Lucy pisses on children's dreams; leads damned life

I am going to hell. Seriously.

About three weeks ago Jean had to leave work early and gave me a letter to post. It was by a small boy to his favourite band, Westlife. Jean asked me to find their fanclub address on the internet and post it off for him. This was her first mistake. Her second was asking me yesterday if I'd remembered to post it. In the middle of the childrens library. During storytime. Surrounded by about a dozen bored mothers and much too many people under the age of four.

'Fuck' I said.

Thankfully, most of the children ignored me and just went on brawling with each other and drawing on the walls. Their mothers, already pissed off with having to spend all day, every day with their offspring did not.

It gets worse. The boy in question, the fecker who wrote the letter, goes to a special needs school in Waterford. He spent (cringe) a whole hour typing up the three-page letter to Westlife and (wince) two weeks collecting signatures from the other kids in his school for the accompanying petition. And then there's this:

'PS: My favourite Westlife song is Wind beneath my Wings. My mum says it reminds her of me.'

The letter is, of course, lost. Knowing me, I probably used it as a taper to light a bonfire of orphans' Christmas presents. I spent a frantic half hour last night trying to forge forty kids' signatures on to a page but as it happens, Jean is off sick today so it look's like i'm in the clear. Until the day of reckoning anyway. There's no hiding from the big guy.

My evil empire expands...

Great news!

Now you can show your friends just how very shit-cool you are by purchasing your very own Lucy merchandise! Shame them by flashing your Lucy card, assuring your full Lucy discount and value deals! Wow them with your Lucy water bottle! Lucy socks! Lucy light! Lucy music! Lucy figurine! Sleep with Lucy! Is that a Lucy in your pocket? Lucy bones!

Just in time for the Christmas Market

Just in time for the Christmas Market, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Marie has published her autobiography! Personally, I am delighted for her. Though most of Tramore's male population will be buying it just to search the index for their names.

Best of luck Marie!

Getting INTO local government

Hubba, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Do you know John Deasy like I know John Deasy? This young man first came to my attention in spring of 2002 when his dashing face appeared on electricity poles and flyers all over my home constituency of Waterford. What a smile; what a jaw; see how his eyes gaze shyly at you from under his manly brow? Such a man deserved not only to be an elected representitive of our county in government but also general adoration and his pick of local comely maidens.

How I watched with pride as young Deasy stomped home to victory! How I hid the fact that I had voted Fine Gael from my mother! Established as party spokesman for Justice and Law Reform, young Deasy had a fine career ahead of him, and a pretty TV3 newswoman on his arm. But things could never be calm and tranquil with this young Waterford firestarter; Deasy raised party hackles when he voted against the guidance of his leader on the controversial smoking ban. Mr Deasy said at the time:

I think we could be a bit more decisive. We could take stands on issues that are unpopular. I think we need to mean something.

You poor idealistic sod, politics is no place for you! His tragic failing was this heedless optimism, this headstrong inclination for brave gestures. Earlier this year, only a few days after the introduction of the smoking ban, Deasy was caught smoking in the Dáil bar. Uproar ensued, and Enda Kenny moved swiftly to chasten our young hero. Analysts feared for his previously promising career:

John Deasy was, is and always will be a rebel, and no one should be surprised. He is like his father before him, bright and intelligent, but finds that toeing the party line is a difficult challenge.
[Irish Times, April 03 2004]

Having hitherto shone for his clean-cut good looks and boyish optimism, Deasy now became the Fine Gael bad boy, condemned and relinquished to the slag heap by all. But lo! What news is this? At the beginning of October, John Deasy took the decisive move to open up his constituency office in Tramore, Co. Waterford. The Munster Express refused to see this as a positive step forward:

"It may not be the pinnacle of his ambitions but his party leader Enda Kenny insisted that last Friday's opening of a new constituency office in Tramore is "the best thing John Deasy will do in his political career."

Of course it is! What action, involving a move to Tramore, is wrong! On occasion, our young TD has a pint in the Vic. I drink many pints in the Vic! It is meant to be. Also, his constituency office is just down the road and his office hours are 4-5pm on a Friday.

I might have a word voicing my concerns over waste collection charges this afternoon...

All these drunkards do is holler/till this drunkard cannot think

Joanne the emigré rang me from New Zealand the other morning. Except, like, New Zealand is, like, waaaay in the future, man, so it was night over there. And she was jarred and heading to a pub. She was all like 'What's up, man?', and I swear, it was like she had never left the country and was ringing me drunkenly from Meath. Ah, memories.

'I am so, like, 18,000 miles away, man!' she says. I nearly pulled her up on this and reminded her that us Europeans are metric now but in the end I let it pass. I was hugely embarrassed the other day when I asked someone how many kilos it was to Cork so I won't be claiming to know anything anymore. Lucy Aughney: Henceforth ignorant.

So, she had little enough news except that she's going on a surfing holiday next month (how cliche) and that she is currently crushing on a Brazilian who has bullet wounds (!). I was naturally concerned. 'Don't panic!' she assured me: 'They weren't fatal!'

So I assumed. Then she was all up in my grill about my news. So, naturally I told her about my dog being scabrous and partially clad in plastic. Realising I had no more news I quickly rang off, claiming a library emergency. Which was very close to being true. My mother needed me to get milk from the shop.

Keep 'em guessing, I say. Also, always undersell. And, bring spare socks. All wise words.

Don't stand in the rain, buddy

The dog, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

As if the bastard wasn't stupid enough to begin with, now he has to deal with having a plastic cone around his head the whole time. You should see him clipping against doorframes and yelping in alarm: hilarious.

DO NOT burgle my house in my absence

I'm off to Prague tomorrow with the mother and sister. Just letting you know in case you pop in and I'm not around. Also, for future information, I hate people who just 'pop' in. I require notice of your intended visit at least two days in advance so that I can arrange to be out or fabricate a feeble excuse. I will not have my aimless pottering disturbed for anyone.

That is all. Behave yourselves, children.

Lucy at Work

Lucy at Work, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Look at me there, serving the public!

I know you were all longing to see if I actually did anything so I filched a picture from a report the mother is doing for the council on disabled access. Johnny took most of them while me and Becky hid in fiction and berated him for trying to have us in them.

I am terribly fame-shy. If you look closely you will see how my lovely shoulders tremble under the camera's intrusive gaze.

To follow: Johnny's pictures of the lift interior and the disabled toilet.

Feigning Interest: Bringing you the pictures that MATTER.

I want this

Bolero, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Utterly subjective information

Oh dear.

The Harry Potter quiz I devised for the backward oiks of Tramore has started to unravel. First up came a busy-body mother who queried this:

What department does Arthur Weasley work in the Ministry of Magic?

I somehow managed to forget that of course Arthur Weasley CHANGES departments in book six. Then this was spied:

Who owns 12 Grimmauld Place?

When of course the ownership of 12 Grimmauld Place is handed on to Harry on the death of the original owner in Book 5! And just this morning, I've realised that this:

What all-female wizarding pop group played the Yule Ball in Book 4?

is intrinsically wrong! The Wyrd Sisters aren't all-female at all! They're just ironic!

The mounting evidence propounding my suffocating ignorance is very disheartening. I may have to hand the nerd mantel over to Mary's eight-year old who gleefully tested me on my Harry Potter knowledge last Monday and roared with laughter at every hesitation. Bested. By an eight-year old.

In which I show my age

I'm becoming middle-aged. I was watching Grumpy Old Women with the mother the other evening and spent the whole program leaping into the air, screeching, 'Yes! That is so true!'. In contrast, the mother spent the entire program slumped in the corner ignoring me and downing flagons of wine. She is a genuine old woman. I am sham.

Two weeks ago my bank reissued my ATM card for no apparent reason and cancelled my old card without telling me. I only found out when my card stopped giving me money and the ATM started cackling at me whenever I passed it. On calling the bank's helpline a moronic-sounding individual informed me of it's cancellation and of my new card awaiting me in Thomas Street in Inchicore. 'But I live in Tramore now.' I said meekly.
'You'll have to ring them then. Can't do anything from here, I'm afraid' he replied.

So I rang the Thomas Street branch. They didn't have it. I rang my own branch, in Donnybrook. They didn't have it. But they put me on hold for twenty-five minutes to check just in case. As I am wont to do, I apologised profusely to the idiot on the other end of the phone for bothering them, for wasting their time, for being such an inconvenience but would they mind terribly if I ordered a new card as it ever so slightly troubled me, having no access to my money? After all, what if I needed money suddenly, late at night to buy drugs or pay a ransom or something? THESE THINGS HAPPEN. I WATCH MOVIES, OKAY?

Alright, she said, but I would have to ring up my branch in Tramore to have it sent down because God knows they were much too busy to be bothering with stuff like actually helping their customers. So I did. And a week later, Tramore still hasn't seen it. Two cards lost in two weeks. Neat work.

Typically I have no emotions and am dead against expressing any that suddenly spring up, so I am a small bit ashamed to tell you that I was slightly irritated by all this messing about. What am I going to DO about, I hear you ask. I'll tell you: I'm going to sit down tonight and write them a stern letter. And then I'm going to sort out my pension and take up knitting. And slowly slip into my twilight years.

MORAL: DON'T MESS WITH LUCY. OR SHE'LL WRITE YOU A LETTER.