Absolute rubbish, but you understand?

Once, my car broke down on the road from Kilmeaden at something like eight-thirty at night. One minute I was driving through the night: smoking furiously and singing along to the Kings of Leon, probably- the next moment everything was pitch black and the dank country swirled bleakly in my ears. Apparently, something moved on the battery and the car just died, cutting out instantly and trickling to a stop in a ditch. That's all very well and good, and I'm glad we all know the mechanics of the situation, but at the time, as my breath froze and darkness slammed into my eyes, I quite calmly responded by putting my fingers to my throat to check for my pulse. Yes; when faced with sudden unanswerable quandaries and shifts in my surroundings, I just assume: why yes, I am dead. That is the only logical answer.

Today, powered only by the shameful thrust of my hangover and litres of toothpaste, I half slumped, half drifted through the day, surrounded by goons and fools, badgering me about the various hundred things wrong with their library experience. For a solid hour, I walked around twenty-five PCs and typed the same password in to them all repeatedly. Futile you may say, and I'd have to agree with you. The public saw it differently though and insisted I keep trying to establish a relationship with the non-responsive Internet. 'But why is it broken?' they sputtered annoyingly, as if I knew the answer. To anything. Ever.

Let me tell you straight off: on a recce of personal days of excellence, today was a write-off. I rocked and I rolled, pointing out the fabulous signage (created by yours truly) explaining the fuck-up in the whole Internet exchange, and finding bizarre, non-existent books without laughing('Pictures of houses of Georgian style, but not actual Georgian houses that were built in a Georgian era nor actual pictures, per say, just an idea because I want to draw my daughter a picture. No no, that will not do: do you not have a book on 'So you want to draw your daughter a picture...?' No??') while still pretending to care about the needs of others. I know. Sometimes I exhaust myself with my selflessness. But the stress! I can't tell you. It was horrendous. I was LITERALLY counting the hours until I could have a vodka. So there I was, serving the public and then... Then- all outta nowhere- a plaintive violin starts up from beneath me and suddenly FLASH FLASH FLASH

Did you feel death over your pale shoulder near the end of the last paragraph? Because, by God, I did. 'Woah', I said to Yvonne, who chose that time to wander the room: I placed my hands palm down on the desk and looked about wildly. 'Did you see that too or did the world just end?'

Yvonne stopped dead and stared at me. She looked at the ceiling, quite seriously. Then she considered the walls, the floor, the windows. 'No' she said, vehemently. 'No, I don't think so.' I checked my pulse, quite seriously. 'Nah,' I said, 'I think we're okay for now.'

Holy cow, but. Turns out it was an exhibition launch two floors down. The plaintive sawing of death was actually the sound of a pretentious pre-exhibition strum; the flashing lights merely the lights of our esteemed local press taking rabid photos.

All the same, I think you can understand why I was perturbed.

Leading you whores to culture

Do you like art? I know I do. Other things I like: websites, boats, sunsets, redheads. Uh-oh, excuse me: strawberry-blonde heads. I can feel your vehement nods over the information super-highway: I like those things too, you say! Well, what if I told you there was a place you could go to meet all your needs? Now there is!

It's called kensmith.ie, a veritable paradise for all you eclectic boat & art lovers out there. There you can paddle about in all your art-loving glory, doing your arty...things. In addition to painting pictures, our pal Ken enjoys building fabulous websites like this in his spare time. I know what you're going to say: too much spare time. I don't want to be a bitch or anything, but Ken is clearly missing some of the essential criteria for website creation, ie. funny video clips, drunken photography, blatant self-love and interactive quizzes. Bebo isn't a hit for nothing, Ken.

All the same, did Van Gogh have a website? No. Did Rembrandt, Monet, Rolf Harris? NO! Did any of these people have friends as famous as me to leach internet fame off? I THINK NOT.

Magical Evenings in Waterford City

The other evening, after another day's hard slog serving the public, I was sat waiting for my bus. It was 8.15 at night and darkish and chilly. In an effort to warm up I took to chain smoking. It was a poor idea, born of pure laziness. Slugging from my bottle of Fanta, I raised my eyes from the dull stream of passing cars and they were arrested by the twitching of a net curtain in a first-floor flat across the road. Idly I watched as the curtains were parted by hands and a man came into view, slight in build and wearing a red hoodie. His head, coronaed by the lamp behind it, bent towards the glass of the pane as he peered into the street below. Was he waiting for someone? I wondered, idly. 'Wouldn't it be nice if my bus turned up early' and 'I wonder if that is dried vomit on the bin' were some of the other thoughts that flitted through my head at the time. As I said, idle wonderings.

It came on me, all a-sudden, like a snail attack: his face wasn't scanning the path or the street. His gaze was fixed directly across the road. At me. Does he know he's staring straight at someone? I wondered, a little less idly this time. Really I was getting a bit peeved by now. It is extremely blatant, when doing some idle people-watching, to spy continuously on one lone soul by the bus stop outside your house. Frankly, I'd call that staring. Huff. I pointedly gazed down the road, indicating my absolute disinterest in his actions.

The curtains closed. Well good, I thought; about time. Now where was my bus? A black couple walked up to the bustop and sat down fifteen feet away, inside the shelter, and began speaking French so I had a crack at eavesdropping. Was that 'Je pense'? I know what that means! God, I'm so good at French, I can practically-

The curtains were drawn wide open now and I saw, with virtually no response that the red hoodied man had opened his belt. My mind still crackled with French as I saw the buckle hanging low down his trouser leg: Oh, he's taking his belt off, I realised. I was slowly losing my place in the conversation as I noticed his hands move to the button of his fly and slowly start to peel open buttons, flattening the flap of jeans against the waistband, his hands moving towards each other. Oh, I was wrong, he's taking his cock out, I corrected myself.

Abruptly, not knowing why I did it, I stood up and walked briskly towards the couple in the shelter. They looked up when I sat down right beside them: Do we know her? These Irish, they are friendly! they thought as I shivered melodramatically and grinned: Trop froid, non?

Troubles and Trials

I've lost my white plastic bangle! What do you mean 'what white plastic bangle?'? My white plastic bangle that is somewhat related to the excellent plastic bangles for charity that everybody likes to wear. What do you mean, 'nobody has worn plastic bangles for charity since oh, 2000'? I have no idea what you're talking about. I wear a plastic bangle, therefore they are hip and groovy once more. You know what else is hip nowadays? Saying 'groovy'. So says I.

Buzzcocks without Bill

Do not underestimate the resourcefulness of the Augh

Yes, that is a log.

I broke my bed

Not through frenzied pillow fights or anything remotely fun. No. I broke it by getting in it one night. 'Why doesn't she lay off those tuna melts and chocolate n' cheese based edibles' I hear you moan. Oh, grow up, I didn't break it with my arse. I am a sturdy and well-built young lady, 'tis true, but I am not remotely near to bed-breaking capacity yet. I blame faulty bed engineering. See that white plastic thing? That was the only support for the middle part of the bed for all these years. Bizarrely, it has stayed put but all the surrounding timbers have given up the ghost. I've been sleeping on what is essentially a precarious hammock for the past three nights because I am too lazy to do anything about it. But what can I do? Can a carpenter fix it? Do carpenters even exist in these fearsome recessive times? Can I stack things under it to act as a support? But what? Will stacks of books and old magazines do as they are the only things I have to hand? Shall I abandon the frame and turn Japanese, inviting visitors to lounge on my futon with me?

Should I (horrors!) buy a new bed?!