Look how far away New Zealand is! This is ridiculous. Long-distance relationships never work. I think I will have to cut her off without a bean. Unless she brings me back an elf from Lothlorien.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
PS: If my ulcer proves life-threatening I expect I will be moved to some institute in Switzerland for observation. If this happens I will reveal the password to my blogger account in a series of cryptic crossword clues, published daily, so that one of you can log in and post news of my illness for my fans. Watch the skies! And, obviously, the puzzle pages.
Friday, October 21, 2005
Ah, the Ladies' Slip.
Scene of many a Tramore courtship, if you know what I mean. Where Tramore youngsters go to get better acquainted with the object of their affection. Are you following me?
SEX IS HAD. THERE. ON THE BEACH.
Not that I'd know, obviously. I was told about it. By, eh, Marie. Can't IMAGINE how she found out.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
I want a puppy! I said to my mum, 'Mummy, I want a puppy!' and she just looked at me and pointed out that I HAD gotten a puppy nine years ago and looked across at the dog asleep on the couch with his tongue out, and I said I didn't want that big smelly thing, I wanted a clean little puppy!
Then she locked me in my room because I was annoying her. BOLD MUMMY!
Monday, October 17, 2005
BECAUSE I AM A BOLD GIRL AND LAZED ABOUT ALL WEEKEND. I AM GOING TO LIBRARIAN HELL. WHERE ALL THE BOOKS LIE ABOUT WITH THEIR SPINES BROKEN AND EVERYONE YELLS.
Anyway. I have only just noticed now, after stapling 60 copies of the thing, that the test for the older children which is made up of harder questions to satisfy even the most compulsive of Harry Potter readers, subtitled the genius quiz, has a typo. A rather amusing one.
I misspelled genius.
I've decided to claim it's post-modern irony. They might just buy it.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
UPDATE: Fucking November? And the Arctic Monkeys aren't out till next year?! How dumb do I look right now?
Muchos de apologies, friends. Apparently, failing to log out will do that to you. Who would have thought it!
She eyed me warily and skulled a glass of wine before answering: 'I think- hic!- you are not getting enough exercise.'
My mother eschews all conventional medicine, by the way. Her answer to most ailments is a long walk or going to bed early. THIS IS ALL. Maybe a lemsip, if you're lucky. A body part would have to be hanging off before she would allow you to go to the doctors. I am only telling you this in case I die of gastro-fatal stuff during the night and you need to build a case for child-neglect against the woman. This morning she actually tried to get me to walk the back strand with her. THAT IS EIGHT FUCKING MILES, MAN. And she told me to go study for my theory test. Pah, I say.
Friday, October 14, 2005
I'm all aflutter. Attention from people of this calibre unnerves me. What can one talk about to people who don't blog about how their hair is lying crooked today or why they think they're going to have soup for the tea or how they fell over while drunk? I'm embarrassed just being linked there. I can't even comment on smart people's blogs 'cos I never know what to say. So I'm sorry if I never return comments. I'm too fucking thick.
Funny looking hair or falling over I CAN DO. Anything less trivial I will undoubtedly fuck up.
Anyway, I'm touched. But not in the good places.
Monday: Woke up. Worked. Cooked 2 litres of pasta sauce, a roast chicken and meatballs. Froze former. Put books away on bookshelves. Considered putting some kind of order on them. Decided against it. Jenny and Mairead came over. Discussed horse-racing. Stared dumbly into mid-air. Went to bed.
Tuesday: Woke up. Worked. Walked dog. Considered putting clothes away in wardrobe. Decided against it. Drank half bottle of wine. Watched 'I love 1980'. Realised I wasn't born then. Felt depressed. Rang Aoife. Slept.
Wednesday: Woke up. Worked. Visited Liz. Walked in dog sh*t. Went driving in car park with mother. Learnt how to indicate. Very difficult. Was supposed to watch video in Mairead's house. Didn't. Cooked coq au vin. Forgot vin. So it was Coq au vin sans vin.
Thursday: Woke up. Felt sick. Mother advised exercise. I disagreed. Old lady told me I was ugly. Went driving with mother. Stalled four hundred billion times. Cooked dinner. Had fag in deck chair out back with overcoat on. Felt blue. Jenny came over. Watched Eastenders. Sally came home. Tried to impress her by showing how I could recite all the lyrics to Golddigga. Forgot whole verse. Looked for M.I.A. CD to show Sally. Couldn't find it. Decided Aoife must have stolen it cos she loves M.I.A. so much.
Friday: Woke up. Walked to work. Felt better. Read complementary comment on blog. Felt MILES better. Read nice email off Aoife. Felt terrific. Decided must get M.I.A. CD back off the b*tch though. Liz called in. Finished making out Harry Potter quiz for childrens book week. Realised I had neglected to make note of the answers. Cursed silently to self so hoardes of crayon-weilding brats wouldn't hear and logged into blogger. Thought about vodka. A LOT.
Roll on the weekend.
"Which, the book?"
"Of course you can! In the bath, in the kitchen, in bed, anywhere you want!"
Then she stared at me for five minutes. Yeah, I am obnoxious around children. So fucking what?
"My bed is pink."
"What colour is your bed?"
She wrinkled up her tiny little nose and raised her palms skyward. "Blue is a boys colour."
"No it's not, it's just a colour. It's for boys and girls. You can have a blue bed if you're a girl or a pink bed if you're a boy."
She looked at me pityingly and flipped her curls over her shoulder . "Pink is for girls. You're stupid." she sighed.
Nothing but abuse I get here.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
'She's Kate's daughter' said Becky.
'Ohhhh' said the old bag, and then, raising her voice and eyebrows at me, 'You're not as good looking as your mother, you know.'
Right. Thanks a lot.
'Or as nice' she threw over her shoulder as she waddled out the front door.
Brilliant. My week is going swimmingly. More importantly, how are you?
Monday, October 10, 2005
Saturday, October 08, 2005
I woke up this morning, feeling slightly restless and disatisfied (hungover also, since we're being frank), and came over here and opened blogger...and, well, just look. I'm not sure why. And I'm not sure what that red thing on the left is. But I expect it'll grow in, like a new haircut. After a time it'll be as scraggly and awful as it was before.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Of course, I cannot drive yet. If you remember, I failed my theory test about a year ago. Yes, failed. The notoriously simple Driver Theory Test. Let's not harp on about it, shall we? THIS is my time. I WILL pass that mother this time round. Unfortunately, as I discovered to my chagrin on consulting my diary on the bus with Aoife this morning, it is the day after Joanne's 'I'm-fucking-off-to-New-Zealand-for-a-year, come-and-mourn-my-passing-in-advance' party.
'How will I EVER manage to study?' I despaired.
Aoife roused from her early morning langour, sighed pitingly. 'You could just NOT leave all your studying till the day before the test...?'
Oh. THAT old chestnut. Yeah, right.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind; Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
'Yeaaaah...' said Joanne, doubtfully.
'I mean, I had always imagined them as horrible, nerdy things, my fans, but it seems they brush up well.'
Funny how none of you pestered me for autographs or urged drinks on me. Funny-I-find-this-very-upsetting, not funny-haha. Something else I found very upsetting was Paula's blatantly rude attitude towards my part in the success of the evening. I think she may even refuse to share her DJ fee with me, even though it is only through my brilliant marketing skills on this site that the place got filled. Bi-atch.
Speaking of upsetting things, where can I go for my "Dublin Bids a Fond Farewell to it's Adopted Daughter, Lucy" night? Obviously space is important, as is proximity to my house so I can easily drop home all the presents my fans will urge on me. I am thinking of renting out the Point, to accomodate all my grieving supporters. Not that I am DYING remember; just moving to Waterford. Take heart in this, friends. Death would mean I couldn't blog! But I plan to send blog entries up the country to Aoife on donkey. So Feigning Interest shall live on, even when I go into that dark, dark place... Tramore.
Slagging everyone else off is meant in jest, I pointed out... See where I'm going with this?
Recently I asked my father for a favour. This is typically a complicated procedure involving bribery, false flattery and platitudes. Yes, I'll buy you a drink if you do this; yes, I'll pay you back next week; yes, I know how fantastic a father you are for doing this for me; yes, I am amazingly lucky to have a selfless man such as yourself for a parent. My sister is better than me at it because she has the power of a younger, prettier child who can still stamp her foot and demand and he will give in. My approach is to rarely ask him for anything if I can at all help it, since his granting of a favour requires about 3-5 years of effusive gratitude and grovelling.
Occasionally circumstance overrules principle, such as yesterday. My father's response to every request for his time, for lifts places, for a lend of money, for his help is to sigh heavily and ask, after a long pause: 'Why can't your mother do it?'. Repeated requests do nothing but strengthen his resolve and further his powers of invention thinking up alternative solutions that let him off the hook. Eventually, my pride will kick in and I will say 'fine. It doesn't matter. I'll manage' and he hangs up, sated. He just waits for me to fold.
I realise of course that fatherhood should not be dependent entirely on what your father does for you, but when your father's entire concept of fatherhood is to stay as friendly as possible with his children while listening to them for the least time and doing the least amount of stuff for them he possibly can, it throws a bit of a spanner in the works. Occasionally having to do stuff for other people: the prickly part in having children.