One suffers; we all suffer

La morgue, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Apparently, Christmastime is the time you show your local librarian how much you care for them by giving them large tins of biscuits that you got last year and didn't want. Have YOU dug out a dented, family tin of Rover biscuits for the one who brings the gift of literature into your life for two-weekly intervals? No? What's keeping you?! Librarians have feelings too, you know!

In other news, I'm unemployed from tomorrow on. First person who asks me what I'm planning on doing next gets dirt in their eye. And my fist.

Here is a picture of a Christmas morgue for you. Okay, it's not specifically a Christmas morgue. You fucking pedant.

It's a special Christmas message from M.Meryon et moi: you too will die, you mad, syphilitic buggers.

Edinburgh

Edinburgh, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

This is the cafe where J K Rowling wrote the first Harry Potter book. That is me in the doorway, looking whimsical. What do you mean I don't look whimsical? Trust me, whimsical is what I was going for. Screw you, naysayer.

Or 'wimsical', if you're feeling nerdy.

Health warning: Lucy's thigh mentioned in this post

The other day I spent two blissful hours (we rewinded some parts) watching Dirty Dancing in Jenny's slammin' pad. Because Aoife, also known as 'she-who-scoffs' was not there I was free to squeal and sigh at all the good parts. The girls collectively frowned at me. 'I thought you wouldn't like this film', said Jenny, 'cos you're all cynical and un-girly'. This made me squeal even louder.

'Dude! I am extremely girly! I own a Dido album and a Robbie album! And I think, I think I used to own some kind of picture frame with pink fake fur round the sides!'

'Oh, right. Sorry. Obviously I forgot about those' she said with a roll of her eyes.

I don't know what she is talking about. I wore stockings on Saturday night! With lacy hold-ups! And seams down the back! So hot Mags felt the need to pull my skirt up and flash them at everyone all night. That was fine with me though, one less thing I needed to do myself. Yes, yes, so one broke and I spent most of the evening tugging it up from my knee and clamping it to my naturally lovely thigh with the lacy hold-up part, but the point is I bought and wore something entirely impractical and frivolous for purely decorative purposes. That's my idea of femininity anyway.

Ecards don't count, dickhead

Christmas is great, isn't it? I have two Christmas parties this weekend, two! I am so industrious, I have two jobs. Two! I have no presents bought though. Is that a problem? I'm making everyone mix CDs this year anyway. Lucy's Sounds 2005, I'm calling it. And just now, I wrote some Christmas cards. Two! Me! Writing Christmas cards! Wild. I don't remember anyone's address though, so I can't write any more. And you all have such humdrum names! If any of you were sending me a card, all you need write on it is 'Lucy Aughney, Tramore' and I would get it! No word of a lie. Je suis une femme unique.

So...did you send my card yet?

Dawn of the morning

My song. According to Joanne, anyway.

Vile Sonia

Sonia, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

I'd been suspecting it for a while. Then on Saturday some Scottish yob roared at me across the bar of the Three Sisters: 'Ach aye wee lassie, ye look like that Sonia off Eastenders!' Shooting him a haughty Gaelic glare, I finished my tequilas and turned on my pretty heel. I HATE that Sonia one.

It's the absence of chin in us both that does it, that and the complete lack of profile we both suffer from. Not that I'm calling her a ugly cow or anything, but come on: she's the most irritating pain in the neck in Albert Square. Look at her in this picture- she's just standing there, all needy eyes and no-chin, probably in the middle of telling the horrible Martin that they will always be together, even though he knocked her up years ago, made her give her daughter up for adoption then ran over her boyfriend and did jail time for it. Ugh. And in that awful, dead-sounding voice of hers. How does someone get on telly with a voice like that?

Fortunately, I have the voice of an angel, the honey-throat of a goddess whose every murmer sends shivers down spines. Just so you can tell us apart.

The Scots will welcome me with open bars

I'm off to Edinburgh tomorrow! I know, you're terribly excited for me. I'm terribly excited for me too. According to Marie, they have a disco there where they serve the drinks in fishbowls and another pub called The Three Sisters where, if you do three of their shots you get a free t-shirt saying 'I drank the Three Sisters'. How cool is that? Then again, Marie is hardly reliable. This is the girl who finished school five years ago and is still in college, after all.

I will kill in Edinburgh, I can feel it. Metaphorically, I mean. I've been walking around perfecting my Scottish accent all week. Or should I say, mah Scottish accent. Oh. Accents don't carry through in text. Whateva'. And I have an Ian Rankin book picked out to walk around with. And if I remember my father's ramblings correctly the Aughneys have only been hard-drinking, farm-labouring Irish wastrels since the 1740s: before that we were Scotch wastrels.

Lucozade Sunset

Tramore beach, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

This is a photo Johnny took of the beach for the project he and Mary are doing on Tramore's ecology. In my mind, it's a short project. They've managed to drag it out for three months. Whateva'.

I call this photo 'Vodka and Lucozade Sunset'. Johnny is not too keen on this name. Johnny is not as into art as me. I did Art for the Leaving, you know.

Man and Wife and Lucy

Lisa and John's wedding photos are online! I have been wittering around in excitement for the last, oh, twenty minutes. All the good looking people in them are Lisa and John's families. John is the terrified looking lad in the pink tie, and Lisa is the slender goddess in the white frock. Joanne, our intrepid Woman in Auckland, first appears in frame 10.5 in a minty-blue strapless dress accompanied by the rest of the stunning Mitten women; Lisa's other sister Paula in the frothy lime-green number and their mum, Bridie in an elegant lavender.


I am present (off-camera) for numbers 5 to 16, holding handbags and the like for our models, and my shadowy profile appears over Joanne's right shoulder in number 22, and again behind Seamus in cerise and purple (me, not Seamus) in number 48.5. Shortly after these photos were taken it started pissing down and most of us got drenched legging it to the bus. Not I though. I wore kitten heels and could out run all the frothy numbers no bother. Then at the reception there was a lightening storm and all the lights went in the hotel and we ate and drank in candlelight for two hours without realising it, mistaking a power cut for romance.

Anyway, I know what you're going to say: It's a crime I don't feature more.

In consolation I give you this self portrait fashioned from the remainder of my lunch. I hates tomatoes.

Marie Connolly: Our Woman in Dublin

Marie went to David Grey in the Point last night. These are pictures of Mr Grey grooving up the crowd which she sent on to me in the wee hours of this morning. Not pictured are Marie and Julie hyperventilating over Sail Away. You see how current I am? I have representatives all over the shop reporting on all that's happening. All for you.

YOU'RE WELCOME.

S'alright. Just remember me when you're buying your Christmas vodka.

Big news!

Laptop, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

I got a computer. It is terrific. Mainly because sitting in front of it, gazing aimlessly out my bedroom window makes me feel like I'm Carrie Bradshaw. Except my crumby mother won't let me smoke in the house or faff about in my bra and pants. 'You are stifling my creative capacity, bitch!' I said but she was having none of it. So I am left with typing obscure, neurotic questions while pouting. Brilliant.

And it has so many other uses! For a start, the printer (not pictured here) provides me with extra surface space to house all the huge, fuck-off books I'll never get around to reading but which make me look intellectual. Then there's the physical benefits: why did I spend so long dealing cards to myself when this little baby will deal me new hands of solitare all day long? This thing is a GODSEND.