I verily believe...

I verily believe all that is desirable on earth- wealth, reputation, love- will forever to you be the ripe grapes on the high trellis: you'll look up at them; they will tantalize in you the lust of the eye; but they are out of reach: you have not the address to fetch a ladder, and you'll go away calling them sour.



Charlotte Bronte, The Professor (Ch. 22)

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?!

Ce n'est pas gravé

I am home from France. It is cold here in Ireland. I am covered in mosquito bites including one on my eyelid prompting swelling that threatened the sight in my right eye there for a while. Also threatened: my startling good looks. Do you think anyone gave a shit? Not on your life. 'Oh, look at my eye, I am like that Hey you guys dude from the Goonies! Or maybe Paris Hilton, I don't know how bad it's gonna get.' Blank stares is all I got. Not an iota of sympathy, despite the fact that I now could not attempt to seduce the pool man, generally agreed to be the most handsome man in all France and evidently the richest if he can charge that much for 15 minutes work.

I was mislead about my holiday; I thought it was your typical French getaway, occasional swims and forays into local villages the only things to punctuate long spells of sunbathing, reading and lazing in hammocks. In fact it was a working holiday, and I was regularly spun from my book-reading, hammock-snoozing daze to sweep, dust, weed the garden and skim the pool.

I need hardly tell you that I would have thought twice on going on this free holiday if I'd known there would be any work involved. My excessive sleeping habits were commented on at least twice in the last six days, my ability to eat everything around me mocked at least once. And that's not the half of it: suspicious rumblings went round like warm cake when I was found to be hiding in the pool whenever something heavy wanted lifting down stairs.

'Good God, I cannot take these constant attacks!' I screamed but no one was around to hear me because I was in a seven bedroom villa in the South-West of France. 'How am I supposed to live in these conditions?' I asked of my only true friend, but he couldn't reply as he was only an empty champagne bottle, so I tossed him into a shrub and opened another. 'What is there left to enjoy of a persecuted life?' I wept miserably to the fields of sunflowers that rolled over the horizon.

The dashboard melted but we still had the radio

My sister asks so many questions. She staggers through life in a fug, startled frequently by unfamiliar words and concepts that leap on her like beggars in the dark. A typical half hour spent in her vicinity can yield such eccentric requests for information as: 'What's 'velocity'?'; 'Who's this McCain guy?'; 'What's a 'Republican'? Do they make everyone get a gun or what?' ; 'What's this 'vulva' thing I hear so much about on the telly? Is it catching?'; 'How do you spell 'hymen'?'

On most occasions I launch into a lengthy explanation: 'Well, it's not that simple to explain. You see the vulva is...' and ten minutes later she goes 'Oh. Right. Well why didn't you just say so. You do go on a bit, don't you.' I am a futile professor with an inattentive class.

Most recently these questions have veered off into 'If you are travelling at night with a wind speed of 30 knots and air temperature is clearing 260 degrees, Kelvin, and a horse-drawn vehicle signals that you insulted a member of their family, into what lane should you change and how many millimeters should you be from the moon? And oh, wait you're in Florida. And it's a Tuesday. Answer all applicable'. The Driver Theory Test, it's gotten ridiculous. Back in my day, it was tricky enough for me to fail it first time round but that was when the hardest question was 'If a pedestrian crosses in front of your vehicle (when it is in motion) should you a) run him down or b) not.' Nowadays you have to answer loads of maths-y junk and know the correct type of lantern you should carry if escorting a party of boy scouts from the scene of an accident and how you should alert a vehicle travelling to your rear that you are a gemini. While juggling.

'Driving is not complicated', I have to point out to her as I manoeuvre gracefully round a traffic island, one hand manipulating the radio, the other hand lighting a cigarette, the other hand painting my toenails. 'It's about feeling at one with your car, knowing it's limitations, it's hopes and dreams.'
'Are you still drunk?'
'No! Well...'

'Whup! Didn't you see that speed bump?'
'It was a secret one. Those buggers will creep up on ya. First lesson: look out for pot holes.'
'Watch-! And pedestrians?!'
'Well, only at crossings. The rest of the time they're on their own. Second lesson: Keep your eyes on the footpath.'
'Don't you mean the road?'
'No! Who am I gonna see to honk at on the road? Watch out for the footpath and see if there's anyone I know walking along it and we can stop and talk to them.'
'Right. Never mind, I'll just use the book.'
'Lesson three: You don't need to go down a gear if you're going around a corner, you just to need to speed up so you don't conk the engine.'
'Shut up. Even I know that's wrong.'
'Lesson Four: When driving in high heels, one should- oh fuck, cops!'

Oh, Woe!

Mary in work told me today that there is a wheat crisis afoot. 'So what, no Weetabix' I said in an offhand, I'm-not-really-interested-in-this-shit-you're-telling-me, but-i'll-listen-cos-we're-work-colleagues kind of way.

'No, no bread. Did you not see the wheat crops this year? Black!'

Why she would assume I knew the condition of wheat crops, I don't know, but there you have it. What a strange after-work life she must imagine I have, popping my head over silos and trailers to check on the condition of crops. Maybe that's what she does, cycling round the countryside and observing tillage. I have better things to do, thank you very much.

No matter. What Mary does on her own time is up to her. What counts here is that wheat is involved in the production of bread (I know! Who knew?!) and I live almost entirely on bread. Seriously. My diet is made up of about 75% bread-based products (ie. 'Les Sandwiches'), a fearsome chunk in these breadless times. The other 25% is derived from tobacco and caffeinated goods, which are rumoured not to have the best dietary heft. What will I eat?!

BIG NEWS!

Mags has coldsore. Is gross. Also: internet cafe PC in Berkeley did NOT auto-complete blogger.com when I typed it in. What? I thought everyone in California had a blog. Is MINDBLOWING. In other news:

• Am alcoholic now (Now?, you say)
  
• Planes suck
• Cork must be empty as entire population over here
  
• Timezones suck
• My sister is a selfish dork
• 'Frisco ROCKS!

Why doesn't everyone in the world live in San Francisco? Is most amazing place on earth. Let's just give up on rest of it and move all people here.

PS: Only on blogger because am killing time while Mags is beboing EVERYONE SHE KNOWS saying 'SFran is deadly! Not married yet! Fingers crossed!'

I never met a Toby that I didn't like

What is this junk, anti-folk?

Wikipedia doesn't know: 'It is still highly debated what exactly the defining characteristics of this sub genre are'. How utterly shaming, to be defined as something unknowable and only distinguishable as opposite to something else.

I'll admit right now I like to use the anti- tag for anyone who offends my delicate sensibilities by opposing any of my principles as being 'the anti-Lucy'. What are these principles? So far it seems they are 1) anything can be made better by having a drink, 2) Reading on buses is OK with me and 3) Amanda Brunker is an idiot. I'm only a wee one though, I'm sure to have a few more in time. Anti-folk now, they're in trouble.

I read in a magazine that record companies made up 'World Music' to push non-English language bands they wanted to promote, and to give music shops a name to house this new section. 'Ethnic Music', 'Earth Music' and 'Racial Beats' were all dismissed as being too offensive. I shit you not. I think I will rename Anti-Folk: 'Hipster jazz' is okay; 'Young Dudes playing Old' is better. I infinitely prefer 'Underused-Arts-Educations-and-a-tambourine Music' though. What feel you on this important topic?

What am I doing here? I should be packing my swimsuits and sparkly dresses: guess where I'm going next week!

Angry Lucy

Somebody is annoying me very much. I have spoken to him for precisely two and half minutes today and he has already pointed out three things I am doing wrong, laughed at me, and taken something heavy out of my hands because 'you looked like you were struggling'. I am oh, so, very, very angry. You would not like to see me angry, I feel. Fun, pleasant Lucy is gone and is replaced by someone who slams around the place and barks out commands in a humourless tone. I've been cracking jobs off in mad haste here this morning. So angry, I couldnt wait for glue to dry, for machines to heat up, to check if printers were switched on before I checked every wire coming out of the back of them. Goddamnit, I'm ANGRY, I can't sit around. Fuming in my futile rage, I sat down to eat a big bag of skittles and check my emails, but instead found myself activating my internet banking, checking my standing orders and ordering a credit card. Angry Lucy gets shit DONE. But no one likes her.

Loan-city. Next stop: full-blown maturity

Do you know what is actually dead easy and nobody knew? Finances. I mean, I never have any, nor do I spend much time thinking about them, but I walked into a financial institution this afternoon and walked out again in ten minutes fifteen hundred euro richer. What's the catch you may well ask. Well-GET THIS- I have to give it back. IN A YEAR! Like, are they thick or what? Is this the way our economy does business? No wonder there's a recession on!

He got me pegged

Do you know George, our resident Auld Fella? Ah, ya do. He who spends all his days on a sofa in the library reading Chekhov and an 800-page Nureyev biography, and occasionally delights us all with his opinions on such varied topics as the stupidity of the government, the stupidity of the young, and the stupidity of the Irish. He who we all refer to as 'fecking George' as he sends us off to find a T S Eliot authored account of Oscar Wilde's time in the Far East which, patently, does not exist. Today, prompted by my unasked retrieval of his cane from where he left it in the loo, he chuckled and threw his head back in a gesture that really made me fear for his stability: 'My deaaaaarr!' He croaked. 'For someone who works at such a mundane job, you really do seem to have a glow of innocence about you!'

Two weeks, six days

I missed my bus this evening. Missed TWO of my buses. The first because I was late, the second because I was reading an article in Cosmo about a girl who got twenty years in a Thai prison for smuggling marijuana and whose sister has moved to Thailand so she can visit her every day and bring her mascara and new clothes to keep her spirits up. I was reading the article and I started crying and I dropped my magazine and all my books and when I looked up I saw my bus drive away.

I think I miss my sister. Either that or I have smugglers remorse.

PS: I didn't buy Cosmo, I stole it! From the library, which you may not count as stealing but I DO.

Tragic events

ucy is getting the bus with all the other car-less saps for the forseeable future.

Tea Lady

I've been doing some investigatin' and apparently circulation figures for the Waterford People did not spike when I issued my internet directive last week. Is okay, am sure you all shared the one copy, pouring over page 16 until it disintegrated limply in your greasy paws. Before you email me to tell me, YES I know I look pregnant. And busty! And YES I know my name is Carmel Hughes now. Things change, guys, move with the times.

Your mission for today

I think everybody who has a spare €1.60 in their pockets should go out and buy today's Waterford People and turn swiftly to page 16.

Tramps Like Us

Raaar! He's coming to git ya!

In other news, Lorretta needs a class in correct photo-framing techniques, and the RDS concert staff are very prone to letting a little bit of power go to their heads. You need to tone down the attitude, people! What is this, like, a Big Brother, Orwellian concert? Are we attending a over-protective nanny-concert, where simple folk like you and I (more I than you, I'll admit) are prohibited from smoking cigarettes in the stands and dancing in the aisles? I ask you, what next?? No singing in the stands? No-shockhorror!- drinking in the stands?? THIS MADNESS MUST STOP!

Ongoing Learning

I am a master in few fields, but I think I can safely say, without fear of angry accusations, that I know those few fields and master them masterfully. These fields are, in no particular order: the Dewey Decimal system, making the under-fives laugh, having an encyclopedic knowledge of every Sinead O'Connor song ever recorded and achieving alcoholic intoxication. They don't let your friends rank you in this shit on facebook but if they did, I'd be #1. After intensive investigation from my R & D team, I can now announce a new sub-genre of my last and I think we can all agree, most fabulous talent: Dinner Drunk.

I guess I'm dealing with laymen here so I won't dress it up in fancy terms that us scientists like to use. You guys know about normal drunkeness, right? You have a few drinks and start feeling loads happier than you did before you had a few drinks and suddenly you're hugging your best friend from junior infants and telling everyone how beautiful they are. Yeah, you guys get it.

Now, Dinner Drunk is a cousin of regular-style drunk where you pretend to be all fancy and put on your nice dress and eat fancy food that some other people cooked for you. Because you're eating your fancy food and pretending to be all middle-class and shit, you disregard the numerous bottles of wine you toss down, 'cos wine is all fancy and doesn't count as real booze. You have fancy conversations with your dinner companions about increasingly abstract topics and generally believe that the problems of the world are being polished off along with your rhubarb crumble.

You pay the bill, over-generously tip your waitress and stumble outside to procure yourself a 'real' drink. HALT, soldier! This is where the problems start. Dinner Drunk is a curious phenomenon whereby the participant feels alright because of all the shiny cutlery-ed trappings of dinner when in fact he or she is in the same state as your average wino at 9am on a Saturday morning: nicely juiced up and thirsty for more.

Woe! you shriek, I knows it! I have known the lure of clean crystal and fabric napkins also! Woe begone, say I: there is hope. Friends, am I #1 in fictional facebook leagues for nothing? Nay! Here comes your solace: Dinner Drunk, because of it's close ties with the dining-out bourgeoisie, is one of the most respectable kinds of drunk there is! It totally out ranks Cider Drunk and Niteclub Drunk, and is only pipped to the title of The Best Drunk, Ever by Wedding Drunk which, if I can make a sporting comparison for the common man here, is the Chelsea of Drunk: exquisitely put-together and fearfully unbeatable. Wait, what?

Dinner Drunk is how middle-aged depression can be assuaged and a non-existent social life overcome. Dinner Drunk, like Rich Drunk, totally doesn't count and you can't be held responsible for anything that occurs. In fact, since Dinner Drunk actively supports our catering staff during this critical financial clench and eating in snazzy restaurants makes a dining drunk feel super-posh and intellectual, you might say that he or she is in fact behaving as any fine, upstanding citizen should.

So there you have it: information, explanation, debate. Next week: Dewey numbers!

Infamy, infamy!

Ins. Hunt said Mr O’Brien claimed that he had gone for a drive on Sunday October 1 after arguing with his wife the previous night when he caught her kissing a mutual friend.He said he drove his own car to Tramore and sat in it reading the Sunday papers and listening to the radio.

Yes, Tramore is the prime alibi for murder suspects. Yes, we are proud of this fact. We promote newspaper-reading and radio listening amongst our best-loved tourist attractions, that and conviction-dodging. Why yes, you can come visit! No, we can't promise you won't be spotted on CCTV near the spot your wife's body was found at the exact time you claim to have spent a pleasurable afternoon reading newspapers in your car in lovely Tramore. We're not that good.

What's a good April Fool's joke to play on someone who works at the library?

A fine question. To play the best joke, you really need to work at a library or know someone who does. One excellent gag is to find someone who works at the library and has a teenage daughter, pull up the daughter's record, and reserve a half-dozen books on subjects like teen pregnancy, what to expect when you're expecting, and a book of what to name your newborn child. When the books arrive, show them to co-workers and spread nasty rumors. At the end of the day, tell the person that their daughter's books have arrived. Wait a day before you tell them it was a joke.

If that's too mean, here's another good one: Most databases allow you to insert a note field in the patron's record where you can write messages to alert other workers if a patron was rude to you, lied to you, smelled like urine, etc. The purpose of this field is to keep track of a patron who isn't paying fines or has some sort of other repeating offense, but that doesn't mean you can't have a little fun with it. So, find a loyal friend who has a library card and put a note in his account that says something like, "If patron is wearing a red T-shirt and a Disney hat, he may try to kill you. If he asks you how many books he can check out, he is about to go crazy. Alert police immediately." Give your friend a red shirt and a Disney hat, tell him to go into the library, check out a book, and ask how many books he can check out. When the police arrive, tell him it was just a joke.

McSweeneys.net

Other fun jokes I just made up include sticking a security strip inside someone's coat, and telling someone the Dewey Decimal system is being by shelving according to height. Heh. Me so funny. If only I had friends to appreciate my funny...

Not pictured: Sacrilege!

Also:

You wanna buy some stuff?

Do you often find yourself in need of somewhere to put your daffodils? Or somewhere to play Monopoly? Or carry out your elaborate art projects? Fret no more, ease your trouble, that's what I do! Here is a genuine wooden table with genuine wooden chairs thrown in! As you can see, this table has all four legs intact and is literally made from wooden trees! The trees have, of course, been cut down and de-squirrelled for your convenience, because no one wants to eat their breakfast with squirrels.

And that's not all! This table also comes with two excellent drawers that slide in and out of the drawer-shaped holes on either side! Fitted with no expense spared, these drawers come with handily-shaped knobs, all the better to facilitate your drawer-opening needs! You can put literally anything in these drawers, from napkins and candles to more candles and bits of broken crockery you don't want anyone to see you broke!

But wait! There's more! What about when you have people over for some tasty pasta meal you just invented with the help of your head-chef, Mr. Dolmio? How do you make them feel at home AND ensure they stick around long enough to help you clean up? Why, with chairs of course*! This table comes with six genuine wooden chairs absolutely free!

Is that all I hear you say? Are you trying to flog us some meaningless albeit fabulous wooden table with exquisite accompanying seat parts? Is that it? I am a deep and profound person, I need something more than mere surface beauty to feed my deep and profound soul.

Fear not, precious customer. I can now reveal that this admirable piece of furniture comes from the estate of none other than the Great Lucy Aughney. It dates from that historically significant year, 2004 and has featured such luminaries as Lucy herself at trough over it's rich pine. Gaze in wonder at the wise old gleam that was witness to countless wise aphorisms and sparkling witticisms over the years.

Would you deny for your family the opportunity to own a genuine antique? Would you? Bid immediately on this priceless relic of greatness and you too can share in the glory!

L'histoire de la table

This one time, we had a party with the table.


Another time, Sinead and the table drank all the vodka.

Then this other time, Lucy was cross with the table. Both parties have tried to forget the incident but local folklore claims it was something to do with how the table got Lucy so drunk and fat-looking.

They got over it, and to this day Lucy enjoys hanging out with the table and having a beer.

*Research has proven that it is significantly harder to escape from somewhere if you are sitting in a chair than if you are standing up.

I think this guy is stealing my schtick

Damnit! I was gonna cover misogyny and date rape this week! Back on with the ideas hat I think.

Situation: Managed

Good news!

The crippling guilt and empathetic mortification that kept me from gracing my favourite off license with my presence for nigh-on six weeks is all over! It's made like a tree and fucked off! Vamoosed! Hopped a train for the west! What does that mean? I don't fucking know, I just write this stuff, it's up to my biographer to figure it all out!* You see, I encountered my favourite off-license employee, we'll call her Amy, out in a popular local nightspot over the Christmas holidays and, all buoyed up on the joy and festive guff that trickles from other people being around and hugging one indiscriminately, I insisted that she join me in a wee dram. Of tequila. The aforementioned fave off-license employee claimed excessive inebriation but I waved this off as feminine coquetry. Why I thought this is anyone's guess. We ordered shots, received shots; ladies and gents, we shot.

And then she vommed all over me. Exuberantly. One might say, explosively. Then she started to cry and scarpered swiftly. So, because I am a lady of class and discretion, I have avoided her ever since. Until tonight, when my newfound fondness for making smoothies at all hours sped me to her place of work to purchase tinned pineapple. I crossed my fingers, toes and legs (I'd had two cans of Fanta before setting out) and hoped against hope that she had been fired. For her sake, you understand. I was horrified for her. Nobody minds a bit of vomit on them, especially if one deserves and probably induced it but, my God! The humiliation that girl must have suffered, night after night, concerned for my take on the situation.

So. Short story long, I mustered my troops and plopped my pineapple and six pack of Fanta down on the counter. 'Ooh, Amy, you got your hair did!' I exclaimed. Yes, my lips uttered trite inanities but my eyes beseeched: I forgive you, little sparrow. Now, forgive yourself. It was enough. We are firm friends once more. Relieved? Dude, I nearly puked!

*Yeah, by the way, you need to get cracking on that, Mr Biographer. I have six shoeboxes of juvenelia sitting around here, just waiting for you to unearth my precocious intellect!

She got tha moves

My new craze is Salsa. The dancing, not the dip. Though the dip is pretty funky too. Oh, didn't I tell you? I kicked guitar to the curb. My teacher just wasn't down with my personal sound. Also, he had a strange obsession with girls having good posture whilst playing guitar. Yeah. So, instead, Mags and I are going to become fantastic Latin-type movers. It's going well so far. And when I say 'going well', I mean that we turned up, paid an obscene amount of money for what seems to be a slightly more energetic form of line-dancing, got scolded by a stone-cold Spanish bitch of an instructor and looked like full-on tools. Without dancing a step!

I'm a PAYE drone! Like, for real!

I don't know about this 'new job' malarky. Yeah, I get these important-looking keys that swing off my belt and make me look really cool, and I get money for going in there every day, but otherwise, what is it really doing for me? I mean, my sleep pattern is totally thrown off with these early mornings. And my gratutitous internet browsing is really down. There are literally thousands of gossip blogs and web cartoons going unread by me on a daily basis. Until half an hour ago, I hadn't checked my emails in two days! Yeah, I only had seven new mails and four of these were from myself on my work email saying 'hi! Isn't is so so so so so cool having a work email?! Kisses, mwah!', but, my God, it's the principal of the thing. This is the question I find myself asking on an hourly basis, especially in those wearisome hours when I have to fill out accident reports for knocking a coat stand on myself, or when I have to talk to yet another customer about how much they just loved PS: I Love You: Is work worth working for?

That doesn't make sense? Well, screw you, I've got a pension now. And maternity benefit should the unexpected happen. Oh, if only the unexpected would happen...

2008: The Year of the Kennys

What in the name of all things holy are you doing on the internet superhighway, tonight of all nights?? Good God, have you no shame?! Do you not realise what tonight is? It's Jigs and Reels 07! The television show that celebrates the art of Irish dance and cretinism of Irish celebrities! What ARE you doing? Get thee to thy television and vote! Only for my uncle Jon obvs, or I'll move you to my naughty list. And tomorrow? Tomorrow, when you clutch your tummy and head and moan for relief? Why, you're watching Living the Dream, natch! What else?!

If you're reading this on Wednesday because you slept through the entire new year festivities, s'okay! There's still hope for you! I came up with that title you know. Where are my royalty cheques, you ask? Where indeed, friends.

Topless and ashamed

Today I had a driving lesson and a pre-employment medical examination. One of these occasioned the removal of my upper layers of clothing. GUESS WHICH ONE.

No, but seriously, besides the unexpected breast check, which was totally the most intimate I've ever been with another human being whilst sober, I managed to fuck things up on a whole other freakish level. Returning from the bathroom, tester pot of wee in hand, I noticed a stray hair on my left hand and went all frowny. What to do? I was holding the wee in that hand. Dial D for Dilemma! If only I could get that stray hair off my wrist without anyone seeing how messy and scruffy and covered with goddamned hairs I was... but how to do it? So I scuffed my hand angrily against the side of my cardigan and went 'ugh' loudly and stuck my hand out in front of me in disgust. And looked up to see the nurse staring at me.

So I handed her the wee and made a big deal of praising the liquid soap in the bathroom so she would not go home and tell her family and friends about the 'ugh' girl who went to get a urine sample and came back wiping her hands on her jumper. I am not that girl.

Lucy: Now with music!

I think we can all safely say that I am a musical person. I mean, I read Mojo, when I see it lying around in someones house or something, and I buy albums. Sometimes they're not even in the top 30! But that's me, I'm just very, very creative. And, um, into music. So when I got the opportunity to learn guitar, I jumped at it. Well, two weeks later I jumped at it, cos the first Tuesday I was working and the second Tuesday I was just really tired. Guitar playing is shit-easy, alls you need is a guitar and fingers. I broke into Marie's house* and stole her guitar, which has an interesting provenance you might want to hear about some day and then when you hear about it you will sigh and be sorry you cared enough to stay conscious long enough to hear about it.

Mainly, we learn the chords. I say mainly but that's a lie, because mainly we listen to my teacher, Pascal, bang on about how you have to want to learn guitar, and you can't learn it for anybody else you have to learn it for yourself. Whatevs, man, I just want to learn some riffs so I can impress at parties. Then Pascal knocks out some hip tunes just to show us all what we can learn, eventually. But no time soon, no no. Maybe next year. Maybe 2011. But the guitar is a lifelong thing. 'You never stop learning,' says Pascal, 'look at me, sixty in June and I'm still learning.'

Pascal took one look at Marie's guitar, which is streaked with wax thanks to her fondness for candles and lots of 'em, and said it had a crooked neck and needed to be restrung as the strings are black and dirty and inhibit my magical strumming. So I borrowed one off my Dad's girlfriend Bridget, and it turned out to be super-fantastic. A) because it's a Yamaha and is 'a very good guitar', according to Pascal, but more importantly I feel because b) it comes in one of those hard, black cases that gangsters carry their guns round in. Everyone else in the class has those crappy-looking padded-nylon cases which you could never ever carry a gun round in.

Pascal says we are a very advanced class, but Pascal is used to teaching ten year olds so what does he know. I'm a few weeks behind everyone else because I started late but I don't let that stop me. Nor do I let the strange buzzes my strings make when I touch them bother me. As Pascal says my fingering is excellent. Which, as far as I can make out, is kind of like saying 'well done on not dropping the guitar!' Unfortunately, Pascal also thinks I should slow down and just learn two chords a week to everyone else's three cos 'everyone's different. In every class in every school in the world there's the brainy girl or boy and the child that has to go a little slower. It doesn't mean anything; it just means everyone's different. But everyone's the same, Lucy. Do you get me?'

So, yeah. Looks like I'm the retard of the class.

*Well, if you consider calling into her mother and asking her politely could I borrow Marie's guitar as stealing. Which I do. I'm hard!

Aaargh!

We booked our Christmas party! Pure craziness! I had nothing to do with it, I prefer pints and chips to roulade and jus and confit, thank you very much. Or 'culinary sparks', to give them their correct term. The words 'demure simplicity' and 'genuine and understated hospitality' should never be bandied about when recommending a venue for a party. If I had my way, all parties in the universe would involve karaoke, fancy dress, Rock the Boat, drinking games and bowls of crisps. And pinatas. And duvets to sit on. I don't know why, but duvets say fun to me. I am an acquired taste.

UPDATE: Just thought you should know that this is the library Christmas party. And when I say 'you should know' I mean you, Marie Connolly. And don't fucking ring me, all drunk, and question why you have to go to some big house in Lismore for your Christmas party. You're not invited to every fucking party going, Connolly. And also, maybe lay off the midweek boozing sessions. You alcos disgust me.

In which my area of expertise is pinned down

Joanne, our archivist, asked for my assistance on a query this afternoon. I know. Crazy, right? After I stilled my quivering nerves, I went into her office where she had this big old map pulled up on her screen. 'Right', she said, 'I need you to tell me where Doneraile Place is in Tramore.'
'Uh, is it not near, like, the Doneraile?'
'No, it isn't actually or I wouldn't be asking you. Come here and show me it here on the map.'

'Wow! Cool map!' I said. 'Where'd you get that?'
'... Lucy, it's the one of the nineteenth century OSI maps we have on our website. Please stop being an idiot.'
'Oh really? That is downright amazing, Joanne! So, when all those people come in looking for online maps this is what they mean?'
'Yes, I suppose so. Why, what did you think they meant? What do you show them?'
'Uh, Google Earth?'
'No. These would be what they are looking for.'
'Uh-huh. Great. I'll try and remember that.'

'Lucy? Will you show me Doneraile Place now please?'
'Well, Joanne, it's pretty hard. I mean, that there is just a load of boxes and some dead person's shaky hand-writing about farms. How can I figure that one out?'
'Well, can you make out where it would generally be so?'
'I dunno...'

'Look,' she said, 'here's a newer one, with water mains. How about now?'
'Uh-huh, I see what you're trying to get at here. But these are all just street names. I don't know Tramore by it's street names. No one knows Tramore by it's street names. No offence, but street names are for nerds.'
'Right.'
'I know! Have you got a map with all the pubs marked in? Then I could figure it out!'

Blogging the Radisson!

Maries asleep! Shhhh!

We are in the Radisson Limerick. I can't explain why; it's too complex and I'm waaaay too drunk. Apparently, I'm not too drunk to use semi-colons and sixteen vowels to emphasise a point. AMAZING. I always suspected I was a pretentious punctuator.

The big news here is, of course, that when you arrive home and your hotel has a room service menu that runs twenty-four hours, they don't actually serve you your savoury roast beef sandwich at 4am, cos the kitchen is closed. And then, when you put on a funny posh voice and ring down again to ask for the sandwich again ten minutes later they will say, 'no, the kitchen is closed. I told you that ten minutes ago.'

Also, if you stay in a posh hotel with a girl, taxi drivers will assume you are gay together and point out gay bars on the way into town. Just sayin'. For future reference, guys.

Look what I done!

Roaar, I'm a crazy bitch! Kilmacthomas is really dull, okay?

Schizo? Or...brilliant?

Ladies and gents, I would call your attention to these pictures you see before you, hereafter entered into evidence:

EXHIBIT A

X-ZIBIT B

You see before you, my friends, evidence that on the day of the nineteenth of June, 2007, the defendant did neglect to correctly close the front right window of her automobile and she did abandon her vehicle for over twenty-four hours, and upon that day, four thousand inches of rain did fall in the county of Waterford. I will draw your attention if I may, to the full inch of water collected in the little groove-thingy in the driver's door-handle, evident so clearly in exhibit A; also to the quite blatantly rain-flecked appearance of the car's interior. Not pictured is the extremely wet (I might go so far as to say saturated) driver's seat cushions, neither the curiously vile smell of wet foam mingling with the cola-scented Wallace and Gromit in-car air freshener. Available for your inspection upon application is the defendant's wet ass-

I object! The prosecution is inferring that I have a wet ass by rule, and that I did wet that ass in a manner unseemly to grown adults normally in full control of their bodily functions!

I merely stated that the defendant did, on the aforementioned evening, sit upon these rain-sodden car cushions, the cushions rain-soaked by her own negligence, and then did proceed to walk around in public view with a wet ass, with little thought to what innocent members of the public would think of seeing such an ass. I ask you here today, are these the actions of a sane, well-adjusted, competent individual? Are they? Are they?

...

Objection overruled.

Thank you, your Honour. I will proceed. I also suggest to you today that on the evening of the seventeenth of June, the defendant did leave her automobile overnight in the public car-park of a town notorious for drunken carousing from the some of the commonest, coarsest people in the island of Ireland. She left this poor car, my friends, with the doors unlocked. Not one door, but all four.

BurbleburbleburbleGoodGod!Burbleburbleburble

Quiet in the courtroom! Counsel, illuminate me on one fact: What is this town you speak of, this den of vice and sin and all things abhorrent to an honest man?

Tramore, your Honour.

BurbleburbleburbIIIIIEEEEEE!!-

Guards! Take that fainting woman away!

If I may continue-?

You may, but take heed not to speak such profane words in my courtroom again.

I apologise. It is fortunate, ladies and gentleman, that we live in a kinder, gentler world than the foul actions of this pitiful wretch might suggest. Because on this evening, when her automobile lay open to the four winds, open like the private diary of a young girl, plundered for it's tenderly-trusted secrets by her cruel and insensitive brother, open like a mysterious door at the end of a dark and gloomy corridor that you shouldn't be in, open like the 24 hour Tesco on the Ardkeen road, open like a-

You digress, oh-esteemed-member-of-the-legal-profession.

That I do, your Honour: such is the HEINOUSITY [newly invented word, as the English language does not possess words enough to suffice in this occasion] of this crime that I am forced by my own fragile and shocked mind to spout such ridiculous garbage. ... I can only thank God, and the good work of the much-praised and tireless Garda Siochana, that no petty thief expressed any interest in the twenty-six empty cigarette boxes, , the broken cassette tapes, the damp swimsuit and beach towel, the banana peels-

I OBJECT! There is only one banana peel in my car! Any extra banana peels found therein were planted by a malevolent person or persons unknown in an evil attempt to besmirch my character!

Young lady! I will not have such behaviour in my courtroom! Sit down and keep quiet! And put your top back on. That won't cut it, not this time.

May I continue, your Honour?

First, I would like to ask you a question regarding this hideous tale you recount to us today. Are you telling me that this individual, this feckless and moronic tool of Satan, this shifty character with a seemingly non-existent knowledge or regard for car maintenance or safety, has at some point operated an automobile on an open road? A road with people on it?!

Your Honour, she has operated this vehicle on the open road, and continues to do so to this day.

BurbleburbleburbleburbleOfAllTheNerve!Burbleburbleburbleburble

Silence! Silence in this courtroom, I say!

Out on the Wild Windy Moors

I have generally negative affection for children. Oh yes, they adore me and flock to my side, as does every human person equipped with a heart and the ability to appreciate pure loveliness, but on an individual basis I'm kinda shit. It's their soulless, dead eyes that get me most. I can't talk to things that won't talk back, and the under twos and the shy-feigning under fives get me most. 'How old are you, then?' I will say to a small person. Nothing. Maybe a bit of drool or something but for conversational purposes, zilch. 'Thirteen weeks' their proud parent will say which gives me even less because what serious person gauges age in weeks? For example, I am 1247 weeks old. What does this mean? Absolutely nothing. If I tell you I am getting drunk next Wednesday to celebrate the 24th anniversary of the conclusion of my mothers first pregnancy, what do you know now? EXACTLY.

A young man and his mother came into my place of work (a pharmacy, today. Tomorrow, who knows? I don't!) because she couldn't afford toys. Or a babysitter. Oh, yeah, she pretended it was to buy hydro cortisone cream for his eczema (btw, do all babies have eczema? Seems like it. Gross) but really it was because she is cheap and bored of watching him smash her house up. The tyke took off careening round the shop, grabbing at anything that was of interest to him (which, since he is about 18 months old is anything that is three dimensional or coloured). I turned a blind eye, because in my experience one is generally supposed to find other people's children delightful no matter what they do, so eyes must be turned blindly, even when they start shitting up everything they can reach.

Until the fucker ran right into the shop window and started stomping on the Berocca display. Hell no. Do you know how long it took me to get those posters hanging straight? 'Shaaaaane' sighed his mother as he started to scream, having discovered that a)the shop window is ten inches wide and impossible to turn around in, b)THERE IS NO WAY OUT and OMG, cars rushing past outside the glass! You, the average, sane individual may be perturbed by the shrill cries of a toddler stuck in a glass corridor, but she, inexplicably, was not.

So it was up to your hero to rescue the little rascal. I thrust aside the Max Factor stand and elbowed my way through last month's Nicorette display, hitting my head on a glass shelf in the process. What I don't do...

'Shane' I said softly to the grubby-cheeked ball of chub sitting on a busted Vichy posterboard, who was working hard to scrub snotty tears deeper into his blotchy red cheeks. 'Maaaaa!' he whimpered back, and threw his filthy claws up to me, greyish tears tracking cleanly down his three chins. 'Maaaaa!' was the cry that went directly to Lucy's empty uterus. But, yeah, I didn't do biology in school so it was probably just my stomach grumbling.

...

Dude, I melted.

I lured him out by shaking a bottle of Looney Tunes bubble bath in front of him then soothed him and petted his scabby little brow until he could draw a deep, grief-stricken breath. 'Good boy!' I exclaimed. 'Who's a good boy? Shane's a good boy!' Then I patted his head. Dogs and children are pretty much the same in my book.

By the time I handed the young vandal back to his indifferent mother, he had cried a thousand years of snotty woe on to my shirt. Heaving the wordless hulk under her arm, she left. I watched them go and my ovaries pinged into overdrive. I wanted me a Shane! I wanted a grimy lump of baby to wipe goo off and snuggle! Just as I was headed off to pick up an ovulation kit and find me some manseed, I spotted the Cortopin sitting on the counter. 'Martina, that woman forgot her cream!' I said to my boss.

'Oh no,' said she, 'it wasn't eczema at all. They're headed to the doctors now; I think his scabby things are chicken pox.

'By the way, you have phlegm on your shoulder.'

'Isn't it so me? Isn't it more me than it's ever been?'

I wanted:


Crossed with:

I got:
Blame my horrendous forlocked brow if you will; I'll continue to shake my fist at the heavens and curse the day I offended the Gods by murdering Alison Moyet's Weak in the Presence of Beauty at Christmas Kareoke. Or something. The list is getting a bit long for me to carry around by now.

Why isn't everything the way it is on MTV?

-is the title of my debut album. Visceral and challenging, it raises pertinant questions concerning modern life, pop culture and humanity's obsession with the commercial in, uh, modern life. Tentative release date May 2008, depending on my recording commitments.

OMG, so much happened! Ultimately, I can't share with you these happenings because on closer inspection, they proved to be of the mundane and joy-killing type. And in case this is your first visit to a blog, mundane joy-kills are soooo not what blogs are about. They're all about the sexy, fierce, MEGA stuff. Like 'Now, I am a man' or 'Lately, I've been experimenting with bisexuality. Alone'. Not 'Recently, I got a totally fugly haircut. That hairdresser is so dead. But I won't actually do anything about it cos I think she may be mad at me for getting off with her brother, like, hello! years ago!' or 'Have I told you yet about the mildly amusing anecdote regarding a briefly mislaid wallet? No?! Sit down, pull up a bean-bag! The ending is vaugely anti-climactical but you won't even notice because you'll have drifted off!'.

Stay tuned for multi-various incidents of fun, recounted here as soon as I can fabricate them!

Where is the Love? Here is the love! Show me the love!

Get your own valentinr

Was the five o'clock shadow there before?

I honestly don't know where I find the time to do things like this, what with the three jobs and the hectic social life and all (Social life? Where? Catch it!), but somehow I managed to squeeze it in between cleaning my laptop keys and de-linting the washing machine. I give you this. And these, the results. Or, as I like to call it, 'Lucy, if...'. You may call it Ugly-Picture-Post, I don't care. But know that if you do, I won't love you quite as much as I do the other kids.



Here I am, the original hottie. Yes, yes, I know; my beauty has sent you into a tailspin of depression. I get that a lot. There's a reason I'm known around these parts as 'Tramore's resident Goddess'. Also 'Tramore's favourite whory daughter' but that's only in certain very distasteful circles.

Now: Baby Lucy!


Zoinks!, as everyone's favourite dog-detective would say. The cuteness is giving your cavities cavities.

Lucy the younger:


Oh yes. What an adorable (if oversized) brow! Those fabulous blue eyes, how they sparkle with intellect and charm! I can see this child lolling on piano stools with black velvet bows in her hair in some novel. Someone once told me I had an historic countenance, actually. Whether that meant consumptive or just merely 'before the age of cosmetic surgery', I never got to find out.

Lucy the teenager:


Woah. Back, hormones. What's with the ears? Do teenager's ears pop out like that, like Dumbo's? Yeeesh. Stop scowling like that, young wan. Up to your room and read some more Sylvia Plath with ya.

And, brace thy loins, Lucy the Elder:


I can't say this in a nice way so I'll just say it: this looks scarily like my mother.

Now for the nice part: Artists impressions. First, Mucha:


I think I can safely say that Mucha is pretty much my favourite person right now. So pretty! Can I have this one for my driver's licence? Dependent on me actually getting one, obvs.

Botticelli:


Dude. I hate that guy.

Modigliani:


That guy is so never painting my portrait.

Now the funness. East-Asian:


West-Asian:


Afro-Caribbean:


God, I'm lucky I was born white.

And finally, the one all you ladies have been waiting for, Lucy as a boy:



Wow. I would totally fancy myself if I were a boy. Maybe not in the girly blouse and with all the hair though. Seriously, put your hands up to your monitor and cover up the hair. And, um, the ears. Hubba-hubba. Male-Lucy, I adore you.

CAUTION: Fuck-ups and unabashed pleading contained herein

I'm not entirely sure how it happened, but somehow my laptops gone horizontal on me. And I can't switch it back. And before you ask, no, turning it off and on again didn't work. Nor did blinking hard and saying 'ta-da!'. So you could say I've exhausted all reasonable avenues. What to do, what to do. Come on nerds, muster your wisdom and advise me! You've got to be of some use to me, otherwise what am I keeping ye on the books for? Please? I'm developing an aggressive crick in my neck.

And no snotty remarks about my wallpaper, k? I mean it, shitheads. No, you grow up. No, you. Stop calling me pretentious or I'll tell Mom.

Everyday I learn something new

Note to self: when one complains for hours about excessive heat and stiffling conditions in work environment, do not go on to claim one closed fire-escape door because of excessive chill, thus locking lovely and entertaining new co-worker engaged in breaktime cigarette outside in drafty alley for fifteen minutes and forcing aforementioned lovely co-worker to climb wall and knock on canteen window for assistance. Such behaviour might be considered contradictory and one could be mistakenely thought to be possessing malicious intent towards lovely co-worker. Such behaviour might, possibly, inspire lovely co-worker to put horrible things in one's possibly pretentious herbal tea. Possibly.

What's it even there for?

Sheeesh. You drive onto the kerb a few times and you get this! Talk about your shoddy car manufacturers! Now people stare at me as I rattle round town. And not in a good way. Get over it, people! I'm not staring at your big, ugly-ass head, am I?! No, I'm not. Some of us have manners. And problems gauging distance.

We've all been so blind

Yeah, yeah, I know all you internet nerds have seen this already but believe it or believe it not, there are some people in the universe who haven't. And they all live in Tramore. I don't see what the big deal is. So she wears a wig, so what. So do most lustrous-locked black lady-singers. Though Jamelia might want to lay off the extensions a bit. But what do I know about looking good?

...

Ha, sorry, it's just that I'm so fucking funny some times. So Beyonces human, big deal. This is like that time when someone walked in on me putting on lipgloss in the Vic bathrooms and fainted from the shock. I was all, 'like, hello! So I wear make-up, big deal! I don't wake up looking this good! Jeez!'

Me and B, we're human, just like you. Only a better-looking human.

PS: Also she's thirty-two, which I most patently am not. So I win this round, Knowles.

My baby!

...

I dunno. Am I supposed to feel maternal towards this hunk of metal which cost me most of my life savings? Indulgent? Grateful? Loving? Most people might be delighted to have a car they own outside their home. Most people might be delighted to know they can now drive to the shops when they are in desperate need of fags, or Weetabix, or bubble gum. Most people, me... not so much.

It's not that I'm scared of driving exactly; more that I'm scared of crashing and killing someone. Nah, scratch that, my insurance broker might google me and read this. I'm scared of not caring if I crash and kill someone. I mean, my on-road driving experience amounts to about ten hours, total. On the other hand, my experience in playing computer-based driving-simulation type games amounts to about 200 hours. In the latter, skidding into a wall and writing off my vehicle amounted to little more than an muttered invective and a new game. The former...well, stalling in heavy traffic led to minor palpitations and near self-urination.

Am I taking this too seriously? It's just sitting there, begging to be driven in all it's metallic lavender glory (I named it's shade; my mother calls it 'dirty grey'). I only discovered the radio volume controls under my wipers lever the other day when Maggie came over and gave me a tour of my own car ('Oh great, you have dual air-bags!' 'The girls thank you for noticing, Mag, but can we focus on the car now?'). It's frightening. And it shouldn't be. I mean, idiots are driving cars. Roisin, Niamh, Danielle, my mother, the list is endless. I am obviously possessing of a superior intelligence to these people- as I am wont to point out, IhaveadegreeforChristsake.

Tch. Don't panic, I'll get right on the driving thing. I do have an ambition to drive the 32 counties. Or 31, I'm discounting Leitrim. 'Cos everyone else does, obvs. In other news, I am preparing to donate blood because I have ludicrously valuable blood despite the pathetic infrastructure it supports and as part of my prep am swallowing down iron tablets good-o. Iron supplements...they do something disgusting that is not declared on the back of the packet though. Take one, and see. Just one will do it. 24-pack is about three quid: do it and see. I haven't sunk so low in search of blog-worthy material to tell you what it is they do.

Although, maybe in a few weeks...?

Nothing to report

Nope, not a thing. Nothing doing. All quiet on the Lucy front. Nothing happening. Nary a bean. No news here my friend, everything's dull as dull...

Hang on, what's this in my hand...?

I have an amazing story to tell you, one that will change your life and how you view the world!

Ah...

Forgotten it. Nevermind, it'll come back. The good ones always do. Anyway, I've been reading a lot of books lately. Or buying them and stacking them beside my bed in case anyone comes in to photograph me. Point is, there is always somewhere to rest my glass of wine. Aha. Novels these days though, they let me down. I recently read this book a friend of mine had loaned me and it was terribly gripping and I read it until two in the morning. Two! Then, overcome with the joys of reading and the thrilling thrust of the storyline, I texted this friend and berated her for not telling me the main character AND NARRATOR had died. Then, funnily enough, it turned out she hadn't yet read the book. Hahahaha.

So I am writing my own novel now. I started to write it at the beginning of November and joined this club where everyone was writing a book in November but that got horrendously boring. And limiting. Let me just say, don't join the club I have just mentioned because they send you horrible, encouraging emails telling you not to give up on your book and then THEY ASK YOU FOR MONEY. I have no money. Well, I have, but it's in a place I can't get to it, ie. my bank.

I can't tell you about the book because I can't have you steal the ideas contained therein, and there are so few truly original plotpoints available nowadays that I can't squander such downright excellent ones as those I have now. Suffice to say, the main themes came to me in a dream one night after I'd had a few and the story involves a girl called Martina and a boy named Rob. Rob thinks everyone on the telly is talking to him and Martina is secretly in love with Rob but she doesn't know it yet. I plan to build up the sexual chemistry until it is unbearable and everyone reading just wants to scream 'just sleep with each other, for God's sake! And have adorable children!'. There's something about skiing and a chase sequence when the heroine is wearing really uncomfortable shoes. Then I will kill off a main character in a manner that leaves everyone going 'Wow. Who coulda seen that coming?' But who will I kill off? You'll just have to wait until it hits the shelves in your local booksellers. But be warned, I'm publishing under a pseud...psyeud... false name as I don't want my internet fame to piss all over my book's chances. So you'll just have to scan every book for mention of Martina and Rob* until you find it.

*I may change Rob's name to Angela. I haven't entirely worked out the politics yet.

I've just remembered the amazing story. It's not that good and the punchline needs work. I'll tell you some other time.

The Seeger Sessions

How to turn a bad day good, part the first

Don't worry your pretty little head over what it is; point is that it arrived today, three weeks before it was due and made me hop up and down a little in delight. I haven't been hopping much lately. I never get post except from loan companies offering me credit cards* so when an unexpected present you bought yourself turns up early, you have to hop a little.

*Oh yeah, and from Mona, who cuts out job ads and sends them to me with little inspirational messages written on them. 'Go for it, Luce!' Thanks Mona, she who keeps faith when all around her are losing theirs.

I like to go FAAAAAST. But it's scary

My driving is going well, thanks for asking. My only problems linger in gears, steering, lights, wipers, mirrors, braking, accelerating, stopping, starting, roundabouts and reversing. Oh, and other cars. Other cars are a bitch. Everytime I see another car coming near me I screech 'back, fuckhead, baaaack!'. My driving instructor loves me. Who doesn't, I hear you ask. Exactly. The other day we were approaching Riverstown and he said 'okay, we're going to take a right here' and I duly swung my indicators to the left. Yeaaa!

Oh, and pedestrians? FUCK OFF. If you dare to cross the road in front of me I will run you over. I have serious troubles slowing the car down without cutting out so if it's between your life and me having to restart my car in the middle of the road... well, I don't even know you. And I love me.

No goats sacrificed

The Pagan wedding SUCKED. Druids new year, my eye, Dee. There I was, all set for a naked handfasting in a clearing and Dee's goddamned mother steps in and insists it has to be in a church. I had to take communion and everything! Don't worry, I never swallow.

Also, newly discovered fact: Lucy gets an unexplained moistness in her eyes during the groom's speech: 'Deirdre is my life and the only gift I will never get tired of being grateful for.' Tune in tomorrow to discover that Lucy has large muscley thing in chest which pumps blood! Who knew?!

Pity I'm so *NICE*

Okay, so I'm posting drunk again, but it's past three am on a Friday so I think I'm in the clear. Are YOU sober? Thought not.

I'd like to share with you the story of a persistent male. His name is Peter. I don't deal in lies intentionally so his name actually is Peter. He likes to be called 'P' though. 'Cos he's a wanker. Whoops, there goes my objectivity.

"Peter is on a Stag night in Tramore. [You're aware of the concept, I presume? What you're grappling with is the fact that someone actually chose to have their Stag in Tramore. I know. Wow. Anyway, back to Peter.] Peter is thirty-something and from Laois, not a crime in itself though fast approaching one, standing in a bitch of a disco in a dump of a town, when three hot girls walk in. There are four girls in the entire place and one of them is behind the bar. It's a Friday night in rural Waterford. Options are limited.

Peter sidles up to the three girls. They giggle, as girls are inclined to do whenever the mood takes them, and engage with him in light-hearted banter. It is light-hearted. They banter. One, a foxy brunette in Levis, catches his eye. Boy, is she hot. He asks and finds out her name is Lucy. Wow. Hotname. She slips outside for a cigarette; Peter follows. He makes a crap joke; she laughs. I have my prey, thinks Peter, she is mine. She has smiled in my presence. I need no more encouragement. Peter employs regular seduction techniques such as Standing Around In Front Of Her So She Can't Leave and eventually swoops for the snog.

'No', says Lucy, 'I'm good, man, I'm with the girls, d'ya know?'

Aaaaaagh, says Peter, she is so playful! Let me follow her around the disco all night and try to hold her hand! He surveys his quarry: she is practically alone, ignoring those three young women and four young men hanging around her. I will certainly seduce her away from those (seven) losers and into my (rented) bed. And I will accomplish this by standing beside her all night and holding her hand. Oh yes, she plays with me. She shirks my grip as soon as I clasp her hand and ignores me when I try to show her my Scissor Sister dance moves (elbows clamped; finger guns). Her friend, the busty one laughs at me but I am not discouraged. Lucy is my love!

I buy her a drink. She says she doesn't want it 'cos she's working in the morning. I laugh! She's doing nothing except getting my breakfast tomorrow! She ignores the drink. So I buy her another. What more does a girl want except a liquid demonstration of one's interest? The teasing lass ignores my second drink. And I am stumped. What more does she want?

Then, when she slips off up the road I follow her. What girl does not enjoy a thrilling chase?? She is stood beneath a brolly with her bosom buddies, eating chips from a greased-up bag. They discuss taxis. Realising the romance in her intention, I extend a sure arm and grasp her around the waist. This night, fractured and imperfect as it was, all led to this.

Her body swivels and my heart constricts; her face turns to mine. Her perfect brow furrows in intent: 'Piss. The. Fuck. Off. Cuntbag.'

Foley, your days are numbered

Wedding 002 (2), originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

There are two rules in my job. Okay, three. One is that nobody talk to me for the first hour of my daily hangover. The second is that Lucy gets a coffee and a back rub whenever she requests them. The last one is that Lucy gets to watch a minimum of one hour of costume dramas and/or weighty BBC book adapations a week. THESE ARE THE RULES. LOVE THEM, LIVE THEM.

If you step outside the rules and ignore the rules then the rules are useless. Do you hear me? Yes, you, Niamh life-wrecker Foley. You with the weirdly shiny eyebrow. I'm talking to you, up there dancing and giving me the eye. The rules are in place for a reason, Foley. TO PROTECT YOU. Lucy needs her period dramas or she will go nutsy and somebody will get hurt. So, when you drop the Sky remote in a bucket of water and BREAK IT so that the channel can't be changed and Lucy has to watch horse-racing for five hours while Mr Rochester was off wooing Jane Eyre over on BBC1...well, it won't be pretty.

To everyone else who didn't drop digital remotes in buckets of water over the weekend, play on. Go about your day as usual. If your day takes you into my flickr account to view the rest of my photos, you go right ahead. You like photos of stunning-looking girls dancing drunkenly? Welcome! You've come to the right place.