Don't Let Anybody Mess With Your Swing

‘La terre est couverte de gens qui ne meritent pas qu’on leur parle.’
Voltaire


My mother wants a pergola for her garden. Do you know what this is? I do, because I had to listen to her going on about it all weekend. Actually, I lie. She took half an hour out to try and start a conversation about what colour cushions she should get for her new garden chairs. I was having none of it, however: 'Just get the olive-green, woman! I am not discussing the difference between russet and terracotta, any more. Not get out of my way, I can't see the telly.'

What a pergola is, essentially, is a sort of wooden cloister-thing that you put creeper plants all over. The fact that I know this depresses me more than you can imagine. If, like Sherlock Holmes, you believe that our brains hold a finite amount of information and we must now make room for useless data that will clog our thinking, you will by now wish that you never found out the meaning of the word 'pergola'. Which is why I am not watching Big Brother this year. Everyone in that house are people whose names I need not know. I am purging all useless information and refusing mercilessly to take in any trash. It is pure, untarnished THINKING that my brain will be doing from here on in. Expect great things...

Penniless and Destitute

Well, I'm annoyed. Enraged, you might even say. Here is some back story, so you can share in my rightous indignation: When I handed in my notice at my last job, they asked for a months notice. I found my contract which said I only needed to give a WEEKS notice. On pointing this out to HR, I was sniffily told that the contract was wrong but that they supposed they couldn't make me work a month. What, exactly was I supposed to do, I wondered? Stick around for the month even though it was their mistake in having me sign the wrong contract?

I very nearly did, because I am that much of a simpering weakling who hates to upset people. In the end, on the back of many inspirational talks from Aoife, I worked two weeks notice and left with the not necessarily pleasant knowledge that I was despised by HR and would one day get my bad karma back in spades. Feckless and carefree, I discarded this idea and went about my merry way at my new job. Until yesterday. I emailed my old job asking if I could get my P45 and remaining pay. 'Since you were paid monthly,' they emailed back, 'you will recieve both at the end of the month.'

Now. I thought this fairly harsh and ranted and raved to anyone who would listen about their shabby treatment. 'Do you realise,' I said to David last night 'that not only are they holding off paying me for work I did weeks ago, but they are also stopping anyone else from paying me? They are, in essence, punishing me for leaving before their stupid month's notice. And that was their fault. Bet it's not even legal to do this. Pah! A thousand times, pah!'
'Did you say this to them?'
'What? No, of course I didn't. I'm chicken shit.'
'Why the fuck should I have to listen to it, then?' And he walked off.

I have since realised that the end of the month is actually this weekend, but that is hardly the point. I know I should have savings to fall back on when things like this happen but, honestly, it's the principle of the thing. I am enraged on principle*.

*Huh. Turns out I can think about many things simultaneously. Eg: 'I am an extremely principled person' aswell as 'I wish I had enough dough to go out tomorrow night' and 'I hope one of the boys leaves some money lying around the house so I can rob it.'

If I understood this, I expect it would be very revealing

You scored as Postmodernist. Postmodernism is the belief in complete open interpretation. You see the universe as a collection of information with varying ways of putting it together. There is no absolute truth for you; even the most hardened facts are open to interpretation. Meaning relies on context and even the language you use to describe things should be subject to analysis. Postmodernist 88% Existentialist 81% Cultural Creative 69% Idealist 56% Modernist 56% Materialist 38% Romanticist 25% Fundamentalist 19% What is Your World View? (corrected...again) created with QuizFarm.com

Treachery!

Joanne was in the company of Cork people at the weekend and gathered some important information on inter-County relations in Munster, which she kindly passed on to me via email this afternoon:

'Apparantly, and I quote " People from waterford are all settled pikeys, or have at least a drop of the shawl."
'Now I thought this was very unfair, because you're a Waterfordian and very nice. But i thought I'd let you know the gossip thats going around about your tribe.'

This worries me greatly as my sister's education is currently being handled by a Cork third-level institute and she is currently crushing on a few undoubtably unworthy Cork young men. I think I may lock her in the basement to protect her the cruel racist taunts of arrogant Cork people. Either that or arrange that she get knocked up and keep her in a caravan out our back. Ha-ha.

The Meaning of Liff

You get up. It's raining. You take an umbrella. It has stopped by the time you're leaving the house. When you get off your bus it starts to rain again. You hit a small child in the head putting your umbrella up. People glare. When you get to work your umbrella sits dripping rudely in the corner all morning. You glance out the window once or twice: it's sunny. At lunch, you head off without your umbrella. It starts to rain. You get soaked. All afternoon you sit dripping rudely in a corner. By home time it's sunny again. Well-groomed people in summer clothes stalk the streets happily on your way home. You scowl and hug your wretched umbrella to you. It is ridiculous and useless but by God, you're not letting go of it.

On the way home, you fall asleep on your bus and have to be woken by the bus driver at the last stop. You leave your umbrella on the bus. The next day it pours.

Full in the smile of the blue firmament

Eek. New job is very scary. I am terrible at it and take four hours to do one thing. Nobody seems to mind though, which is nice. They took me for lunch in the Guinness Storehouse which was very enjoyable and laughed kindly when I fucked up. I am much too scared to email in work yet but I expect that will pass. I am nothing if not unashamedly brazen.

In other news, Friday night turned out rather messily. Lucy forgot to eat lunch (all puffed up on builders compliments, I expect) and was very tipsy by seven o'clock and had to switch to water. Aoife, Burt and co. turned up to Pravda at 11.30pm in drunken and loud mood, and were very rude to the librarians. 'Are you Bronagh?' Aoife asked Caroline. 'She's always talking about you.'
'I'm Caroline.'
'Oh. Never heard her mention you' Aoife said and turned to Paul. 'You're very quiet, aren't you? Are all librarians as dull as ye lot?'

Burt was horrendously belligerent to a quietly amused Paul later and I spent the rest of the night fuming. Not so quietly. Being offensive to librarians is not a laughing matter.

Dubious Compliment

I was just whistled at by a load of builders on my lunch break. I think it may have been done ironically though. Just my luck.

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night

I am suffering from bloggers block. It is like other kinds of writing block except it is less interesting and involves moping and excessive whinging. I blame my recent sobriety. Do you know that I have not been drunk for over two weeks? Alright, I was tipsy enough last Thursday to walk into a street sign but besides that, nothing. I am dry as dust. Luckily for all my fans I am finally getting to retire spectacularly from the library this evening (Lucy fucked up with handing in her notice and had to hang around for another week. A cruel person might roll their eyes and say 'typical Lucy'. I hope my friends will think more kindly of me.), and I intend to do so in the same style and aplomb as I arrived here. Oof, I am so excited. I have not cut loose in such a long time. Aoife and Burt are coming along too, just to see the fantastic sight of a crowd of librarians drunk. It should be fantastic.

Clanger!

Poor old Lucy! Left standing in the rain outside Central Bank for fifteen minutes by heartless Joanne last night! 'So sorry!' panted Joanne. 'Couldn't find spot to park!'
'Now look here!' said Lucy. 'What, may I ask is the meaning of this mistreatment? My shopping bag, it is soggy! And my hair, it is curly! And my cigarettes, they are all gone!'
'Do you think my car will get clamped before seven?' wondered unfeeling Joanne. Lucy drowns sorrows (and Joanne) in Liffey. Joanne nonplussed.

Many hours later, Lucy stumbles home. Immaculate blonde girl sitting on couch. Insult to injury! 'Lucy, this is Ciara' presents Burt.
'Ahhh. Hello Sarah' nods Lucy. Sarah?! Sarah is old girlfriend! Burt in massive rage. Lucy eats bread and falls asleep fully clothed.

Burningly it came on me all it once

Do you realise that Ireland's senior citizens only receive free travel on public transport before 4.30pm? This is staggering news, friends. There was I assuming that they rode the buses all day simply to clog them up for everyone else when in fact, the only time they have to trundle around the country is before tea time! And people complain of a generation gap. If the pensioners were allowed to trundle around the country all through the night, I am sure we would see a greater demographic span in Ireland's pubs and clubs. And drinking is a cast-iron way of making people mix and get on with each other, I think you'll agree.

And old people are fun! Yesterday afternoon, a throng of grannies poured onto my bus from the Royal Bingo Hall on Collins Avenue.
'Can I see your passes, please ladies' droned the bus driver.
'Less of your lip, young fella, can't you see were ancient?' cried back a canny old hag. 'Yeah, we've not long left, love!' cackled another. Disrespecting authority and laughing at death in one go! I am speechless with admiration!

On another occasion, I peaked a glance at my elderly neighbour's reading material and managed [I say managed; it took her fifteen minutes to finish a page] to catch the following line:

'Despite the bruises he had given her, Sue felt curiously drawn to this tough hoodlum.'

Thrilling stuff. If you feel compelled to learn more about Sue's attraction to this hoodlum, I think I this is the book she was reading.

In short: Old people are okay in my book. Just as long as they aren't in front of me in the queue at the supermarket.

Fa fa fa fa fa (sad song)

On Friday night I am going out to a karaoke bar off Georges Street with a bunch of people from work to mark my starting a new job the following week. Idling all weekend, I have been occupied in thinking up suitable song choices. So far, I have the following:

Stay Another Day- East 17
Don't Go- Hothouse Flowers
Let's Stay Together- Tina Turner
She Left on a Monday- Bic Runga
You Picked a Fine Time to Leave Me, Lucille- Kenny Rogers

Or something. I am really too lazy to bother thinking up too many more. These are for everyone else to sing, obviously. I am a woman of class and distinction, I would never debase myself by taking part in karaoke. Instead, I will be getting locked and sitting in the corner, chuckling quietly to myself. Maybe I'll sing a verse or two of Born to Run, maybe not. Depends how much saki gets bought for me, essentially.