever you choose will have to be someone you can bear to see a great deal and who has a half decent name that you don't mind scrawling on your copybooks/tattooing on your arm. Some people will make the mistake on basing their love-choice purely on attraction- this is wrong. Just because the sight of someone's buttocks or breasts makes you want to sleep with them does not mean you are suited to each other. Sex always clouds things. You can't have sex all day, every day you know! Eventually someone has to get up and put shoes on and go out to buy food. And all that activity would be utterly exhausting.

Then there are people who seek out those with similar interests to them. This is ridiculous! If you found yourself so fascinating in the first place you would not feel the need to go after anyone else and would be content sitting in and talking to yourself. Also, I would tremble in terror if I thought there was anyone with similar interests to me out there. If such a person does exist, I hope they stay well enough away from me.

What you should look for, obviously, are the little things. The things that mean life with this person could in fact be bearable. Whether they are tidy. Whether they will let you talk about yourself for hours on end. And whether they know to stay quiet when the O.C. is on the telly. If you are a woman seeking a man, know your itinery: 'Girls don't like boys, girls like cars and money' and choose accordingly. If you are a man seeking a woman, look for someone who seems sexually promiscuous. The ones with no will-power are much likely to take to barefaced dictatorial control from you ('Woman! Make me a sandwich! Do my washing! Wash my car! That's what you're with me for, isn't it?') which will make for a much smoother ride for you in the long run.

If you are in the market for a partner, there are a few simple steps you should follow.
1: Women: Wear as little clothing as possible. Go to a place playing loud music and try to look whory.
2: Men: Buy a BMW key ring and clip it to your keys. Swing these around your index finger in your local loud-music place and look out for whory-looking women.
3: Singles of either sex: Struggle to suppress your true personality for as long as possible. In my experience, the more someone knows about you the quicker they will run away. If you are any good at self-denial and deception (and if you were brought up an Irish Catholic, you will be) this should be a doddle and before you know it you will wind up married to someone. Then is the time to reveal the true horribleness of your character, when you officially own half of everything of theirs.

In following these few steps, you will under no circumstances find love and happiness. You may, if you are lucky, find someone who can tolerate you enough to hang around with you every now and again and lets you sleep with them. Ideally not. I would hate to think of any of you lot running the risk of procreating.

Disaster becomes you

Yesterday evening, around eight o' clock I had my wallet nicked from a table in a bar I was trying desperately not to slide under (the table, not the bar; even I would have trouble sliding under a bar). One minute it was there, resting benignly by my elbow, the next it was gone. Needless to say, I wasn't too impressed and after I was persuaded that one of the lads hadn't taken it as a joke, took immediate steps towards it's return. Specificially, I checked behind all the sanitary bins in the ladies loos, as directed by the bartender I reported the loss to, in case it had been stripped of all cash and chucked away. No such luck. Being the relaxed, philosophical lass that I am, I shrugged it off fairly quickly. Especially when people began buying me drinks to cheer me up.

'Aw, that's awful,' commiserated Rebecca. 'You must be gutted.' Not so much. Let me calculate my loss:

My age card
My bank card
A scrunched up ten Euro note
About four Euro in change
One Juicy tube in 'Peche'
One tampon
One mint
One receipt from the Foundry in Carlow (kept for sentimental value)
Various till receipts from bars the length and breadth of Ireland (kept in case I ever had to start a small fire somewhere)

About an hour later, returning from the toilets again having spent ten minutes marvelling at the amazing effects of the neon anti-heroine lights on various parts of my clothing, I found Rebecca chatting to a distressed looking female. 'This girl has had her purse nicked too,' she said.

Good God! A major crime ring unfolding under my very nose! I was thrilled of course. 'Oh wow.' I said. This girl revealed in trembling tones that her purse had turned out to be a much better score for our shared robber. Besides bank, credit and cheque cards, the lucky thief had snatched himself the girls rent money for the month, which she had just withdrawn from an ATM.

'Oh wow' I repeated. What else could I say? My loss was nothing compared to hers. I felt bad though. I had a fiver in my pocket I could have offered her but I needed it for my bus fare home. 'Wowowowowow.'

I have decided that the thief probably discarded my pathetically empty purse after seeing his loot from the second job. Not wanting to weigh himself down with useless empty purses he no doubt turfed it away and rang a limo to go home and spend the other girl's rent money. Bastard. So I'd like you all to keep an eye out for it in your locality. Check gutters, rubbish bins and especially behind sanitary bins. That's the hottest guess, apparantly. It's rectangular and a kind of bronze colour, and has a zip running along the side of it. I'm not offering a reward for it's return because, let's face it, I'm broke and the pleasure that comes from doing a good deed should be enough for you. When you find it make sure you wear gloves to pick it up 'cos I want to retain all forensic evidence to track the bastard down. Don't go mucking it up with your dirty fingerprints or an awkward situation might arise where I track you down and slap you about, thinking you a common crook. Don't say I haven't warned you.

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

He's Gone and Done It

Mossy. WHY?

Salient Point Number Two

Also known as Aughney's Law. Whenever you purchase a blinging* new top to wear on your birthday, you will invariably pack in haste due to being hungover/hungry/late/stupid/all of the above, and leave it behind you in Dublin. You will then be forced to wear out an old top you have had for ages, and will be cross all night (all right, not all night. Just until you're drunk enough not to care).

FRIENDS: Are you wearing that out?
YOU: Yes.
FRIENDS: Didn't you wear something similar before-
YOU: No.
FRIENDS: Like your last birthday?
YOU: Certainly not!
FRIENDS: Yes you did- see, here is a picture of you last March in the exact same top.
YOU: Bugger off.


MOTHER: What are you wearing?
YOU: This.
YOU: Yes. What's wrong with it?
MOTHER: Nothing. Black is very slimming.

Conclusion: Friends think you a cheap, fashionless ho. Mother thinks you are fat.

*I'm sorry. I hardly ever use rapper slang. In my defence, it is gold and shiny so there really is no other way to describe it.

Salient Point Number One

Your father likes a drink. For the occasion of his eldest's birthday he sees fit to start drinking at three in the afternoon. When, in the wee hours of the morning he fetches up in an establishment entirely too young for his years where you and your dissolute friends have decided to remain until someone throws you all out, he lingers unnervingly at the edge of the dancefloor with a sleepy looking grin on his face. Urged by the mischievous young Annie Mullen to have a whirl on the dancefloor with her, he will clutch protectively at his Guinness and weaving unsteadily, slur the following: 'Do yoouuuu know where Lucy was conceived?'

Answer: Carlow. It's hardly Paris, is it, Mum?

Friday, March 18, 2005

Another Year Closer to Death

'Oof! Lucy was out last night!' trilled Rebecca when she arrived into work this afternoon. Lucy, slumped over the issue desk and lacking her customary happy glow blinked groggily at her. Who was this perceptive blonde girl? 'What gave me away?' she growled blearily.
'Intuition, mainly. That, and the bar stamp on your hand, the dark circles under your eyes, the aroma of beer off your person and the fact that your clothes look slept in. But my psychic gift confirmed it.'
'Well, it's my birthday on Monday. I'm just warming up.'
'Really? Big age?'
'Extremely. Twenty-two. I am ancient. Positively prehistoric.'
'I'm twenty-five, Lucy.'
'Ah. Right. You wear it well though.'

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

So it looks like your site is fucked, eh?

Hardly! I am not just Lucy, polite young female co-habiting with two gorillas. I am other things besides. The gorillas' awareness of this site need not spoil everything. In fact, this discovery may be a good thing. It will allow me to explore other sides to myself, to share with you all some lesser known facets of my luminous personality. For example did you know that I am, as a human body, slightly off kilter? I have one foot bigger than the other, one eyeball, one calve and one index finger. All these gigantic anomalies occur on the right-hand side of my body, if you're interested. I suspect a wayward magnetic drag during my gestation. If my mother stood still for the entire nine months, that is. Knowing that footloose hussy, not likely.

Tuesday, March 08, 2005

Lucy Laid Bare [Explicit nudity from start to finish]

Ahem. Looks like I've been scuppered. Could have been worse though. I mean, David [sweetly disguised as 'The Truth'] could have revealed me as a lot worse than someone who exaggerates their stories to get attention. For example, 'obnoxious', as he called me last Thursday night. A 'mouthy drunk' also, apparantly. But hey, that's probably common knowledge. It's amusing to note that he had no problem being labelled as lazy, filthy or intentionally cruel and disgusting, just with being called scientifically obtuse while drunk. Typical.

Monday, March 07, 2005

The Final Reveal

Uh oh. On Saturday night, Burt discovered the existence of my blog. Aoife's fault mainly as it was she that told him as I sat, tight-lipped and tense, wondering how I might get to a computer before him and edit out all mention of his name. Not possible. He got onto it yesterday during his break at work. He rang me then, slightly disappointed not to have been mentioned more. 'Why do you think everyone at work hates you?' he questioned.
'Because they do.' I replied simply.

In other news, I am just back from my break and a cigarette at the back door, where I was lucky enough to be present for the arrival of Minister for Education, Mary Hanafin, in the building. A big, black Minister's Merc pulled up and sent little quivers of excitement through the throngs (alright, three) of photographers assembled outside. She jumped out of the passengers seat, hand outstretched to those greeting her and a smile of apology for her lateness on her lips. What grace! What compelling presence! She is my new favourite Minister, I think. Long story short, watch your newspapers tomorrow morning for a picture of the Minister arriving at DIT Aungier St for the launching of something and see if you can spot a star-struck young lady in a tan coat lurking in the background, clutching a carton of milk and a cigarette. That would be me!

Friday, March 04, 2005

Glad Tidings

Our heating is back! It was fixed yesterday evening by a large bottom partly dressed in pants and his assistant, Gary. Less than five minutes work on their part was reimbursed by us in the form of forty-five of your European bucks, a fact suffered greatly by two of the greatest skinflints ever to reuse a teabag, David and Burt. They have no qualms about dropping over a hundred Euros for the sake of a night out, will laugh it off after as being all in the sake of fun, but ask them to pay for small necessities- bread, toothpaste, toilet roll- and they will close up immediately and bicker pointlessly about how they bought toothpaste last year and they never eat bread anyway as it soaks up valuable beer in the stomach. Having safely seen the boiler maintenance men off the premises and declared loudly that they had known all along what was wrong with it, and if only they had had a screwdriver this whole thing would have been sorted out ages ago, they headed off up to Santry to play pool, leaving me to wander around the house on my own, brushing against walls with my fingers and gazing in wonder as they came away dry.

My plan of walking around my newly warm home naked, laughing, was cruelly scuppered by Aoife's arrival home (much to the relief of my neighbours, I'm sure). The proceeding two or so hours were very dull, revolving around the sorting of odd socks, scouring of pans and declogging of plugholes that are pretty run of the mill for most females of an evening. Actually, I can't pretend to know what most females do in the evening; off moisturising their elbows and picking out ankle-bracelets, probably. What I am sure of however, is that I spent yesterday evening doing unpleasant tasks while Aoife smoked and gave out about her job.

When the boys returned from poking coloured balls around with long poles, a situation arose. Though as completely enamoured of the lovely glowing heat coming from our radiators as we were, the boys had had a frank appraisal of their finances and decided that stern measures would have to be undertaken. Specifically, the cessation of all non-essential, money-using services in the house including and without equivocation all laser-light displays, monkey waiter service, nightly bottles of Mo√ęt before bed and heating after 6pm. What?! We just have the heating back, we complained, let us live in comfort for a while more! But no, the boys were stern. The heating was turned off immediately and vague theories expounded on the heat retention of newspaper when wrapped around the body. The boys were also well on their way to being drunk.

You'd think I'd have learned long ago not to argue with those with a slightly squiffy glint in their eye. Nay. While Burt waxed didactic to Aoife on the perils of an overheated home and the environmental disaster that was humanity's overuse of fossil fuels, David chose to examine the physics of the thing and demanded reasons why a house couldn't be heated sufficiently during the day and then merely release it's heat during the night.
'Because,' I spluttered, 'It's not a bloody solar panel-thingy, it's a house!'
'Ah! But what about the laws of thermodynamics!' he replied triumphantly. You can always tell a drunk by his absolute confidence in the utter bullshit he comes out with.
Momentarily displaced by his use of a multi-syllabled word, I struggled for a come back.
'You can' don't....asshole!'

I am not, unsurprisingly, the strongest at debates. Needless to say, the room went quiet. I shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another. Somethings are taboo, even in my house. The boys glanced gravely at each other and proceeded to mutter grumpily to each other.
'Did you hear...!'
'I can't believe she said-!'
'Of all the-'
'I'd like to know what gives her the right!'
They stopped their muttering to glare accusingly at me. Burt tutted softly under his breath. David reduced his eyes to the merest slits and shook his head. Faced with such an assault, I panicked. I lashed out with the only weapon I had.

'You owe me a fiver since Monday!' I sobbed and raced from the room. I don't seem to handle confrontation well. I may not end up in the front lines at the class-hatred fueled uprising I had planned.

Thursday, March 03, 2005

Anybody for a drink before the war

Last night, spurred on by the four vodkas and three glasses of pink champagne she had enjoyed at a work leaving-party, Aoife let me know what she thought of my job. Not much, as it happens. Apparently though, grousing about your job is pretty much like calling your sister a whore or your father a stingy bastard: it's something you don't like other people joining in with.

Just because I am not a high-powered, overworked and undercompensated trainee accountant who has to get up at 6.30am and doesn't get home till after seven at the latest, I have a cushy job. Ha! Has she not been listening to me? Did she just forget the co-workers who hate me, the ignorant students, the long hours on your feet, the (moderately) heavy lifting, the days of relentless tedium? This snobbery must desist!

I see this latest quarrel as a class struggle, with me representing the diligent, uncomplaining service industry and Aoife as the self-involved corporate accountant. Us librarians must rise together to prevent our place in society from being demeaned, diminished and degraded! To prevent the awful advance of self-aggrandising accountants! [I foresee much alliteration in my future campaign speeches] I must warn you now, it shall not be an easy battle. Those accountants have sharp teeth and can add huge rows of figures at high speed. There will be much blood shed in the name of justice and truth. But with champions such as these, who will back out? Who's with me?!

PS: There will be no joining up after we have the battle won. If you are not with us, you are considered an accountant and after the final battle will be doomed to spend eternity trying to understand a balance sheet incapable of balancing, with only an broken abacus and Derek Mooney to assist you. The broken abacus is self-explanatory; Derek Mooney because I can't stand the bugger and by then there will have been enough bloodshed.

Wednesday, March 02, 2005

Waitin' on a Sunny Day...

What is up with outside today? I am generally not one to comment on the weather except to old ladies at bus stops, but a day like today warrants some notice I feel. It started with a bolt of lightening, proceeded to thunder, snow and rain till mid morning and now sees fit to remain sunny and breezy for the rest of the day. As a committed ditherer, I recognise indecision when I see it. In an act of hypocrisy much greater than any previous incidents [Lucy, to sister: 'Never smoke.' Pauses to draw deeply on cigarette 'It is very bad for you.' Lucy, to new co-worker: 'The key to this job is keeping focus. Thriving to be the best. Pauses briefly to sit around vacantly for three hours 'As I said earlier, it's all about staying busy.'], I now say: Wise up weather! Make a choice, so that the rest of us don't have to struggle whether to choose wellies, brolly or sunglasses every morning! Naturally, I would almost always choose the brolly, as I like to swing it jauntily from my arm and look dapper. Also, I don't own any wellies or sunglasses.

In other news, I have recently decided to title all posts with any song lyrics that wander unbidden into my head at the moment of literary creation. I made a commitment to be abitrary and illogical long ago and I'm damned if I'll give that up now.