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.

Lucy pisses on children's dreams; leads damned life

I am going to hell. Seriously.

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

'Fuck' I said.

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

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

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

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

My evil empire expands...

Great news!

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

Just in time for the Christmas Market

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

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

Best of luck Marie!

Getting INTO local government

Hubba, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't stand in the rain, buddy

The dog, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

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

DO NOT burgle my house in my absence

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

That is all. Behave yourselves, children.

Lucy at Work

Lucy at Work, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Look at me there, serving the public!

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

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

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

Feigning Interest: Bringing you the pictures that MATTER.

I want this

Bolero, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Utterly subjective information

Oh dear.

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

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

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

Who owns 12 Grimmauld Place?

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

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

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

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

In which I show my age

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

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

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

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

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

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

New Zealand

New Zealand, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

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.

Tra-la-la!

Theory Test, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

This blog is Worth...

My blog is worth $5,645.40.
How much is your blog worth?

Can't talk, terribly busy

Have driver theory test in three hours and unwisely decided not to revise any questions which contained numbers or calculations. Must go learn them now. Also am stressed over Joanne leaving me for New Zealand and over my persistant ulcer/encroaching death. I would stop and tell you all about the semi-molestation and assault on my person on Friday night but I just dropped tuna on the keyboard and my lunch will never get eaten if I don't give it all my attention.

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.

Ladies Slip

Ladies Slip, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

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.

Jenny got a puppy!

Jenny's bitch, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

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!

Lucy Fucks Up

I have spent the past hour stapling together copies of the two Harry Potter quizzes I was supposed to do over the weekend but ended up doing during my dinner hour today.

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.

Good grief

I am having palpitations just reading about this film. Right now I want to take it home and cook it dinner. I'll make do with queueing outside the cinema until it opens.

UPDATE: Fucking November? And the Arctic Monkeys aren't out till next year?! How dumb do I look right now?

So I look in your direction but you pay me no attention

What is wrong with Google talk? I accidentally installed it on one of the library PCs about 2 months ago and forgot about it and this morning, when I clicked idly on the icon to remove it (Mother: Get rid of that stupid google thing off my computer, would you? I don't want to read all your emails, thank you very much.), I discovered I had loads of little messages from people, wondering where I was and why I wasn't replying. It's been claiming I've been constantly online since August!

Muchos de apologies, friends. Apparently, failing to log out will do that to you. Who would have thought it!

Something deep inside

I have a pain in my stomach. I told my mother last night: 'Mummy! My tummy hurts!'
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.

*Blushing nervously*

I'm linked by Outer Life!

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.

In the Interim

Right. My week:

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.

Another step towards gender equality

The most adorable little four-year old thing with shiny red ringlets bobbing around her ears just tripped over to the desk with an Angelina Ballerina book and lisped: "Can I read it in bed?"
"Which, the book?"
"Yeah."
"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."
"Lovely."
"What colour is your bed?"
"Blue."

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.

Long lost Lucy: No, the librarians haven't killed me

This morning an old woman whispered to Becky: 'who's she, she's new isn't she?'
'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?

Re-direction

Bad news.

All those of you who came here for important links to hair-regrowth, road re-construction and scented candle related sites will have to go somewhere else in future. Thems the breaks, folks.

Leaving card

Leaving Dublins never easy, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Thank you Paul, Caroline and Paula, the only decent people left in Dublin. Foul, insensitive bunch of friends I have.

Yes, it is a beermat. What of it, peasant?

Don't want it Baudelaire just glitter lust

Just noticed I've lost all my links. Dead wood, says I. New, improved, rural Lucy from here on in. Please leave your URL in my comments along with the words 'Lucy Aughney has given me some of the best nights of my life': I really want to improve my googled reputation.

Feigning Interest: Substantially made over for the seismic change approaching

I don't know how this happened.

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.

The future hangs over our heads

So I'm up at dawn, putting on my shoes,
I just want to make a clean escape-
I'm leaving but I don't know where to.
Yeah, I know I'm leaving but I don't know where to.


Look at me, all melancholic! And nonsensical as it happens. Last day of work...

Thrilling events upcoming

I am very excited. Soon I will be driving a car. A CAR. Not in the next month, but soon. Of course, it will be my mothers car which stinks of dog and is filled with broken umbrellas and torn maps but this is not a problem. I plan to pimp it up big style. I've got my eye on a bobbing dog for the dashboard. Also, as my mother unceremoniously reminded me on the phone yesterday I am designated driver for the REST OF HER LIFE.

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.

Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind; Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.

By the way, Nealons was packed on Saturday night. Thank you all for turning up. 'I never knew my blog readership were so good looking and trendy' I remarked, looking round approvingly at the crowd.
'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.

Bitter post: avoid at all costs

Recently my sister asked me why I never wrote about our father on here. 'You slag everyone else off, including me;' she said, 'why not him?'
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.

October 2nd

picture_0139, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Bloody hell.

Pimp your sister

Jack Nealons, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Or Joanne's sister Paula, more to the point. Who is djing in Jack Nealons tomorrow night from 9.30- 1am. I will be there, looking fantastic as usual. You'll recognise me as I will be the one restraining a drunken Joanne. And I'll be the best looking one there. You'll recognise Joanne because she looks like the DJ.

PAY ATTENTION.

Some help, please?

I am almost finished the Irish Times crossword. This is the closest I have ever gotten, ever. I need to know a word for:

* Be a burden to, hamper (8)
* Stress or tension (6)
* Canny and with sound judgement (6)
* To do with cooking (8)
* Didn't see, being fated (8)
* Words spoken so that only certain people will hear (6)
* Major inland sea of NE Canada- . . . . . . Bay (6)
* Without power to move or act (5)

Okay, so I'm not THAT close to completing it. And, yes, this IS how I spend my dinner. I expect you're off eating and doing stuff.

I DON'T CARE. I'M ALMOST FINISHED THE SIMPLEX.

They fuck you up

In the past 24 hours I have suffered broken sleep, washed dishes, used a dirty look to silence an argument, hissed dangerously to urge someone to do my will, threatened to spank someone, harnessed the lethal power of passive aggression to convey my martyrdom and suffering and woken two people up for work. I have become a mother.

I have also had six vodka and tonics and walked into a door. So I am more like MY mother.

Ah, foresight

Suddenly, this has become very ironic. Ah, Tramore. Scarily close to Fenor. I guess I'll just have to cope with the stench of slurry. I'm used to noxious stenchs, what with living with Burt and all.

Dublin's Loss is Tramore's Gain

Now, I don't mean to upset you all unduly but I have some bad news. Bad news for you, essentially. I quite welcome it. As of next week I will cease to be an ignorant country oik struggling to keep it lit* in an increasingly hostile urban environment (honestly. Our living room window was broken by a sliotar last week. I told off the youths responsible but because I am so hip and down with the kids, they couldn't take my censure seriously. Oh, the perils of being charming). Instead, I resume my familial duty by moving home to Waterford and working in a library again.

Shocked? Try to veil it manfully. Distressed? Excuse yourself to the bathroom; I don't want to see your tears. Reeling franticly from bar to bar in sulky grief? That's the spirit! Carry on, friends, carry on...

*Joanne-speak

To all my fans in need of personal contact...

Nobody text me, okay? My dumbass phone went dead cos I stayed in Marie's dumbass gaff last night.

North v. South, that age-old battle

Right. I may just be a dumb country oik, up from the sticks and trying desperately not to let my big-city ignorance shine through, but I know that the sun does NOT shine brighter on the south-side, nor do flowers smell sweeter, food taste better or the pints cost less. Why then was I able to make it into town in FIFTEEN minutes this morning? FIFTEEN MINUTES. I was on Dame Street at 8.20am, where I stood and gummed surprise for about half an hour. I mean: Good grief! I leave my home in Santry at 7.30 most mornings and only make it to work after a twenty minute walk and at least an hour on a bus. It's not like I want to live on the South-side, with all the even-numbered toffs, but come on! They get more time in bed than us!

That's it. I'm petitioning Bertie to have the port tunnel works and O'Connoll street moved over there. US NORTH SIDERS ARE THE BLACKS OF DUBLIN.

Or something equally dated and limp-wristed.

Bibliographic idiocies

Here's a confession: whenever I go out with any of the people I used to work with at DIT (hereafter known as 'the librarians'. Cos that's what they are), we play a particularly strange and embarrassing game. We all pretend to be really chilled about it but adherence to the rules is extremely important and something of a matter of pride. Okay. Deep breath: we play 'Dewey-Decimal Guess-Who'.

I may have to explain this. As you might know, Dewey Decimal book coding is an international bibliographic standard for the archiving and arrangement of non-fiction books and journals. Also known as the little numbers taped to the spine of your book. It goes all the way up to 1000 and each one-hundred band is assigned to a general subject. In academic libraries because subject matter is so derivative and expansive numbers can run to huge decimal points. So knowing them off, especially the more obscure shelf marks, is a sign of greatness amongst us nerds. You get me? It's a type of sexual preening in a way. Whole courtships have been based on Dewey testing. Sad but true.

So anyway, I was down in Tramore library earlier today, picking up some books on Irish folklore for Mags who has to do a project on teaching children myths or some such crap. Well, Mum was doing it; I was faffing about picking up books and trying to hide them up my jumper.

"Put that Jonathan Strange down, Lucy. And don't think I don't know you took that On Beauty off the hold shelf. Mind you put it right back there, you wretch," warned my Mamma. You see, I have a bit of a history with nicking books from the library, keeping them out for months and losing them. I am proud to say that my overdue fines are the highest in Waterford county: over €200 at last check. Yes, I am a legend. Your admiration is deserved.

"They should be over here," she went on, slipping on her librarian secret disguise, reading glasses on a chain, and sliding tutored fingers over book spines, "somewhere around 398".

"Yeah, right." I wasn't really paying attention. "What's there then?"

Sighing, she turned her attention back to the stacks: A daughter who doesn't know her Dewey Decimal inside out is a sad disappointment to a librarian. "Folklore," she said, "legends".

"Ahem? Shouldn't I be up there, then?"

She did not appreciate this humour. I may be cut out of the will.

Goin' out tonight, baby you and I

"Workin all the time
Work is such a bind
Got some money to spend
Living for the weekend

When it gets too much
I live for the rush
Got some money to spend
Living for the weekend"

Quite. What are my posse up to for this glorious weekend, I wonder? My peeps? My crew? I'll tell you, shall I:

->I, myself, am going to a Country and Western themed fiftieth birthday this evening. Then a Rory Gallagher tribute band in Murphs. Tomorrow I am going to a Book Fair in Graignemanagh (yeah, I know, okay? Blame the librarian mater), followed by a trip to the O'Neills twins, Aoife and Sarah's ('Twit and twat' in Mags-speak) 21st in Mols in the evening. Everyone who's anyone is going to be there. As in all those dear, sweet people who live in the countryside 'round Tramore, keep cows in their back-gardens and are all cousins of each other*. Redneck invasion.

->Aoife and Burt are going out in Dublin. To Barcode methinks which is generally known in these parts as Samantha Mumba's local. Since Monday Burt has been going around saying: 'I'm going to be fucking rotten drunk on Friday! Tee-hee!' Yes, he giggles like a girl. Sometimes I think he is about two drinks away from homosexuality. One drink if he's with Andrew.

->Mags (hurrah for the Welsh immigrant!) is coming home! Ostensibly for the twins' birthday but we all know it's for the All Ireland. And to get loved-up with Donal. But I didn't say that...

->Annie is picking up her brand new motor. 'O2 VW Polo. Blue. Matches her handbag, apparently.

->Celia (news just in!) is going to Bucharest. Haven't a clue where it is myself.

->My dad is off to Tipp to get loved-up with his woman. Nice.

->Sally wins though. Sally is heading off to a recording studio in Bandon, Co Cork to record backing vocals for the demo of a band, the bassist of which she knows from college. I'm sorry, but that is shit-cool. All week she's been running around saying to people: 'What ya doin' on the weekend? Yeah? Oh, I'll try and drop in AFTER I'M BACK FROM THE STUDIO'.

My sister: she makes me so proud it sometimes brings tears to my eyes.


"Run down the street, Adidas on my feet
I'm on fire..."


*I'm talking to you, Fleming/O'Neill dynasty.

Next Friday

Is David's birthday. David hasn't bought toilet paper, soap, shower gel, shampoo, washing detergent or anything but beer and Super Valu fish pies in SIX MONTHS. He owes me €90. He washes up about once a month. As everyone knows, your birthday is a time for your friends to do mean and generally malicious things to you and pass it off as birthday mischief. What I want to know is, what can we do David to correctly celebrate* his ascension to the stellar heights of twenty-two years? I'm thinking making him clean the inside of our oven (AKA 'House of Burnt Cheese') or making him lick the wall of our mouldy bathroom.

All suggestions and/or offers to lend us something disgusting to pelt him with will be much appreciated.

Ahem. Need I say more?

Pre-Hyptnotized Peter

What Office Space character are you?
brought to you by

A Nation Once Again: One Country Unites to Piss Lucy Off

IRELAND IS WORKING AS ONE COMBINED UNIT TO RUIN MY ITALY BUZZ. IT WILL NOT WORK. I SHALL OVERCOME.


Anyway. I'm not going to go on (much) about Italy, in case you were worried. I have SOME respect for other people. Instead I will dole out tiny anecdotes, in glistening, sun-shiney nuggets that offer wee tasters of the trip. Mar shampla, on Friday morning we had a champagne brunch on our terrace. In fact, EVERY morning. Over-looking the Mediterranean. Then I went for a walk on the beach and poked strange looking things in rock pools with a stick. Then I went for a run. For a mile and a half. On pale beige semi-firm sand, weaving in out of the water in my bare feet. Me. Running.

I'm going to let you take a minute to fathom how amazing this fact actually is.

That's how I spent the past four days. Weaving from champagne bottles to dinner tables to the beach. Constantly half-cut and half-dressed and wholly giddy on pleasurable things.

You are excused to vomit your envy away from the computer.

Love and Italian weddings

Formia, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Just back from Mitten-O'Sullivan nuptials in Formia, 2 & 1/2 hours outside Rome. I am in an obnoxiously excellent frame of mind and would advise everyone to avoid me for at least 4-6 months unless you want to be severely distressed.

Also, I think I may have figured out the solution to the world's problems while I was over there. On more than one occasion. The whole weekend was just epiphany, epiphany, epiphany. Epiphany coming out of my ears, man. Unfortunately, because I was continuously drunk since my arrival in Italy, bar one half hour early on Saturday morning, I've forgotten it. And I didn't have a pen at the time.

I'll get back to you on that when I'm sober.

Ciao tutti*.

*DON'T EVEN GO THERE. My Italian is fucking fantastic, okay? I won't have it corrected.

Guess where I'm going tomorrow

Italy!, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Ach, now!

When did UCD go good-looking on me? It almost makes you proud... Before you remember that they left Marie back in. Twice.

Questionable.

Encryption explained

Sally: Lucy, what does THAT mean?
Lucy: Sally, shut the fuck up. I have work to do.

S: Just tell me what it is, and then you can go back to work.
L: Well, stop reading bits of it out to me then. Which bit is it?
S: The bit...under the other bit.
L: Oh, the BIT.
S: I meant the orange bit, smart-arse.

L: Which... oh, that? THAT is from Sheryl Crowe's All I Wanna Do.
S: What?

L: "All I wanna do, is have some fun, I got a feelin' I'm not the only one, all I wann-"
S: Yeah, so?
L: You know the bit at the start?
S: Umm...
L: The spoken bit?
S: Yeah, well, I haven't heard it in ages, have I.

L: "This ain't no disco, this ain't no country club either-"
S: ...
L: "-this is L.A."

S: Eh...
L: Which are my initials, see?

S: What, you mean...ohhh. I gettit.
It's not BRILLIANT, is it?

L: Fine. I'm changing it anyway.

Lucy reads papers occasionally

I just bought the new format Guardian; the Russian girl in the Centra only charged me 80c which I think might have been a mistake but I am not to question the authority of stern Slavic blondes that let me off cheap. Anyway, I really like it. It's much handier and that blue banner looks much better than the horrible orangey one. More European, if that makes any sense whatsoever. And G2! Don't get me started. It's adorable! I want to take it home and cook it dinner. I won't though. That would be weird.

Dublin, quieten down I need to make a sound

Ah, Fridays.

Do you remember your school days? I do. They were only four years ago after all and my brain isn't THAT addled yet. I don't know how Fridays worked in your school but in mine, every Friday was like an unoffical holiday. No work was done on a Friday. Any homework due in could be safely proclaimed to have been left at home and then you'd have the whole weekend to do it. Except I usually wound up cogging Grainne or Aoife's at ten to nine on Monday morning. Queer that I didn't do better in my Leaving Cert.

Then lunchtimes: pity the poor teachers who had class last thing before lunch on a Friday. From breaktime on, the whole school was on edge with plans for the Friday chip-shop race, and minds were quite literally out the window by quarter to, staring hungrily at the lucky few let out early, sauntering up the road (and I mean the WHOLE school. The teachers hit the pub early on a Friday). Then with the bell, 300-odd jeune femmes hurled themselves at the back door, tossing school bags on top of lockers on the way. Sprinting down the road to beat the queue, or if you were feeling particularly energetic or knew someone who worked there, up the hill to Cunninghams.

Ah, bliss. Once we made it to the senior classes we could collar a puny first year and order them to queue up in the chipper, leaving us free to sit on the footpath and pretend to ignore lads from the boys school passing by. As puny firsties ourselves we had cherished doing this favour for the older girls; why forget tradition when everyone gains? Then dawdling home on a Friday afternoon, the whole weekend stretching out in front of you full of guilt-free telly and lie-ins.

Good times. This was back in the day, of course, when we were all innocent and good; nowadays the kids are all off having sex and babies and drinking booze on their lunch hours. Lucky buggers.

There's that pretentious thing again

Fucking hell.*

That Mullen one, she is dead meat. She spilt Marie's fucking Bulmers Light [I KNOW, okay? I've talked to her about what a gay drink it is but she is being difficult] all over the fucking table last night, soaking my fags and her own trousers in the process. And it wasn't even like, during an exciting bit of the match (WHAT exciting bits, I hear you ask), just during one of her stupid nerd-stories She heads the fuck off to the jacks to dry her pants and Kathy goes: 'Uh-oh, is this your handbag, Lucy?' It WAS my fucking handbag; Now it's Mullen's fucking drip-tray.

Now I am down a pack of fags and have a bag that stinks of rancid cider.

*This whole post is written in an innovative style called 'How Lucy speaks normally' after being taxed by Aoife and Donna regarding the difference between my writing style here and how I talk (being taxed by two accountants: fitting). Notice the slew of swearwords: I am a foul-mouth in real life. There's that pretentious thing again.

Storehouse!

Storehouse!, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

This is the Guinness Storehouse. I go past it on my way to work everyday. Twice a day, if you're going to be pedantic. If you look you can see the shadow of my head in the extreme left-hand corner.

Thrilling.

All the ladies if you hear me help me sing it out...

"That M.I.A. girl I like. She seems smart. I have high hopes for her. She is bringing something new to the face of British garage, I think. Unlike that Estelle young one last year who let me down so woefully."

How is this so funny? I made this remark in an off-hand manner last night and Aoife wet herself laughing at me. Then we had a fifteen minute scuffle over whether or not I was pretentious. Then I pushed Aoife and ran away crying. She is just jealous of my innate knowledge of the music industry. Bitch.

Yes; I know I am amazing

Friday, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

I know.

It's magical, isn't it, the way photography can be so realistic, so earth-shatteringly true to life as to lend the distant observer something of the vibrancy of actually being present at it's conception.

Here for instance, one is struck by the vital immediacy of the occasion pictured, taken on Friday, August 26th in the fabulous surrounds of the Vic Deli, Tramore. See how the photographer has expertly blurred the image to convey the intense emotions she feels at this, the going away party of (from R to L)Alison, Mags and Rachel? Notice the shaky outlines, implying, somewhat wittily, the probable drunken state of our photographer. Regard also the barely disguised look of tense anxiety on the lovely faces of our models, Mags' lips clenched in only barely glimpsed formation of the word 'fuck'. As in 'Hurry the fuck along, Aughney, or you'll be wearing this cake'.

What genius! What grace and natural elegance married with the wisdom of a true artist informs this whole work! A veritable masterpiece for our age, I think we can all agree.

Lucy's Desk

picture_0109, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Guess who just figured out how to post photos from her phone to her blog?

From here on in you get to see the world through Lucy's eyes!

Prepare for some nausea...

If you can't think of anything to say, list songs

Radio America - The Libertines
Fall - Editors
Une Annee Sans Lumiere - Arcade Fire
Smoke It - Dandy Warhols
Gorecki - Lamb
Make me down a pallet- Gillian Welch
In Liverpool - Suzanne Vega
No Place to Hide - Declan O'Rourke

Home from Home

Because Tramore, the town that smells like an urinal and scowls with undisguised contempt at the rest of the country from the south-east corner of Ireland, is such a scum hole many of its inhabitants attempt to flee it, to pursue better lives for themselves and their families in places where life doesn't arrive and depart with the tourists in the summer and where conversation isn't restriced to local deaths, break-ups and teenaged pregnancies. The deaths are especially envied since they don't have to live in Tramore anymore. Some of Tramore's escapies make it to civilisation; some get stopped at Waterford and sent back with a stern look and a smack on the arse. Some of us, the lucky ones, make it all the way to the huge smoking mass of crap that is Dublin city where we attempt to pretend life is better and the city doesn't smell like a urinal. We're kidding ourselves. It does.

Occasionally the emigres meet by accident on the street: we smile shyly at each other and our eyes search the other's face for the implicit vow of silence we all keep on our origins. "Where you from?" friends will ask; "just outside Waterford, tiny place, you wouldn't know it" we reply shamefully. Truth is, EVERYONE knows Tramore. Everyones been here as well, whether it was as a mewling tyke, paddling and pissing in the sea, a hyped up older child, jaws sticky from candyfloss and popcorn, eyes round from the range of grubby wonders of the amusements and arcades on show, or as an eager young teenager, stumbling parentless from chip-shop to permissive pubs, half-cut on flagons of cider you drank on the shitty smelling bathers slip in the early evening. This is a heritage we are shy to claim as our own.

The bond is there though. I'd like to see it reenforced here in Dublin. Which is why I stumbled round Tramore's public houses for most of the weekend, rounding up volunteers for my current Grand Plan, the first annual Tramore reunion. It's slightly more than a little bit naff yet obscure enough to retain a smidgen of coolness. I think I just might be able to pull it off. Plans are all very loose at the moment and I think my co-organisers might be backing out, but I don't mind. Even if I have to sit in a pub on my own and get locked, it'll be alright. At least I'm there. And not in Tramore.

Bald people have it easy

I am just back from the hairdressers, a locale I have not visited in nigh on eight months. 'Gah!', exclaimed the stylist when she encountered my split ends. I shrugged apologetically. "I am terrifically busy" I mumbled, a blatant lie. Sighing, the young man washing my hair tucked a towel round my cowed shoulders and pressed something by my feet. Whoosh! up went my feet and back I went, my startled head knocking the lip of the sink on the way. Something rumbled ominously at my back and I half-lept up, thinking I had sat down on a small animal. 'Relax' said the hair-washing boy, 'it's a back massager'.

Well. This is NOT how hairdressing salons were run in my day. I spent the rest of my shampoo giggling and wriggling. To punish me the stylist lopped off four litres of my hair and charged me forty quid for the pleasure. I tipped ridiculously as usual and came out penniless and with a chilly neck. 'It's horrible' I moaned to the mater in her library.
'Nonsense' she said, 'in fact, it's a bit like mine.'

Good grief. I'm cutting my own hair from here on in.

In which I dally with the commoners

I had great plans for last weekend. Mainly due to the terrific stew I was in on Friday (itself derived from a hangover and other harbingers of misery) I took a notion that over the weekend I would:

1) Go swimming
2) Give up drink for a month
3) Reconsider my life options
4) Commune soulfully with myself

If you could just stop sniggering about the juvenile humour suggested by that last resolution, I'll tell you how it went, shall I? Horribly, in a word. 1) Went straight out the window when I realised I didn't own a swimsuit; 2) when my dad dropped over with a bottle of wine he couldn't finish because he was setting off on his hols with the little lady; 3) when I got drunk; and 4)...well, THAT wasn't going to happen, was it.

The weekend didn't turn out to be a total loss however. In the Vic (Tramore's just like Eastenders, so it is! 'Cept without the cockneys and all the murders) on Saturday I engaged in my first meet n' greet with my fans, hereafter known as 'the little people'. Stumbling up to the bar I was waylaid by young Cathy Burns who proceeded to extol the excellence of my blog to myself and to her bemused looking friends. 'Honestly, it's brilliant! Have you never read it? It's excellent! You're DEADLY, Lucy!' she gushed. Her companions just looked unnerved. They had no doubt witnessed me tripping over my shoe on the way over. Nice.

On my way back I was grabbed by an excitable (read: tipsy) Clodagh Power. 'OMG! I love your blog!' Thank you, thank you. 'Mention me in it, wudja? Say you were out in the Vic on Saturday and met the gorgeous Clodagh Power, k?'

Pah. Am I Larry-fucking-Geoghan now? I think not. I don't DO shout-outs. What I do do is fuck-ups. In future, if you want me to mention you here, fall over or something in my presence. By the by, it's Clodagh's birthday today. She's eleven, I think.

I swaggered back to the girls and slid into my seat. 'Where were you?' reproached Elizabeth, 'You were right behind me and then I turned around and you were gone.'

I smiled and looked away coyly, ensuring I had the attention of the whole table. 'I,' I announced magnificently, 'was dallying with my fans. You may have spotted the mucky handprints on my arm...'

Elizabeth sighed. Mags O'N raised her eyebrows at Jenny. Rachel sipped her drink pointedly. Mags O'B stared over my head. Then they all launched back into the conversation they had been having (about lipstick, or something. I really wasn't listening).


Thank fuck I have someone keeping my raging ego in control while Aoife is out of the country.

Poor Misguided Fool

It is horrible getting stuck in conversation with me, I expect. I am very conscious of being prone to sounding pretentious and obnoxious, so, when I remember, I try to sound nicer by nodding vehemently and agreeing with everything said. I don't do this very well and invariably end up sounding patronising and stupid. Occasionally I trail off and stare into space for many moments. If I am in an excitable mood I will drop in many obscure literary references which no one can follow because these are restricted, somewhat ridiculously, to whatever I have been reading lately and whatever pops into my empty little head at the time. Then I will chortle inanely to myself and whoever I am talking to will click their tongue and stare over my shoulder for someone else to talk to.

I AM SERIOUS. THIS IS HOW I RELATE TO OTHER PEOPLE: TERRIBLY.


Ooch. I love to wallow in self-loathing of a Tuesday.

The world accoring to Lucy

Good afternoon and welcome to another installment of 'Lucy fabricates the news'! Not REALLY making the news today is:

* Mark Westlife reveals his gayness. Said devoted crush, Ashling: "Sob!". Scoffed devoted sceptic Lucy: "Ha! Told you so."

* Declan O'Rourke deliveres storming gig to a packed National Concert Hall. Renowned wit Lucy Aughney was spotted dancing feverishly in the choir seats while singing the wrong lyrics to all the songs. Said Aughney: "I've had no tea and six vodkas. Bring it,
O'Rourke!"

* Paddy Casey spotted meandering through Dublin hotspot, The Village. Local beauty Lucy Aughney, in the vicinity with a gaggle of DIT librarians said: "He's bitsy! I want to pick him up and put him in me pocket!"

* Jenny Kiely is rumoured to have purchased a new fireplace. "It's sexual" claimed Kiely, a close acquaintence of gifted writer, Lucy Aughney.

* News of David Burtenshaw's bootilicious weekend away in Edinburgh just in: the housemate of the irresistible Ms Aughney is proported to have gotten stonkingly drunk for four successive evenings and failed to cop off with anyone. Not even Andrew. "That'll teach you, sister-kisser" muttered the vivacious Lucy.

* Tramore's finest reveal weekend plans: Mags and Jenny will be knocking the stuffing out of the Baldy Man as part of the warm-up to Mags' upcoming migration to Wales; Marie and Mairead will chew up the young men of Rosslare in drunken lust, an evening disguised as 'a few drinks in Rosslare with Claire"; Donna will bid adieu to the Guinness Storehouse and swallow large quantities of the stuff at her going-away party; Joanne will remain sober in preparation for upcoming dental surgery; Lucy will sit in and paint her toenails; Aoife will get drunk in San Francisco.


Peace out, brothers.

"I do not goe, my sweetest love, for weariness of thee!"

I am in love.

It is a deeper and more profound sensation than I have ever experienced before. Me and my beloved are together always, each ceaselessly accompanied by the other. I quiver in anticipation of our reunification as I wake in the morning and sigh with satisfaction as we part in the night. It is love, true, honest and devoted.

The heavenly creature upon whom my heart is bestowed is my sisters silver ipod mini. I call it 'Bob' because ipod became too formal, considering the things we have endured together. Bob the 'pod. What happy times we have had together! Like Monday, when I was yawning and blinking blearily at the bus stop pre-dawn (well, practically. 7.30am is illegally early in my book) and he chose that moment to shuffle somewhat gloriously onto Oh My Gosh by Basement Jaxx. You have not REALLY listened to that song until you have heard it on the brink of unconciousness. Or this morning, as I trundled along the road to work and caught site of the Guinness towers, glistening a creamy silver in the frosty morning light (anytime before midday is hugely early for me, okay? And 'frosty' is just me trying to impress you with my wordy, poetic side. Even Ireland isn't frosty in August)- and Bob issues forth Coldplay's Shiver. Which I duly did. I am nothing if not obedient to Chris Martin.

Unfortunately, we are soon to be torn asunder. Sally wants him back. I am distraught. Bob is silently accepting. So brave. Even in face of torment he stands firm. I, on the other hand, have besmirched the purity of our love with thoughts of another. Namely how long it will take me to get together the dough to buy myself a 'pod. I flinch at letting Bob know where my thoughts are leading, though. The little bastard would probably go all bitter on me and play nothing but Mariah Carey or some of the seemingly thousands of Alicia Keyes songs my sister has seen fit to house on her 'pod. Ugh. So have to be careful.

What's most frightening is that you can...never...really...turn... him...off...

In which Lucy expresses opinion on national radio

Oh. My. God.

Vic McGlynn just read out my email on BBC6 Radio. And she didn't scoff at it when she did so even though it was crap! I am fast becoming a super-smart music person. I expect I will be writing for Mojo or Smash Hits by the end of the week. It's somewhere after she played Goldfrapp, if you want to check on listen again. I meanwhile, am retiring to preen for a while. And, if you take nothing from this post, know this:

I HAVE AN OPINION.

Other side of the world to me

Aoife just rang me. Drunk. She's in an Irish bar in some casino called New York, New York in Vegas. She was being chatted up by some fella who works in Vodafone Ireland who had a tri-band phone and as part of his chat-up program, urged her to ring anyone she wanted in the whole world. She rang me! I feel so hugely special now I might cry. Here's how the conversation went:

Aoife: Hiiiii!
Lucy: ...Aoife?
A: Yeah!
L: Wow, how are you, how are you ringing me?
A: Ohhh, [back story]... and the funny thing is, he's an idiot and I'm just humouring him to use his phone!
L: Wow. That's...hilarious.
A: Yeah!
L: Where are you?
A: Vegas!
L: Wow!
A: [Back story] and a vodka and coke costs NINE DOLLARS HERE!
L: Oh, wow.
A: Yeah, I know!

L: Are ye havin' fun?
A: Yeah! It's mega! You should see our hotel, there's a massive pool and I was lying out there all day today! I ALMOST ordered a cocktail but didn't.
L: Wow!
A: Oh, and I have LOADS of postcards for you-
L: Yeah, Aoife, what time is it there?
A: -San Francisco, LA, Vegas and, em,-
L: Cos it's half nine here-
A: Oh! And San Diego!
L: And I'm kinda in work.
A: What? It's half one in the morning here.
L: Are you locked?
A: Yeah! Kinda!
L: Are you going to send me the postcards?
A: No! Don't be silly. I'll just bring them back and give them to you!
L: Right.
A: Wanna talk to Sharon?
L: Sure.
A: I'll just find her...

['Sharon! It's Lucy! Where are- Hey, did you see Sharon anywhere? Sharon! It's Lucy in Ireland!' 'What? Really?']

Sharon: Luuuuuucyyyyyy!
L: Hi Shazbag!
S: What?
L: I said, Hi!
S: What?
L: Listen, I can't really shout cos I'm in work-
S: What?
L: I SAID, HELLO!!!
S: What?
L: Oh, never mind.
S: What? Listen, I can't hear you so I'm going to give you back to Aoif', K?
L: Whatever.
S:... Okay, dunno if you're still there or not.

['Aoife! I can't hear her!' 'What? I could hear her perfectly, you must have broken it, Sharon.' Male voice injects here: 'Hey, can I have my phone back now?' 'No. You bugger off.']

A: Listen, Lucy, weeeee can't heeeeear youuuu, okaaaaaay? So, I'll ring you later, k?
L: Ok.
A: ... You did break it, Sharon, I can't hear anything.
L: Bye, so.
S: Just hang up, Aoife, she's probably gone.
L: ...
A: Right. [Hangs up.]
L: Bye?

What's blogging?

“You know how when someone barfs and they can’t believe that the green peppers they ate in a burrito last night just came up whole, completely undigested up through the esophagus and back out their mouth, and the first thing they want to do even before wiping their mouth is tell someone about it?"

From Dooce.com

Aoife: Jet Setter

Aoife is gone to San Francisco. I am gutted. That girl is always jetting off some where! Liffey Valley one week, San Francisco the next. I look on the positive side of things, though. Mainly, that Burt went on holidays to Edinburgh this morning (with his sometime lover, Andrew. See Andrew? I do mention you). Bliss.

With these two minor dictators absent I am free to play all my music, ALL the time. I played two Sinead O'Connor CDs for hours last night, a thing unheard of in my house before. Of course this was only because David was gone all evening. Yes, rebellion is a bit dissatisfying when you're on your own. So what?

And so, in my ongoing tradition of pretending anyone cares about my crap music taste, here are my favourite songs this week. Blah-blah-make-mix-tape-and-pretend-youre-me-only-less-pretty-blah-blah.

How to be Idle- Oasis
We are all on Drugs- Weezer
99 Problems- Jay Z
9 to 5- Lady Sovereign
If U Ever- Sinead O'Connor
Buck Rogers- Feeder
Lua- Bright Eyes
Club Foot- Kasabian
Sour Times- Portishead
Uh La La- Goldfrapp
1- Joy Zipper
Novacaine for the Soul- Eels

Aughney sisters are notoriously classy

L: Good morning, Burt
B: Oh, hey...
L: ...
B: Are you, er, mad at me?
L: Hmm? Why would that be?
B: Well, er-
L: What possible reason could I have to be angry at you, eh, Burt? Why on earth would I be pissed off with you? Disgusted, shocked and alarmed at the disrespect and shame you have heaped on my family, even? Enraged and fuming at your drunken antics maybe?
B: Er...
A: Maybe it's cos he snogged your sister last night.
L: Thank you, Aoife.

B: Listen, she was coming on to ME. And she was twisted.
L: Yeah, well, she'd have to be wouldn't she. To be in to you, I mean.
B: She was all over me, I tried, er...
L: WHAT?! Are you saying my sister is a slapper?!
B: Well, to be honest-
L: Burtenshaw, I will kick your arse if you step over that line!
B: Right okay, but I totally pushed her away after a minute!

L: ...! YOU rejected MY sister! You don't know what you're doing, shithead. Nobody rejects an Aughney.
B: No, no- she's a lovely looking girl-
L: Yeah, I know she is, fucker! She's my sister! She's savage!
B: Yeah, that's what I'm saying, but I pushed her away cos I know you'd be mad. I knew it wasn't cool.
L: It's not.
B: No.
L: No.

B: So... are we okay? Are you still mad?
L: What do YOU think?
B: What if I bought you a pint tonight?
L: ...
B: Two pints?
L: Go on then.

She's in fashion

What did I tell you about navy? It's the new black, I said. Aren't I right? It's fucking EVERYWHERE. I think I said something about the empire line coming back aswell. I'll pretend I did anyway. I am so clever. And telepathic. I'm starting on lotto numbers next.

Foresight- a remarkable gift

You know when someone says, supping coyly on their first drink of the evening,: 'If you see me with me phone later, take it off me. DO NOT let me text anyone'. I HATE that. It's like 'look at me, I have a love life'. Show off. As it turns out, telling your friends to stop you from not texting drunk is a pretty good idea. Would have been on Saturday night anyway.

SIGH.

Some help here?

I have an awful dilemma. My sister and her friend, Jenny, are coming up for a visit tomorrow and are expecting to go out on the town on Friday. Here's the problem: I haven't a clue where to take them. I need to bring them somewhere that's suitably flashy and pretentious to impress their innocent (hah!) young minds with the information that I am extremely hip 'n' happenin'*, without unduly stretching my rather meagre funds. Essentially, I want to cover myself with glory for a tenner. Ideas, anyone? Please note that Sally and Jenny are both of the short-skirted, poptastic variety** and would appreciate venues thus inclined.

*Please note that the use of the phrase 'hip 'n' happening' immediately excludes me this grouping. Forever.
**Actually, Jenny less so. I found The Kinks and Radiohead in her car on Sunday.

Tender passions

The boy in the sandwich shop FANCIES me. Today he managed to sneak bits of grated carrot and red cabbage into my sandwich; last week it was bits of red cheddar. If love was a salad it would be... well not much of one, actually. Oh yes, some might say that it's because he's a shabby sandwich maker and never cleans his chopping board between orders: not so. I say it's because he cherishes a flame of desire for yours truly in his manly breast. What would you losers know about romance anyway? Or salads for that matter.

Living for the Weekend

Today is going TERRIBLY. I am the only one in the office today and the site keeps crashing. I know what youre thinking: Lucy Aughney- internet genuis, surely? Nope. My computer skills extend to frowning at them when they are playing up and then leaving the room until they cop on and start working again. This method is (curiously) not working today. The boss is extremely frantic and ringing me every second. 'Chillax [my new favourite stupid word]' I want to say, 'It's Friday! I will be drunk in nine hours! It's all good!' I do not say this to him, naturally. Also, I have new shoes. They are terrific, all tall and strappy and even a whore would think them too tacky to wear. I, on the other hand, adore them.

Christ. The sites gone again. Fuck that, I'm going for lunch early. WHO'S AROUND TO STOP ME, EH???

High Standards

Scene: Lucy's Mother's kitchen. Dinner is served. Lucy and Mother are seated at kitchen table eating. Bored looking cocker spaniel sleeps in the corner.

Lucy:...yeah, so, Jenny Len's young fella gave me a lift home last night-
Mother: Jenny has a boyfriend?
Lucy: Yeah, I told you that, I thought- Ross, he's LOVELY.
Mother: Hmmpfh.
L: What?
M: Nothing.
L: What was that noise for?
M: Nothing.
L: Right, so-
M: It's just that I was thinking about how neither you and Sally have boyfriends.
L: Neither do you, to be fair.

M: That's different.
L: How, exactly?
M: It just is. Why DON'T ye have boyfriends, though?
L: Hummpfh.
M: What?
L: I dunno, do I.
M: Too fussy, I expect. Too high standards.
L: Ha!
M: No, I meant with Sally. You're hardly beating them off, are you. Dunno what's wrong with you, actually.

Now. She would NEVER say this to Sally. Mainly because Sally spends more time on her appearance than the Egyptians did on the pyramids and to insult her would be to question the entire concept of hard work and perseverence paying off one day. Point is, I have to get cracking on this boyfriend thing before she writes me off as a dyke and leaves all her money to Sally's future children.

I recant

That's it. I am calling off all barbeques. Jenny has just alerted me to the fact that if I host a barbeque I am expected to a) buy food; b)pay for it myself; c)stay sober enough to cook it without setting fire to my hair. NO DEAL. I was envisioning a big soulful get-together with loads of good-looking people bringing their own tasty food and me break-dancing. Sort of like a KFC ad essentially. Not loads of dodgy looking people (AKA my social circle) sitting around my garden drinking cans of cider and me being stuck in the kitchen cooking charred burgers on the grill because I can't work the barbeque. So don't turn up at my gaff expecting this. It's not happening. Instead, I will buy one tube of pringles and get drunk on warm beer and lie on my back lawn. Like every other weekend. Party down!

Biggie speaks

My sister and I are so cute. On Saturday when we were working together we came up with these adorable nicknames for each other. I'm Biggie and she's Smalls. Using them involves a lot of shrieking 'High five, Biggie!' and 'Right on, Smalls!'. It's ADORABLE. Speaking of the blonde one, I cleverly got out of getting her a birthday present a few weeks back by promising a night out on the town for her and her mate, Jenny. I assumed they'd be too thick to manage to figure out the bus timetable. Do not second-guess determined teenagers when the promise of free alcohol is on the table, is what I've learned this week. They are coming up to visit with me next Friday, which, believe it or not is a special day in my house. Well, in my head, at least.

On August fifth, 2005, I will officially be celebrating the one year anniversary of my blog. It is very significant and noteworthy. So significant and noteworthy that I have decided to throw open the doors of my spacious and attractive home to all comers. Well, not all comers obviously. Only those who have received an invite may enter the hallowed portal of my chateau. So, if you haven't got an invite by now, you're out of the loop. GET OVER IT, LOSER. Please come bearing drink and gifts. I (may) prepare eats. Haven't decided yet. If I do, they will most likely be comprised of whatever I have in the cupboard. If you do not enjoy rice cakes with ketchup, scallions or cupasoup, bring a dish of something yourself.

Beware catchy riffs

Apparently, my new favourite song [The Kooks- Eddies Gun] is about premature ejaculation. Why did no one tell me this? I must have sounded an awful idiot singing it all weekend.

In which I have lived like a foot

If I don't watch out, I will have worked myself into something of an eccentric. Yesterday, while Tramore was being unceremoniously swallowed by the sea and spat at by gallons and gallons of rain, I belted myself into a huge turqoise raincoat and rolled up my trousers round my shins.

'Where are you going?' Asked Sally uncertainly.
'Work,' I said cheerfully, 'It's raining don't you know.'
'Yeeeess, but get a taxi or something, don't walk down town like that.'
'It's fifteen minutes down the road! I only get taxis when I am drunk and I can safely say that I am probably not drunk now.'

'But...' she paused and looked at me desperately, 'It's lashing out and you... have your trousers rolled up around your knees.'

'So they won't get wet, silly' I answered, slipping an apple into my pocket.

'Yeh, but...' She stared at me for a minute. Realisation dawned 'cross her pretty features. 'You actually don't care what you look like at all, do you?'

The fact that my sister is only realising this now shows she hasn't been paying attention to me for much of her life.

My lily feet are soiled with mud

For the past two hours I have been ringing estate agents in Galway city and county to find out the name of their senior negotiator in residential sales so we can send them on brochures. I know you may have formed the opinion that I, Lucy Aughney, am brilliant at everything. Not so, friends. The time has come for me to admit it: I am painfully, cripplingly, embarrassingly shy.

I know what you are thinking: What a surprise to find a socially inept person on the internet! And writing a blog, no less! But it's true.

Here's how it was supposed to go: I was supposed to ring the number of each agent, ask for the name of their residential sales representitive, they would give it to me and I would ring off. Easy. The first number I dialled was a fax machine. Grand, try again. The second time I accidentally dialled through to our reception. And the third. At this point my fingers were sweating and sliding off the buttons. CHILL. On my fourth go I got through to a surly girl who claimed they didn't accept direct mailings. On my fifth a woman asked could I hang on for a minute then proceeded to discuss her digestive problems with someone at her desk. On my sixth I rang a fax machine again. Then I hung up and hyperventilated for five minutes solid, pausing only to vomit into the pot plant by my desk.

I am cool now, though. First of all, I reduced the number of calls I had to make by discounting all agents with offices in Tuam because it is a well-known and widely acknowledged fact that all Tuam-dwellers are insane, monkey-featured idiots (It's alright! No one from Tuam will read this because Tuam doesn't get the internet!). I have managed to limit my anxious behaviour to compulsive head slapping and vague self-insults muttered under my breath. Yes, you would LOVE to share office space with me. Don't lie.

The downside of saving the human race

Some things they don't tell you till it's too late. Like, as you are sliding off the padded chair, clutching your wrist under your chin, delighted with yourself for giving blood and indescribably proud of the two inch plaster adorning the inside of your elbow, the nurse calls out: 'Now, no alcohol for 24 hours. And no smoking for two hours.'

Ahem? I didn't sign up for this.

Christ, I'm dull

Hard-Fi- Gotta Reason
Bloc Party- Pioneers
Sinead O'Connor- Emperors New Clothes
Maximo Park- Going Missing
Hot Hot Heat- Something to go on
We are Scientists- Nobody Move Nobody Get Hurt
Nellie McKay- Really
White Stripes- My Doorbell

Straight out of nowhereness, like a fist

Hard-Fi have been nominated for this year's Mercury music prize!

We are all, naturally, delighted. The band have officially thanked me for being there from the start. Then lead singer Richard Archer asked me to marry him and write all the songs for his next album. How did I respond? I blushed girlishly as I am wont to do when I receive proposals from people I have never met before, then declined. I am NOT that easily persuaded. Whatever anyone else might have told you.

Seriously, though- what were the lads making out the nominations thinking? Hard-fi are NOT that great. Some of their stuff is downright tosh. Like album tracks 6 and 8 through 11. Twos not too hot neither. And Burt has decided they are his new favourite band. This, more than anything, spells their downfall. From a review of Hard-Fi's Cash Machine at cdtimes.co.uk:

"In the suburban jungle, boys live a life of drunken binges, summer holidays for sun bathing, good times with mates, and occasional public urination."

They ARE Burt. The CD was practically made for him. Prepare thyself to witness the death of music, brothers.

I Think I Smell A Rat

I have just heard a rumour that Jack White married the red-headed model [Karen Elson is her name apparently. I doubt the veracity of this though. I mean, Karen! Who's called Karen nowadays?] from his Blue Orchid video in Brazil last week. A REDHEAD. I mean,...? I may have to recant all my previous pledges of love and devotion if he persists in acting in such a reckless and downright stupid manner. What WAS he thinking? Does he want to perpetuate the race or summat?

Good News!

I am now down to five cigarettes a day. This is fantastic. Of course, this number rises considerably if I am drinking, or if I am around my mother as it annoys her hugely and I love to do that. My other addictions are way up though. Checking of my Gmail account has risen to 400 times daily, even though I only receive about seven emails a day, including crappy newsletters I signed up to at one point because I thought they'd be interesting*. Sometimes, I am so desperate I am forced to read these. Desperate times. Also, because of my jam-packed hectic weekend and frantic Harry Potter consumption into the wee hours, I am extremely tired all the time and frequently doze off mid-conversation**. In response to this, my coffee consumption is up to five cups a day. Yikes. For someone who never drank coffee before a year ago, this is worrying. I also began full-time employment just over a year ago. Lesson: Working breeds dependencies on addictive substances. Word.


*These newsletters include Keane's fan listing, Hemscott stock market predictions, The Economist daily politics, business and telecommunications briefings, and MCD events updates. DON'T ASK.
**Blatant lie. I don't have conversations with anyone any more, not since my topics for discussion became strictly limited to 'I am so upset about the mysterious death in Harry Potter. Discuss' and 'I am so tired- did I tell you I slept in a car Saturday night?'

Lucy organises your evenings for you

Tomorrow you are watching The Restaurant on RTE 1 at 8.30pm. My uncle's on it. Apparently, he was pissed off cos he got given the same score as Enda Kenny. Dunno why. Enda is a great man, in my opinion.

You don't seem to come around, push your finger and make a sound

I am sick to death of this whole Harry Potter crap. So what if it's sold eight million books; the point surely is that I still don't have a copy. It's in stinkin' Annie's house. So I haven't read it yet. And yet I know how the crappy thing ends [mysterious death revealed to Lucy insensitively by mother on phone yesterday. Mysterious murderer discovered when Lucy ignores Linus' careful spoiler warnings on latest blog post].

In fact, I probably don't need to read it. I have guessed who that mysterious RAB is at the end [Gleaned when Lucy flicked to the last page of the book in Centra buying croissants yesterday morning]. In a hilarious twist, it is actually dishevelled Scotch drunk, Rab C Nesbitt!

...?

God, I'm good. Bet I'm right.

I WANT TO READ THE FUCKING BOOK! WHY THE FUCK DO I NOT HAVE IT YET? I WANT IT NOW!