Pimp your sister

Jack Nealons, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Or Joanne's sister Paula, more to the point. Who is djing in Jack Nealons tomorrow night from 9.30- 1am. I will be there, looking fantastic as usual. You'll recognise me as I will be the one restraining a drunken Joanne. And I'll be the best looking one there. You'll recognise Joanne because she looks like the DJ.

PAY ATTENTION.

Some help, please?

I am almost finished the Irish Times crossword. This is the closest I have ever gotten, ever. I need to know a word for:

* Be a burden to, hamper (8)
* Stress or tension (6)
* Canny and with sound judgement (6)
* To do with cooking (8)
* Didn't see, being fated (8)
* Words spoken so that only certain people will hear (6)
* Major inland sea of NE Canada- . . . . . . Bay (6)
* Without power to move or act (5)

Okay, so I'm not THAT close to completing it. And, yes, this IS how I spend my dinner. I expect you're off eating and doing stuff.

I DON'T CARE. I'M ALMOST FINISHED THE SIMPLEX.

They fuck you up

In the past 24 hours I have suffered broken sleep, washed dishes, used a dirty look to silence an argument, hissed dangerously to urge someone to do my will, threatened to spank someone, harnessed the lethal power of passive aggression to convey my martyrdom and suffering and woken two people up for work. I have become a mother.

I have also had six vodka and tonics and walked into a door. So I am more like MY mother.

Ah, foresight

Suddenly, this has become very ironic. Ah, Tramore. Scarily close to Fenor. I guess I'll just have to cope with the stench of slurry. I'm used to noxious stenchs, what with living with Burt and all.

Dublin's Loss is Tramore's Gain

Now, I don't mean to upset you all unduly but I have some bad news. Bad news for you, essentially. I quite welcome it. As of next week I will cease to be an ignorant country oik struggling to keep it lit* in an increasingly hostile urban environment (honestly. Our living room window was broken by a sliotar last week. I told off the youths responsible but because I am so hip and down with the kids, they couldn't take my censure seriously. Oh, the perils of being charming). Instead, I resume my familial duty by moving home to Waterford and working in a library again.

Shocked? Try to veil it manfully. Distressed? Excuse yourself to the bathroom; I don't want to see your tears. Reeling franticly from bar to bar in sulky grief? That's the spirit! Carry on, friends, carry on...

*Joanne-speak

To all my fans in need of personal contact...

Nobody text me, okay? My dumbass phone went dead cos I stayed in Marie's dumbass gaff last night.

North v. South, that age-old battle

Right. I may just be a dumb country oik, up from the sticks and trying desperately not to let my big-city ignorance shine through, but I know that the sun does NOT shine brighter on the south-side, nor do flowers smell sweeter, food taste better or the pints cost less. Why then was I able to make it into town in FIFTEEN minutes this morning? FIFTEEN MINUTES. I was on Dame Street at 8.20am, where I stood and gummed surprise for about half an hour. I mean: Good grief! I leave my home in Santry at 7.30 most mornings and only make it to work after a twenty minute walk and at least an hour on a bus. It's not like I want to live on the South-side, with all the even-numbered toffs, but come on! They get more time in bed than us!

That's it. I'm petitioning Bertie to have the port tunnel works and O'Connoll street moved over there. US NORTH SIDERS ARE THE BLACKS OF DUBLIN.

Or something equally dated and limp-wristed.

Bibliographic idiocies

Here's a confession: whenever I go out with any of the people I used to work with at DIT (hereafter known as 'the librarians'. Cos that's what they are), we play a particularly strange and embarrassing game. We all pretend to be really chilled about it but adherence to the rules is extremely important and something of a matter of pride. Okay. Deep breath: we play 'Dewey-Decimal Guess-Who'.

I may have to explain this. As you might know, Dewey Decimal book coding is an international bibliographic standard for the archiving and arrangement of non-fiction books and journals. Also known as the little numbers taped to the spine of your book. It goes all the way up to 1000 and each one-hundred band is assigned to a general subject. In academic libraries because subject matter is so derivative and expansive numbers can run to huge decimal points. So knowing them off, especially the more obscure shelf marks, is a sign of greatness amongst us nerds. You get me? It's a type of sexual preening in a way. Whole courtships have been based on Dewey testing. Sad but true.

So anyway, I was down in Tramore library earlier today, picking up some books on Irish folklore for Mags who has to do a project on teaching children myths or some such crap. Well, Mum was doing it; I was faffing about picking up books and trying to hide them up my jumper.

"Put that Jonathan Strange down, Lucy. And don't think I don't know you took that On Beauty off the hold shelf. Mind you put it right back there, you wretch," warned my Mamma. You see, I have a bit of a history with nicking books from the library, keeping them out for months and losing them. I am proud to say that my overdue fines are the highest in Waterford county: over €200 at last check. Yes, I am a legend. Your admiration is deserved.

"They should be over here," she went on, slipping on her librarian secret disguise, reading glasses on a chain, and sliding tutored fingers over book spines, "somewhere around 398".

"Yeah, right." I wasn't really paying attention. "What's there then?"

Sighing, she turned her attention back to the stacks: A daughter who doesn't know her Dewey Decimal inside out is a sad disappointment to a librarian. "Folklore," she said, "legends".

"Ahem? Shouldn't I be up there, then?"

She did not appreciate this humour. I may be cut out of the will.

Goin' out tonight, baby you and I

"Workin all the time
Work is such a bind
Got some money to spend
Living for the weekend

When it gets too much
I live for the rush
Got some money to spend
Living for the weekend"

Quite. What are my posse up to for this glorious weekend, I wonder? My peeps? My crew? I'll tell you, shall I:

->I, myself, am going to a Country and Western themed fiftieth birthday this evening. Then a Rory Gallagher tribute band in Murphs. Tomorrow I am going to a Book Fair in Graignemanagh (yeah, I know, okay? Blame the librarian mater), followed by a trip to the O'Neills twins, Aoife and Sarah's ('Twit and twat' in Mags-speak) 21st in Mols in the evening. Everyone who's anyone is going to be there. As in all those dear, sweet people who live in the countryside 'round Tramore, keep cows in their back-gardens and are all cousins of each other*. Redneck invasion.

->Aoife and Burt are going out in Dublin. To Barcode methinks which is generally known in these parts as Samantha Mumba's local. Since Monday Burt has been going around saying: 'I'm going to be fucking rotten drunk on Friday! Tee-hee!' Yes, he giggles like a girl. Sometimes I think he is about two drinks away from homosexuality. One drink if he's with Andrew.

->Mags (hurrah for the Welsh immigrant!) is coming home! Ostensibly for the twins' birthday but we all know it's for the All Ireland. And to get loved-up with Donal. But I didn't say that...

->Annie is picking up her brand new motor. 'O2 VW Polo. Blue. Matches her handbag, apparently.

->Celia (news just in!) is going to Bucharest. Haven't a clue where it is myself.

->My dad is off to Tipp to get loved-up with his woman. Nice.

->Sally wins though. Sally is heading off to a recording studio in Bandon, Co Cork to record backing vocals for the demo of a band, the bassist of which she knows from college. I'm sorry, but that is shit-cool. All week she's been running around saying to people: 'What ya doin' on the weekend? Yeah? Oh, I'll try and drop in AFTER I'M BACK FROM THE STUDIO'.

My sister: she makes me so proud it sometimes brings tears to my eyes.


"Run down the street, Adidas on my feet
I'm on fire..."


*I'm talking to you, Fleming/O'Neill dynasty.

Next Friday

Is David's birthday. David hasn't bought toilet paper, soap, shower gel, shampoo, washing detergent or anything but beer and Super Valu fish pies in SIX MONTHS. He owes me €90. He washes up about once a month. As everyone knows, your birthday is a time for your friends to do mean and generally malicious things to you and pass it off as birthday mischief. What I want to know is, what can we do David to correctly celebrate* his ascension to the stellar heights of twenty-two years? I'm thinking making him clean the inside of our oven (AKA 'House of Burnt Cheese') or making him lick the wall of our mouldy bathroom.

All suggestions and/or offers to lend us something disgusting to pelt him with will be much appreciated.

Ahem. Need I say more?

Pre-Hyptnotized Peter

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A Nation Once Again: One Country Unites to Piss Lucy Off

IRELAND IS WORKING AS ONE COMBINED UNIT TO RUIN MY ITALY BUZZ. IT WILL NOT WORK. I SHALL OVERCOME.


Anyway. I'm not going to go on (much) about Italy, in case you were worried. I have SOME respect for other people. Instead I will dole out tiny anecdotes, in glistening, sun-shiney nuggets that offer wee tasters of the trip. Mar shampla, on Friday morning we had a champagne brunch on our terrace. In fact, EVERY morning. Over-looking the Mediterranean. Then I went for a walk on the beach and poked strange looking things in rock pools with a stick. Then I went for a run. For a mile and a half. On pale beige semi-firm sand, weaving in out of the water in my bare feet. Me. Running.

I'm going to let you take a minute to fathom how amazing this fact actually is.

That's how I spent the past four days. Weaving from champagne bottles to dinner tables to the beach. Constantly half-cut and half-dressed and wholly giddy on pleasurable things.

You are excused to vomit your envy away from the computer.

Love and Italian weddings

Formia, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Just back from Mitten-O'Sullivan nuptials in Formia, 2 & 1/2 hours outside Rome. I am in an obnoxiously excellent frame of mind and would advise everyone to avoid me for at least 4-6 months unless you want to be severely distressed.

Also, I think I may have figured out the solution to the world's problems while I was over there. On more than one occasion. The whole weekend was just epiphany, epiphany, epiphany. Epiphany coming out of my ears, man. Unfortunately, because I was continuously drunk since my arrival in Italy, bar one half hour early on Saturday morning, I've forgotten it. And I didn't have a pen at the time.

I'll get back to you on that when I'm sober.

Ciao tutti*.

*DON'T EVEN GO THERE. My Italian is fucking fantastic, okay? I won't have it corrected.

Guess where I'm going tomorrow

Italy!, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Ach, now!

When did UCD go good-looking on me? It almost makes you proud... Before you remember that they left Marie back in. Twice.

Questionable.

Encryption explained

Sally: Lucy, what does THAT mean?
Lucy: Sally, shut the fuck up. I have work to do.

S: Just tell me what it is, and then you can go back to work.
L: Well, stop reading bits of it out to me then. Which bit is it?
S: The bit...under the other bit.
L: Oh, the BIT.
S: I meant the orange bit, smart-arse.

L: Which... oh, that? THAT is from Sheryl Crowe's All I Wanna Do.
S: What?

L: "All I wanna do, is have some fun, I got a feelin' I'm not the only one, all I wann-"
S: Yeah, so?
L: You know the bit at the start?
S: Umm...
L: The spoken bit?
S: Yeah, well, I haven't heard it in ages, have I.

L: "This ain't no disco, this ain't no country club either-"
S: ...
L: "-this is L.A."

S: Eh...
L: Which are my initials, see?

S: What, you mean...ohhh. I gettit.
It's not BRILLIANT, is it?

L: Fine. I'm changing it anyway.

Lucy reads papers occasionally

I just bought the new format Guardian; the Russian girl in the Centra only charged me 80c which I think might have been a mistake but I am not to question the authority of stern Slavic blondes that let me off cheap. Anyway, I really like it. It's much handier and that blue banner looks much better than the horrible orangey one. More European, if that makes any sense whatsoever. And G2! Don't get me started. It's adorable! I want to take it home and cook it dinner. I won't though. That would be weird.

Dublin, quieten down I need to make a sound

Ah, Fridays.

Do you remember your school days? I do. They were only four years ago after all and my brain isn't THAT addled yet. I don't know how Fridays worked in your school but in mine, every Friday was like an unoffical holiday. No work was done on a Friday. Any homework due in could be safely proclaimed to have been left at home and then you'd have the whole weekend to do it. Except I usually wound up cogging Grainne or Aoife's at ten to nine on Monday morning. Queer that I didn't do better in my Leaving Cert.

Then lunchtimes: pity the poor teachers who had class last thing before lunch on a Friday. From breaktime on, the whole school was on edge with plans for the Friday chip-shop race, and minds were quite literally out the window by quarter to, staring hungrily at the lucky few let out early, sauntering up the road (and I mean the WHOLE school. The teachers hit the pub early on a Friday). Then with the bell, 300-odd jeune femmes hurled themselves at the back door, tossing school bags on top of lockers on the way. Sprinting down the road to beat the queue, or if you were feeling particularly energetic or knew someone who worked there, up the hill to Cunninghams.

Ah, bliss. Once we made it to the senior classes we could collar a puny first year and order them to queue up in the chipper, leaving us free to sit on the footpath and pretend to ignore lads from the boys school passing by. As puny firsties ourselves we had cherished doing this favour for the older girls; why forget tradition when everyone gains? Then dawdling home on a Friday afternoon, the whole weekend stretching out in front of you full of guilt-free telly and lie-ins.

Good times. This was back in the day, of course, when we were all innocent and good; nowadays the kids are all off having sex and babies and drinking booze on their lunch hours. Lucky buggers.

There's that pretentious thing again

Fucking hell.*

That Mullen one, she is dead meat. She spilt Marie's fucking Bulmers Light [I KNOW, okay? I've talked to her about what a gay drink it is but she is being difficult] all over the fucking table last night, soaking my fags and her own trousers in the process. And it wasn't even like, during an exciting bit of the match (WHAT exciting bits, I hear you ask), just during one of her stupid nerd-stories She heads the fuck off to the jacks to dry her pants and Kathy goes: 'Uh-oh, is this your handbag, Lucy?' It WAS my fucking handbag; Now it's Mullen's fucking drip-tray.

Now I am down a pack of fags and have a bag that stinks of rancid cider.

*This whole post is written in an innovative style called 'How Lucy speaks normally' after being taxed by Aoife and Donna regarding the difference between my writing style here and how I talk (being taxed by two accountants: fitting). Notice the slew of swearwords: I am a foul-mouth in real life. There's that pretentious thing again.

Storehouse!

Storehouse!, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

This is the Guinness Storehouse. I go past it on my way to work everyday. Twice a day, if you're going to be pedantic. If you look you can see the shadow of my head in the extreme left-hand corner.

Thrilling.

All the ladies if you hear me help me sing it out...

"That M.I.A. girl I like. She seems smart. I have high hopes for her. She is bringing something new to the face of British garage, I think. Unlike that Estelle young one last year who let me down so woefully."

How is this so funny? I made this remark in an off-hand manner last night and Aoife wet herself laughing at me. Then we had a fifteen minute scuffle over whether or not I was pretentious. Then I pushed Aoife and ran away crying. She is just jealous of my innate knowledge of the music industry. Bitch.

Yes; I know I am amazing

Friday, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

I know.

It's magical, isn't it, the way photography can be so realistic, so earth-shatteringly true to life as to lend the distant observer something of the vibrancy of actually being present at it's conception.

Here for instance, one is struck by the vital immediacy of the occasion pictured, taken on Friday, August 26th in the fabulous surrounds of the Vic Deli, Tramore. See how the photographer has expertly blurred the image to convey the intense emotions she feels at this, the going away party of (from R to L)Alison, Mags and Rachel? Notice the shaky outlines, implying, somewhat wittily, the probable drunken state of our photographer. Regard also the barely disguised look of tense anxiety on the lovely faces of our models, Mags' lips clenched in only barely glimpsed formation of the word 'fuck'. As in 'Hurry the fuck along, Aughney, or you'll be wearing this cake'.

What genius! What grace and natural elegance married with the wisdom of a true artist informs this whole work! A veritable masterpiece for our age, I think we can all agree.

Lucy's Desk

picture_0109, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Guess who just figured out how to post photos from her phone to her blog?

From here on in you get to see the world through Lucy's eyes!

Prepare for some nausea...