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So there I was, mashing the spuds for the lunch and Sally wanders down stairs.

'Oh! OH!' says my mum. 'I see the dead has arisen!'
Sally scoffed in a hungover manner. 'How long are you up?' she tosses to me.
'I have a bone to pick with you, miss!' Says mum.
'Great' says Sal.

'Your exams are starting next week; what on earth were you doing out last night?!'
I chuckled merrily at this. 'Lucy made me go out.' whined my sister.
'And what were you doing on the phone till seven this morning?!' continued the one-woman inquisition.
'Talking to Carl.' she pouted.

'Now Sally, I will not have you making reckless calls to mobile phones at all hours. It is very bold and naughty' and my mother went on in this manner for some moments. Sally yawned. Then she looked at me. I was hopping round the kitchen in bare-foot glee, laughing softly to myself as I am wont to do when in a good humour.

'What is wrong with you, you big fool?' She said.
'I am delighted because for once you and not me are in the bad books and I am the good daughter!' I trilled gleefully. Sally glowered. I hopped on, whooping with mad, glorious joy.

Sally rolled her eyes and prepared to quash. 'Anyway, Mother, I don't know if you know this but Lucy was amazingly drunk last night and fell over in the road after the disco finished and the whole place wet themselves laughing and her knees were pumping bleeding and she just kept sitting there on the kerb outside Murphs laughing while I tried to clean up the blood.'

I stopped hopping. My mother eyed me warily. 'Go on, make her show you the cuts on her knees if you don't believe me' said my sister.

'Well? What have you got to say for yourself?' demanded the Mater.

In which I finish reading a novel

I have just finished The Europeans. This is huge. Did you hear me? HUGE. I have never gotten further than page 5 of any Henry James without wanting to jab a pen in my eye. But I read this one the whole way through! And I understood practically all of it! What can this signify?

I think, if it's even possible, that I may be getting smarter...

Only because I'm bored

For this thing you're supposed to shuffle your ipod and apply each question to the songs it throws at you. It's pretty much asking the ipod to tell your fortune. Annie bought me a magic eight ball before so I really feel no need to do this but seeing as I am so incredibly bored that I have cleaned the entire house and it's either this or cut the dog's hair, I've done it anyway. I don't actually own an ipod because I am vehemently against paying money for anything I cannot pour down my throat but fortunately I do have Sally's ipod. Fortunately for the dog anyway, because if I did not I would be bleaching his ears right now.

S'alright though, it's mainly my music on her ipod anyway since she hasn't bought any CDs since the Coyote Ugly soundtrack about ten years ago. Ugh.

How does the world see you?
Money, Pink Floyd

Will I have a happy life?
Cry on Demand, Ryan Adams

What do my friends really think of me?
Black Cowboys, Bruce Springsteen

Do people secretly lust after me?
Galang, MIA

How can I make myself happy?
Oh My Gosh, Basement Jaxx

What should I do with my life?
Nobody Does it Better, Carly Simon

Will I ever have children?
I believe in a thing called Love, The Darkness

What is some good advice for me?
Next to You, Bebel Gilberto

How will I be remembered?
Don't Rain on my Parade, Bobby Darin

What is my signature dancing song?
The One You Love, Rufus Wainwright

What do I think my current theme song is?
Waiter, Nelly McKay

What does everyone else think my current theme song is?
Meet me in the Bathroom, The Strokes
[Oh, shut up. It's random, k? I DIDNT PICK THEM]

What song will play at my funeral?
Feltham is Singing out, Hard Fi

What type of women/men do you like?
Mandy, Westlife
[I don't know how that gone on there. It's not mine, if that's what you're thinking]

What is my day going to be like?
Messin with the Kid, Rory Gallagher

Lucy's hand sees internet premiere: Let the healing begin

Noreen signed my hand last night. In the middle of the pub. It says 'Noreen luvin Lucy xxx', by the way. This fine lassy is another UCD prodigy. Then I was on my way back from the loos and I had learned some dastardly piece of gossip on my way which I just had to tell her. Unfortunately the girl I grabbed and squealed at wasn't Noreen. A normal person might be embarrassed. Not me, I don't have morals. Or feelings. Or any discernable traits of humanity like realising when I'm behaving poorly.

I just said 'Oh darling, I thought you were Noreen!' Everyone knows Noreen. She just stared at me as if I was the most boring person on the whole planet. No one gets away with that. So I crossed my arms and gave her the hard stare. 'What's wrong with you? Noreen is one of the best-looking people I have ever seen in the flesh. And she autographed my hand. Me thinking you look like her, it's a fucking compliment, bitch.' She just gave me a bitchy open-mouthed look and I scooted off.

I have some thoughts you know. Sometimes I muse on the Big Stuff. And some times I worry about becoming the girl that everyone thinks is a drunken arse. Then I get over myself and get another drink. I'll worry about that when I hit twenty-four.

All the emphasis in this post is because I am YELLING it at my secretary

Where WERE you last night? I was looking everywhere. Well, the bar. You weren't there. Mags got drunk and made me dance to Sweet Child of Mine with my arms over my head. She MADE me. Then I kept buying her drinks cos I'm LIKE THAT. I encourage drunkeness. I'm like the anti-diageo. Oh no, wait. When I got home I was sitting on the kitchen floor eating Weetabix Minis, my new FAVOURITE food, when I got a text message off my new best friend Ken. It said 'I meant to say hello to you'. I thought this very nice of him. I vaugely recalled seeing his head earlier. So I wrote a long and complicated message back which ended with 'Let your conscience guide you. Kenneth. KENNETH. Off you trott. Though we admire.'

If you can understand what I meant by any of that you are a better man than me. Luckily for me (and Ken) I accidentally entered the wrong number and sent it to somebody else. A STRANGER. This morning I woke up with a reply saying 'Who's Kenneth?' From the stranger. I didnt write back though. I have enough random friends.

For eyes which rowle towards all, weepe not, but sweat

I have yellow spots on my eyeballs. Oh sure, I'm the only one can see them but they are there. They're like faint nicotine-burns. Whenever I try to show someone my yellow eyes I hold them by the ears and make them gaze into my eyes for an uncomfortably long time. Most everyone says: 'Nope. Can't see them. You're nuts.' One person said 'Are you trying to kiss me?' Idiot.

Damn it! I have yellow-eye! I looked it up for Pete's sake. Apparently it's because of poor tear quality and over-exposure to UV light. Poor tear quality, hah! I haven't cried since Dumbledore died. And that was more of a slight moistness around the eye than actual tears. So I went to the chemist to buy eye-drops.

'Eye-wetness stuff, please!' I said.

'€12 please' said my local friendly pharmacist.

Bit steep for a teensy bottle of what is probably water but, hell, I bought it. I'm off to buy sunglasses now to cope with the dazzling UV glare from Tramore's shimmering sands. So if you see me strolling around looking more knobby than usual, wearing big, bug-eyed sunglasses, you will know that I do it so my eyes are clear and pristine. All the better to undress you with.

Papa's Birthday

DSCN2805, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Charlie Haughey. Maggie Thatcher. Hugh Hefner. Garret Fitzgerald. The Queen. All turning eighty this year. It's a big deal. Eighty is the new black. My grandad though, he gets all the luck. He turned eighty today AND he gets me as a grandaughter.

Happy birthday Papa!

Things that make me laugh, loudly and long

I have just finished reading the May issue of British Vogue. I do that sometimes. Read stuff. Not just May though, I read all the months. Not all at the same time obviously because then I would get all my trends mixed up and I would fail to be the stylish lass I am. At the moment pantaloons are in. And cowboy and metallics and...colours. Wearing colours is HUGE for summer. Mark my words: you shall wear a colour before summer is out. Also, layering sucessfully is the key to eternal happiness. That and having loads of cash to buy designer handbags. I have one rule about handbags: If it cannot hold a nagen of vodka it is no good. I'm a simple girl with simple but heartfelt principles.

My favourite bit of Vogue is the Miss V column, where two anonymous fashion editors exchange gushing emails about all the star-fucking parties they've been to and all the free loot designers send them. It's brilliant:

'You were so wrapped up in James Purefoy that you missed moi, wrapped in my Preen bandage dress, plotting with Sandra Choi, Jimmy Choo's creative director, and Alice Temperley's husband Lars for tennis doubles at the Hurlingham. (Must pick up that flirty Stella for Addidas dress to distract from my nasty little drop shots.) Roland[Mouret]'s on a roll: tonight it was Natalia Vodianova, Bee Shaffer and Felicity Huffman he had deep in conversation before the artichoke salad was cleared.'

You will notice that Vogue kindly highlights all the big names here for you so can fume in envy more efficiently. I don't quite follow their order of significance though. Me, I would have highlighted moi, creative director, tennis doubles, artichoke salad and money-hungry, social-climbing knobheads to properly get the message across. The last one is more implied than actually said.

Apparently it was Camilla Al Fayed's 21st last month. Get over it: I wasn't invited either.

'A hundred guests gathered in an Egyptian-themed tented room to nibble on chicken skewers and truffle risotto. A sarong would not have passed muster...'

You're less crushed about not being invited now, aren't you? I don't know about you but I don't hate one hundred people badly enough to make them come to my Egyptian-themed birthday party. Also my party themes are usually more basic. Like drunkeness.

'The D Squared twins buzzed about their new collection, describing it as "gowny" (the new edgy), while Paris Hilton could not stop her Blackberry buzzing.'

How shaming. Paris was ringing me on her Blackberry, telling me all about the vile looking white chocolate sphinx cake and all the ugly fashionistas fannying about. 'Lucy,' Paris said to me, 'you should see this party! It's totally wild! And you thought I was trashy!'

'Camilla made two entrances, first in a Dolce & Gabanna crystal-spangled black gown, then in an ostrich-feathered Julien Macdonald number. The sweet hostess even performed a rap with Daddy Mohamed before a giant iced Pyramid cake arrived.'

Ho-humm.

Does this spell 'good times' to you? To me it spells 'vomitous'. I don't even think that's a word but there you go. How gowny I am.

Wheelly Good Fun