Lost in Translation

Recieved from the McIntyre one over the weekend:

"Hello my pretties --- or as the sleazy greek men pulling you into a bar/restaurant would say --- 'baby baby baby '- well how the hell are ye all my little flowers -- Ive so much to say and so little space to say it - "

Yes, Ashling is one of those people who eschew normal grammar rules and use only hyphens to get their message across. She is at this moment in time backpacking with her sister Fiona around random Greek islands. Moving on:

"we went dossing around athens then for the afternoon--- was great the amount
of stuff we saw was amazing --- we saw zappelion, national gardens, changing of guard at unknown soldier - temple of zeus - some bath thingy that i cant remember name of right now and then the next day we walked up to the acropolis was class class sight definately worth the climb the walk and everything - the view was unreal and the place itself was gorgeous -- of course was petrified of snotting myself coz it was so steep and all the steps were marble -- "

This is pure, untarnished Ashling. Never change, little one.

"went out last night and needless to say go a little intoxicated ----went to a really nice pub where the barman was of the sleazy variety---- when ya asked for sex on the beach he'd reply - when??? and insisted on trying to throw ice cubes down me top --- (loved it really - just messing) but then i thought id be all flirty and throw one back at it him --- of course gobshite here throws it at his head --- nearly knocked the poor ejit out --"

Ahem. This all happens during her few days in Kefalonia, a place where, she tells us is where Captain Corelli's Mandolin was filmed. She harbours an especial love for this place, for reasons you will soon uncover:

"The island was beautiful the water was so clean and lovely --- We stayed in an apartment called Vivenne Villas --- and this is the highlight of the holiday so far ---- you could flush the toilet paper down the toilet --- WAS KLASS -- its the little things in life that matter ---"

In other, less toilet-related news my good friend and habitual drunk, Marie Connolly has written to impart equally vital info on her trip to Japan to see her sister:

" Hi guys,
Hope your all well, any goss from the weekend? I am cream crackered so i'm off to my foton. I'll write you all a long e-mail Thursday boasting about how much fun I had in Disneyland, hard to believe seen as i'm so humble and never gloat lol:-)
Lots of love Marie "

Ashling goes to Greece, which, apparently, is somewhere around Europe and writes about 10,000 words on the subject and Marie goes to Japan- JAPAN- which is a whole other continent and writes two lines, mentioning a visit to a foul Western themepark. And she misspells 'futon'. Pah. She doesn't deserve Japan. And no, she's not a cockney. I don't know why she writes like one either.

Circumstances conspire against me

Is Oxegen seriously sold out? This is scandalous, I can't believe I missed out on getting a ticket AGAIN. Who would have thought that putting things off and generally being terrificly lazy and feckless would one day blow up in my face? Not me anyway.

Don't Let Anybody Mess With Your Swing

‘La terre est couverte de gens qui ne meritent pas qu’on leur parle.’
Voltaire


My mother wants a pergola for her garden. Do you know what this is? I do, because I had to listen to her going on about it all weekend. Actually, I lie. She took half an hour out to try and start a conversation about what colour cushions she should get for her new garden chairs. I was having none of it, however: 'Just get the olive-green, woman! I am not discussing the difference between russet and terracotta, any more. Not get out of my way, I can't see the telly.'

What a pergola is, essentially, is a sort of wooden cloister-thing that you put creeper plants all over. The fact that I know this depresses me more than you can imagine. If, like Sherlock Holmes, you believe that our brains hold a finite amount of information and we must now make room for useless data that will clog our thinking, you will by now wish that you never found out the meaning of the word 'pergola'. Which is why I am not watching Big Brother this year. Everyone in that house are people whose names I need not know. I am purging all useless information and refusing mercilessly to take in any trash. It is pure, untarnished THINKING that my brain will be doing from here on in. Expect great things...

Penniless and Destitute

Well, I'm annoyed. Enraged, you might even say. Here is some back story, so you can share in my rightous indignation: When I handed in my notice at my last job, they asked for a months notice. I found my contract which said I only needed to give a WEEKS notice. On pointing this out to HR, I was sniffily told that the contract was wrong but that they supposed they couldn't make me work a month. What, exactly was I supposed to do, I wondered? Stick around for the month even though it was their mistake in having me sign the wrong contract?

I very nearly did, because I am that much of a simpering weakling who hates to upset people. In the end, on the back of many inspirational talks from Aoife, I worked two weeks notice and left with the not necessarily pleasant knowledge that I was despised by HR and would one day get my bad karma back in spades. Feckless and carefree, I discarded this idea and went about my merry way at my new job. Until yesterday. I emailed my old job asking if I could get my P45 and remaining pay. 'Since you were paid monthly,' they emailed back, 'you will recieve both at the end of the month.'

Now. I thought this fairly harsh and ranted and raved to anyone who would listen about their shabby treatment. 'Do you realise,' I said to David last night 'that not only are they holding off paying me for work I did weeks ago, but they are also stopping anyone else from paying me? They are, in essence, punishing me for leaving before their stupid month's notice. And that was their fault. Bet it's not even legal to do this. Pah! A thousand times, pah!'
'Did you say this to them?'
'What? No, of course I didn't. I'm chicken shit.'
'Why the fuck should I have to listen to it, then?' And he walked off.

I have since realised that the end of the month is actually this weekend, but that is hardly the point. I know I should have savings to fall back on when things like this happen but, honestly, it's the principle of the thing. I am enraged on principle*.

*Huh. Turns out I can think about many things simultaneously. Eg: 'I am an extremely principled person' aswell as 'I wish I had enough dough to go out tomorrow night' and 'I hope one of the boys leaves some money lying around the house so I can rob it.'

If I understood this, I expect it would be very revealing

You scored as Postmodernist. Postmodernism is the belief in complete open interpretation. You see the universe as a collection of information with varying ways of putting it together. There is no absolute truth for you; even the most hardened facts are open to interpretation. Meaning relies on context and even the language you use to describe things should be subject to analysis. Postmodernist 88% Existentialist 81% Cultural Creative 69% Idealist 56% Modernist 56% Materialist 38% Romanticist 25% Fundamentalist 19% What is Your World View? (corrected...again) created with QuizFarm.com

Treachery!

Joanne was in the company of Cork people at the weekend and gathered some important information on inter-County relations in Munster, which she kindly passed on to me via email this afternoon:

'Apparantly, and I quote " People from waterford are all settled pikeys, or have at least a drop of the shawl."
'Now I thought this was very unfair, because you're a Waterfordian and very nice. But i thought I'd let you know the gossip thats going around about your tribe.'

This worries me greatly as my sister's education is currently being handled by a Cork third-level institute and she is currently crushing on a few undoubtably unworthy Cork young men. I think I may lock her in the basement to protect her the cruel racist taunts of arrogant Cork people. Either that or arrange that she get knocked up and keep her in a caravan out our back. Ha-ha.

The Meaning of Liff

You get up. It's raining. You take an umbrella. It has stopped by the time you're leaving the house. When you get off your bus it starts to rain again. You hit a small child in the head putting your umbrella up. People glare. When you get to work your umbrella sits dripping rudely in the corner all morning. You glance out the window once or twice: it's sunny. At lunch, you head off without your umbrella. It starts to rain. You get soaked. All afternoon you sit dripping rudely in a corner. By home time it's sunny again. Well-groomed people in summer clothes stalk the streets happily on your way home. You scowl and hug your wretched umbrella to you. It is ridiculous and useless but by God, you're not letting go of it.

On the way home, you fall asleep on your bus and have to be woken by the bus driver at the last stop. You leave your umbrella on the bus. The next day it pours.

Full in the smile of the blue firmament

Eek. New job is very scary. I am terrible at it and take four hours to do one thing. Nobody seems to mind though, which is nice. They took me for lunch in the Guinness Storehouse which was very enjoyable and laughed kindly when I fucked up. I am much too scared to email in work yet but I expect that will pass. I am nothing if not unashamedly brazen.

In other news, Friday night turned out rather messily. Lucy forgot to eat lunch (all puffed up on builders compliments, I expect) and was very tipsy by seven o'clock and had to switch to water. Aoife, Burt and co. turned up to Pravda at 11.30pm in drunken and loud mood, and were very rude to the librarians. 'Are you Bronagh?' Aoife asked Caroline. 'She's always talking about you.'
'I'm Caroline.'
'Oh. Never heard her mention you' Aoife said and turned to Paul. 'You're very quiet, aren't you? Are all librarians as dull as ye lot?'

Burt was horrendously belligerent to a quietly amused Paul later and I spent the rest of the night fuming. Not so quietly. Being offensive to librarians is not a laughing matter.

Dubious Compliment

I was just whistled at by a load of builders on my lunch break. I think it may have been done ironically though. Just my luck.

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night

I am suffering from bloggers block. It is like other kinds of writing block except it is less interesting and involves moping and excessive whinging. I blame my recent sobriety. Do you know that I have not been drunk for over two weeks? Alright, I was tipsy enough last Thursday to walk into a street sign but besides that, nothing. I am dry as dust. Luckily for all my fans I am finally getting to retire spectacularly from the library this evening (Lucy fucked up with handing in her notice and had to hang around for another week. A cruel person might roll their eyes and say 'typical Lucy'. I hope my friends will think more kindly of me.), and I intend to do so in the same style and aplomb as I arrived here. Oof, I am so excited. I have not cut loose in such a long time. Aoife and Burt are coming along too, just to see the fantastic sight of a crowd of librarians drunk. It should be fantastic.

Clanger!

Poor old Lucy! Left standing in the rain outside Central Bank for fifteen minutes by heartless Joanne last night! 'So sorry!' panted Joanne. 'Couldn't find spot to park!'
'Now look here!' said Lucy. 'What, may I ask is the meaning of this mistreatment? My shopping bag, it is soggy! And my hair, it is curly! And my cigarettes, they are all gone!'
'Do you think my car will get clamped before seven?' wondered unfeeling Joanne. Lucy drowns sorrows (and Joanne) in Liffey. Joanne nonplussed.

Many hours later, Lucy stumbles home. Immaculate blonde girl sitting on couch. Insult to injury! 'Lucy, this is Ciara' presents Burt.
'Ahhh. Hello Sarah' nods Lucy. Sarah?! Sarah is old girlfriend! Burt in massive rage. Lucy eats bread and falls asleep fully clothed.

Burningly it came on me all it once

Do you realise that Ireland's senior citizens only receive free travel on public transport before 4.30pm? This is staggering news, friends. There was I assuming that they rode the buses all day simply to clog them up for everyone else when in fact, the only time they have to trundle around the country is before tea time! And people complain of a generation gap. If the pensioners were allowed to trundle around the country all through the night, I am sure we would see a greater demographic span in Ireland's pubs and clubs. And drinking is a cast-iron way of making people mix and get on with each other, I think you'll agree.

And old people are fun! Yesterday afternoon, a throng of grannies poured onto my bus from the Royal Bingo Hall on Collins Avenue.
'Can I see your passes, please ladies' droned the bus driver.
'Less of your lip, young fella, can't you see were ancient?' cried back a canny old hag. 'Yeah, we've not long left, love!' cackled another. Disrespecting authority and laughing at death in one go! I am speechless with admiration!

On another occasion, I peaked a glance at my elderly neighbour's reading material and managed [I say managed; it took her fifteen minutes to finish a page] to catch the following line:

'Despite the bruises he had given her, Sue felt curiously drawn to this tough hoodlum.'

Thrilling stuff. If you feel compelled to learn more about Sue's attraction to this hoodlum, I think I this is the book she was reading.

In short: Old people are okay in my book. Just as long as they aren't in front of me in the queue at the supermarket.

Fa fa fa fa fa (sad song)

On Friday night I am going out to a karaoke bar off Georges Street with a bunch of people from work to mark my starting a new job the following week. Idling all weekend, I have been occupied in thinking up suitable song choices. So far, I have the following:

Stay Another Day- East 17
Don't Go- Hothouse Flowers
Let's Stay Together- Tina Turner
She Left on a Monday- Bic Runga
You Picked a Fine Time to Leave Me, Lucille- Kenny Rogers

Or something. I am really too lazy to bother thinking up too many more. These are for everyone else to sing, obviously. I am a woman of class and distinction, I would never debase myself by taking part in karaoke. Instead, I will be getting locked and sitting in the corner, chuckling quietly to myself. Maybe I'll sing a verse or two of Born to Run, maybe not. Depends how much saki gets bought for me, essentially.

Scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by

Is it me, or has the official send-off of the dead gotten extremely lax nowadays? I don't know about you, but I want a proper funeral, all black armbands and tears and drooping lilies. And stuff. When I shuffle off this mortal coil I expect a massive turn out from all my friends and admirers, all dressed in glossy funereal black, top-hatted and black-gloved to see me off.

I want people up and down Ireland to watch my funeral procession on big screens in town squares and women to sniffle noisily into hankerchiefs as the echoing footstep of my mourning procession cleaves through the watching throngs. I want priests falling on their knees and shaking their fists in disillusioned anguish at a faithless God; beautiful damsels surveying my hearse with a type of fierce pride; angelic children sobbing uncontrollably at my coffin side. I want swarthy hunks to bear my wooden box to it's final resting place, their hands gripping the manly shoulders of the other pallbearers in quiet support for the other's loss.

I want meadows scoured to make the floral tributes for my coffin, which will be borne in on a carriage pulled by a team of black steeds. I want Aoife to sing 'You Were The Wind Beneath My Wings' at my graveside and Burt to beat his breast as my coffin is lowered down. I want aggrieved roars and noisy crying. Hordes of lingering mourners laying flowers on my grave. My dog to take up a pitiful vigil in the cemetery. And then I want everyone to get pissed afterwards. For a year and a day, as they did in proper, pre-Christian times.

What a self-centered brute I am. I went to a funeral this morning and now all I can think of is how I want mine done.

A shady friend for torrid days

From this Friday on Aoife is going on study leave from work for nine weeks. As her exams are extremely important and since spreading all one's notes on the sitting room floor and staring at them is apparently not the optimum knowledge-imbibing method, she has decided to spend these nine weeks at home in her parents' house. Bitch. If you are any good at absorbing information, you will easily recognise that I will be left in the house with the two boys. Alone. The idea shakes me to my very core.

I'm terribly worried. How will I cope without constant female companionship? Who will engage in ladylike chitchat and banter with me? At least I will have Burt's FHM girls to keep me company. They bring some much needed ladylike delicacy into the place. I dread the day when I am reduced to sitting on the landing outside his room, gazing adoringly up at the 5ft poster of Abi Titmuss wearing thigh-high boots and a smile he has sellotaped to his door.

'Abi,' I will say, 'What do you think of Kylie's new hairdo? Aren't periods awful, Abi? And bras- oh, I see you're not wearing one. Well done you! Abi, would you like to moisturise elbows with me later? No?'

As an aside, if you are a girl, would you like to hang around with me for the next nine weeks? I am very pleasant to be around and can do many funny impressions of characters from Eastenders. Alright, then, just Pauline Fowler. But I'll attempt Phil Mitchell if you'll take me shopping/have pillowfights with me.

Please?

Her Mind Lay Open Like A Drawer Full of Knives

I am sick of people who think my blog exists to make them famous. I have lost count of the amount of times people have said to me: 'Hmmm, Lucy- I found your blog the other day and I am sad to say I am not mentioned once. Not even a short poem. What is up with this?'

This is my blog! It is me who puts in all the long hours on it, primping and preening to make it perfect for you ungrateful oiks! It is me who came up with the brilliant name; It is me who woke up one morning and said 'Hmmm, I like orange...'; It is me who faithfully gets drunk at regular intervals to have something to write about. I think you mistake the purpose of all blogs everywhere, namely in assuming you should be mentioned in one. The only person a blogger likes to talk about is himself. The entire existence of blogs is based on the self-serving narcissistic principle that people you don't know want to read about your dull life. My dull life that is, not yours. Yours isn't worth reading about as it isn't on the internet. Mine is.

Empty Pockets Don't Ever Make The Grade

Look at this! £16.50 to join the Dorothy L. Sayers Society! What a con. This is the internet, for crying out loud, everything is free! Why, just the other day I recieved an email off a gentleman from Nairobi who offered to split $46,000,000 worth of gold bars with me if I would just send him my bank and credit card details. He is being cruelly persecuted by the government, you see, and needs to get cash for the gold so he can buy safe passage for his family. I was a little perturbed that he addressed me as 'Mr Aughney, Sir', but the point is he is giving me this money. For. Free. Eat that, DLS Society.

See This Crooked Finger?

I am just back from stepping outside for a quick cigarette (on my break, naturally; I would never abscond on company time), where I was fortunate enough to overhear the angry rumblings of a shaggy-haired young man. First and foremost in his grumbles was the fact that his friend was over-charging him for for two ounces of some illicit substance. I am not the most careful of citizens but I would consider discussing this on a busy street corner with various dubious student-types milling idly around rather risky. I mean, I could be an undercover cop.

Next he gave out about the Irish healthcare system. The state of old-age homes in Ireland. Irish schools. Irish roads. Irish weather. Prison sentences not being hefty enough. The Taoiseach. The President. Bono. The pope's funeral. Car-clamping in the city. The price of pints. Then his complaints gave way to a more pressing issue; DIT library. Apparently, earlier today, some 'bitch librarian' charged him a €5 fine for using his mobile in the library. And then had the cheek to say his books were overdue and would he pay a €2.60 fine on them. What a poor, long-suffering young man! I almost feel sorry for him. The world is so against him and his carefree, fun-loving ways.

Bred to A Harder Thing than Triumph

I've been thinking lately about getting a few hobbies. At the moment I have very few things with which to fill my free time. Not that I have much free time of course- barely am I free from the yoke of work when I have to knuckle down to my nightly six hours of TV watching and elbow-moisturising. It is hell trying to squeeze in enough time to eat dinner or go to the bathroom, and many's the time I have been forced to scoff dinner while watching telly and not paid enough attention to the plotlines of the soaps, resulting in my completely losing focus and coming to a week later with 'Why is she crying? Is he going out with her now? What do you mean he's her long-lost son?' Pure hell.

All the same, I feel I should line up a hobby or interest to cultivate if the telly were ever to break. I only have two hobbies on the go on the moment and they are reading and drinking. Reading is great because it means you can ignore people who try to talk to you on buses. And drinking is really really great, a fact I'm sure you're aware of. You can't put it as your hobby on your CV though. You have to put 'socialising'. Drinking is not supposed to be very good for your health but you can get around this by asking a few of your friends along and calling it 'socialising'. If you're being extremely pretentious, you can call it 'networking' or 'relationship building'. Other hobbies that look good on your CV are 'languages', 'theatre', 'fine art' and 'unpaid overtime'. Hobbies that do not look good on your CV are 'petty thievery', 'Dutch erotica' and 'cleaning fingernails with keys'. Those are best kept under your hat for a while.

The problem with my hobbies lies mainly in my inability to multi-task. When your schedule is as packed as mine you have to master the art of multitasking to get things done. Often, when I am making my bed in the morning I take the opportunity to rumple the sheets and roll around in it, just because I know I may not have time to mess it up properly the next night. See? Two jobs in one. Excellent work.

When you have two hobbies like me and are dedicated to both with equal ferocity, you often can't find enough hours in the day to devote to them. Often- stupidly, dangerously- you will try to do both at once with messy results. Most of my books are horribly stained from being dropped in pints and I cannot count how many times I have fallen asleep on the bus and missed my stop because of combining reading and drinking. Reading is, on the whole, a very dull occupation and when you have had a few drinks your mind needs extremely exciting pastimes to stimulate it, like dancing like a wild stupid person or getting into fights. Reading will just not do it and you end up falling asleep, drooling and snoring all over your book. Terribly messy.

Not that how I read sober is altogether tidy. I choose a book on the basis of it's cover, flying brazenly in the face of conventional wisdom, and on how ugly the author is. I don't trust attractive people. Then I read the first few pages, get bored, skip to the ending then skim the rest of the book for rude bits. Don't even get me started on the quality of erotica you find in your modern novels! There is better stuff being written on toilet walls. Occasionally I mark parts I like with ripped up post-its. If I have no post-its I turn down page-corners. I like to write my name on the book's endpiece also, if it's a library book. I am no fool though. I write my name in Elvish so it can't be traced. During college I went through a sad Tolkien obsession and learned how to write in runic, and one of the Elvish alphabets. Every book I borrowed from UCD library I inscribed with the Elvish letter for 'L'. If I was feeling particularly idle, I wrote my full name in runic also. Before you ask, no, I didn't do exceptionally well in college.

Yielding to Popular Pressure

Right. Jenny's brother has had a baby boy. Not him personally, but Christine, his girlfriend. Apparantly, it is stunningly gorgeous and irresisistably charismatic. Like all the Kielys. Also, despite being unable to speak or move much, a nurse present at the birth has said that something in the way he looked at her seemed to imply a mighty intelligence and potential for awesome power. Sources close to the Vatican are said to be considering him for the next pope. He is also tipped to be involved in the upcoming Backstreet Boys reunion tour, so whatever he fancies really. Christine and Damien are said to be considering 'Evan'. Tuesday April 5th, if you must know; my correspondents aren't as prompt as they used be.

Pure Wrongheadedness

All is chaos and strife at my house. Last night, after Marie and Claire headed home and we all settled down to a pleasant evening watching golf with the sound turned down while Aoife played all her favourite CDs and roared at me whenever I ventured near the stereo, trouble broke out in our quiet Santry home. Burt decided (on his sixth bottle of Stella) that Aoife was no friend of his. Aoife decided (on her fourth half-pint of vodka) that Burt was no friend of hers. Burt stubbornly ignored Aoife for three more bottles then took to saying loudly 'Oh, you want to know what my problem is! What! My! Problem! Is! Ha! That's a good one!'. He commandeered the stereo and put Mario's Let me Love you (his current favourite song) on repeat, while Aoife chain-smoked and glared. David tried nervously to concentrate on the golf and Sharon wisely fell asleep. So the crisis had to be handled by Lucy. Excellent.

Burt tried a different tack; namely, patting me kindly on the knee and whispering in my ear. Trying to make Aoife jealous, you see.
'You're my real friend, aren't you, Lucy?'
'Yes, Burt.'
'Loooo-seeeeee-'
'Yes, Burt?'
'-is your name.'
'Yes.'
'Lucy, put on a song you like!'
'Aoife won't let me.'
'Lucy, d'ya know what: fuck Aoife.'

So I got to put on my current favourite song which is track one from Bloc Party's Silent Alarm, an album title that describes Burt's perturbed young face fittingly on hearing the song. Unfortunately he had to stick by me, now that he had firmly opposed Aoife in putting it on.
'This is your favourite song?' scoffed Aoife. 'This tosh?'
'I think it's brilliant.' Burt choked out, meeting Aoife's gaze defiantly.

Aoife, reduced by now from a sudden scarcity of vodka to swigging from a mug of Dutch Gold, responded in kind. She found Burt's SuperValu short break tokens, which he was stockpiling to pay for a piss-up in the summer and stuck them all over the stereo, table-cloth and dining chairs. Two hundred of them. On me too, when I went over to try and persuade her to give it up. 'I am teaching him a lesson' she ground out.

The funny thing is, neither could remember what they were arguing about. Neither can today either. Burt started it, Aoife thinks, but Burt maintains Aoife did. It is all very traumatic for me. I feel like the kid in Kramer vs Kramer. Except not so cute or blonde.

You say tomato...

Well. The rift has passed. Aoife and I have finally agreed to disagree on the meaning of 'zucchini'. I said it was the American for courgette, she said it was a type of nut. When I took the plunge and printed off the definition from the internet, she changed her tack, saying that I had claimed it was American for eggplant, so I was still wrong (In Aoife's mind, it is not that she is right, but that Lucy is perpetually wrong). This is ridiculous! I would never confuse zucchini with eggplant, mainly because I know they are both American for something. I can't rightly say what eggplant is American for but I'll venture it is not a nut. Nor 'courgette'. Is it that bulbous purple vegetable? I don't know anything anymore. I am starting to doubt my knowledge of even the simplest vegetables, which is a sad way to be.

Lucy goes a-courting

If you are planning on falling in love with someone in the near future, there are a few things you should know. First of all, who ever you choose will have to be someone you can bear to see a great deal and who has a half decent name that you don't mind scrawling on your copybooks/tattooing on your arm. Some people will make the mistake on basing their love-choice purely on attraction- this is wrong. Just because the sight of someone's buttocks or breasts makes you want to sleep with them does not mean you are suited to each other. Sex always clouds things. You can't have sex all day, every day you know! Eventually someone has to get up and put shoes on and go out to buy food. And all that activity would be utterly exhausting.

Then there are people who seek out those with similar interests to them. This is ridiculous! If you found yourself so fascinating in the first place you would not feel the need to go after anyone else and would be content sitting in and talking to yourself. Also, I would tremble in terror if I thought there was anyone with similar interests to me out there. If such a person does exist, I hope they stay well enough away from me.

What you should look for, obviously, are the little things. The things that mean life with this person could in fact be bearable. Whether they are tidy. Whether they will let you talk about yourself for hours on end. And whether they know to stay quiet when the O.C. is on the telly. If you are a woman seeking a man, know your itinery: 'Girls don't like boys, girls like cars and money' and choose accordingly. If you are a man seeking a woman, look for someone who seems sexually promiscuous. The ones with no will-power are much likely to take to barefaced dictatorial control from you ('Woman! Make me a sandwich! Do my washing! Wash my car! That's what you're with me for, isn't it?') which will make for a much smoother ride for you in the long run.

If you are in the market for a partner, there are a few simple steps you should follow.
1: Women: Wear as little clothing as possible. Go to a place playing loud music and try to look whory.
2: Men: Buy a BMW key ring and clip it to your keys. Swing these around your index finger in your local loud-music place and look out for whory-looking women.
3: Singles of either sex: Struggle to suppress your true personality for as long as possible. In my experience, the more someone knows about you the quicker they will run away. If you are any good at self-denial and deception (and if you were brought up an Irish Catholic, you will be) this should be a doddle and before you know it you will wind up married to someone. Then is the time to reveal the true horribleness of your character, when you officially own half of everything of theirs.

In following these few steps, you will under no circumstances find love and happiness. You may, if you are lucky, find someone who can tolerate you enough to hang around with you every now and again and lets you sleep with them. Ideally not. I would hate to think of any of you lot running the risk of procreating.

Disaster becomes you

Yesterday evening, around eight o' clock I had my wallet nicked from a table in a bar I was trying desperately not to slide under (the table, not the bar; even I would have trouble sliding under a bar). One minute it was there, resting benignly by my elbow, the next it was gone. Needless to say, I wasn't too impressed and after I was persuaded that one of the lads hadn't taken it as a joke, took immediate steps towards it's return. Specificially, I checked behind all the sanitary bins in the ladies loos, as directed by the bartender I reported the loss to, in case it had been stripped of all cash and chucked away. No such luck. Being the relaxed, philosophical lass that I am, I shrugged it off fairly quickly. Especially when people began buying me drinks to cheer me up.

'Aw, that's awful,' commiserated Rebecca. 'You must be gutted.' Not so much. Let me calculate my loss:

My age card
My bank card
A scrunched up ten Euro note
About four Euro in change
One Juicy tube in 'Peche'
One tampon
One mint
Fluff
One receipt from the Foundry in Carlow (kept for sentimental value)
Various till receipts from bars the length and breadth of Ireland (kept in case I ever had to start a small fire somewhere)

About an hour later, returning from the toilets again having spent ten minutes marvelling at the amazing effects of the neon anti-heroine lights on various parts of my clothing, I found Rebecca chatting to a distressed looking female. 'This girl has had her purse nicked too,' she said.

Good God! A major crime ring unfolding under my very nose! I was thrilled of course. 'Oh wow.' I said. This girl revealed in trembling tones that her purse had turned out to be a much better score for our shared robber. Besides bank, credit and cheque cards, the lucky thief had snatched himself the girls rent money for the month, which she had just withdrawn from an ATM.

'Oh wow' I repeated. What else could I say? My loss was nothing compared to hers. I felt bad though. I had a fiver in my pocket I could have offered her but I needed it for my bus fare home. 'Wowowowowow.'

I have decided that the thief probably discarded my pathetically empty purse after seeing his loot from the second job. Not wanting to weigh himself down with useless empty purses he no doubt turfed it away and rang a limo to go home and spend the other girl's rent money. Bastard. So I'd like you all to keep an eye out for it in your locality. Check gutters, rubbish bins and especially behind sanitary bins. That's the hottest guess, apparantly. It's rectangular and a kind of bronze colour, and has a zip running along the side of it. I'm not offering a reward for it's return because, let's face it, I'm broke and the pleasure that comes from doing a good deed should be enough for you. When you find it make sure you wear gloves to pick it up 'cos I want to retain all forensic evidence to track the bastard down. Don't go mucking it up with your dirty fingerprints or an awkward situation might arise where I track you down and slap you about, thinking you a common crook. Don't say I haven't warned you.

He's Gone and Done It

Mossy. WHY?

Salient Point Number Two

Also known as Aughney's Law. Whenever you purchase a blinging* new top to wear on your birthday, you will invariably pack in haste due to being hungover/hungry/late/stupid/all of the above, and leave it behind you in Dublin. You will then be forced to wear out an old top you have had for ages, and will be cross all night (all right, not all night. Just until you're drunk enough not to care).

FRIENDS: Are you wearing that out?
YOU: Yes.
FRIENDS: Didn't you wear something similar before-
YOU: No.
FRIENDS: Like your last birthday?
YOU: Certainly not!
FRIENDS: Yes you did- see, here is a picture of you last March in the exact same top.
YOU: Bugger off.

Also:

MOTHER: What are you wearing?
YOU: This.
MOTHER: That?
YOU: Yes. What's wrong with it?
MOTHER: Nothing. Black is very slimming.

Conclusion: Friends think you a cheap, fashionless ho. Mother thinks you are fat.

*I'm sorry. I hardly ever use rapper slang. In my defence, it is gold and shiny so there really is no other way to describe it.

Salient Point Number One

Your father likes a drink. For the occasion of his eldest's birthday he sees fit to start drinking at three in the afternoon. When, in the wee hours of the morning he fetches up in an establishment entirely too young for his years where you and your dissolute friends have decided to remain until someone throws you all out, he lingers unnervingly at the edge of the dancefloor with a sleepy looking grin on his face. Urged by the mischievous young Annie Mullen to have a whirl on the dancefloor with her, he will clutch protectively at his Guinness and weaving unsteadily, slur the following: 'Do yoouuuu know where Lucy was conceived?'

Answer: Carlow. It's hardly Paris, is it, Mum?

Another Year Closer to Death

'Oof! Lucy was out last night!' trilled Rebecca when she arrived into work this afternoon. Lucy, slumped over the issue desk and lacking her customary happy glow blinked groggily at her. Who was this perceptive blonde girl? 'What gave me away?' she growled blearily.
'Intuition, mainly. That, and the bar stamp on your hand, the dark circles under your eyes, the aroma of beer off your person and the fact that your clothes look slept in. But my psychic gift confirmed it.'
'Well, it's my birthday on Monday. I'm just warming up.'
'Really? Big age?'
'Extremely. Twenty-two. I am ancient. Positively prehistoric.'
'I'm twenty-five, Lucy.'
'Ah. Right. You wear it well though.'

So it looks like your site is fucked, eh?

Hardly! I am not just Lucy, polite young female co-habiting with two gorillas. I am other things besides. The gorillas' awareness of this site need not spoil everything. In fact, this discovery may be a good thing. It will allow me to explore other sides to myself, to share with you all some lesser known facets of my luminous personality. For example did you know that I am, as a human body, slightly off kilter? I have one foot bigger than the other, one eyeball, one calve and one index finger. All these gigantic anomalies occur on the right-hand side of my body, if you're interested. I suspect a wayward magnetic drag during my gestation. If my mother stood still for the entire nine months, that is. Knowing that footloose hussy, not likely.

Lucy Laid Bare [Explicit nudity from start to finish]

Ahem. Looks like I've been scuppered. Could have been worse though. I mean, David [sweetly disguised as 'The Truth'] could have revealed me as a lot worse than someone who exaggerates their stories to get attention. For example, 'obnoxious', as he called me last Thursday night. A 'mouthy drunk' also, apparantly. But hey, that's probably common knowledge. It's amusing to note that he had no problem being labelled as lazy, filthy or intentionally cruel and disgusting, just with being called scientifically obtuse while drunk. Typical.

The Final Reveal

Uh oh. On Saturday night, Burt discovered the existence of my blog. Aoife's fault mainly as it was she that told him as I sat, tight-lipped and tense, wondering how I might get to a computer before him and edit out all mention of his name. Not possible. He got onto it yesterday during his break at work. He rang me then, slightly disappointed not to have been mentioned more. 'Why do you think everyone at work hates you?' he questioned.
'Because they do.' I replied simply.

In other news, I am just back from my break and a cigarette at the back door, where I was lucky enough to be present for the arrival of Minister for Education, Mary Hanafin, in the building. A big, black Minister's Merc pulled up and sent little quivers of excitement through the throngs (alright, three) of photographers assembled outside. She jumped out of the passengers seat, hand outstretched to those greeting her and a smile of apology for her lateness on her lips. What grace! What compelling presence! She is my new favourite Minister, I think. Long story short, watch your newspapers tomorrow morning for a picture of the Minister arriving at DIT Aungier St for the launching of something and see if you can spot a star-struck young lady in a tan coat lurking in the background, clutching a carton of milk and a cigarette. That would be me!

Glad Tidings

Our heating is back! It was fixed yesterday evening by a large bottom partly dressed in pants and his assistant, Gary. Less than five minutes work on their part was reimbursed by us in the form of forty-five of your European bucks, a fact suffered greatly by two of the greatest skinflints ever to reuse a teabag, David and Burt. They have no qualms about dropping over a hundred Euros for the sake of a night out, will laugh it off after as being all in the sake of fun, but ask them to pay for small necessities- bread, toothpaste, toilet roll- and they will close up immediately and bicker pointlessly about how they bought toothpaste last year and they never eat bread anyway as it soaks up valuable beer in the stomach. Having safely seen the boiler maintenance men off the premises and declared loudly that they had known all along what was wrong with it, and if only they had had a screwdriver this whole thing would have been sorted out ages ago, they headed off up to Santry to play pool, leaving me to wander around the house on my own, brushing against walls with my fingers and gazing in wonder as they came away dry.

My plan of walking around my newly warm home naked, laughing, was cruelly scuppered by Aoife's arrival home (much to the relief of my neighbours, I'm sure). The proceeding two or so hours were very dull, revolving around the sorting of odd socks, scouring of pans and declogging of plugholes that are pretty run of the mill for most females of an evening. Actually, I can't pretend to know what most females do in the evening; off moisturising their elbows and picking out ankle-bracelets, probably. What I am sure of however, is that I spent yesterday evening doing unpleasant tasks while Aoife smoked and gave out about her job.

When the boys returned from poking coloured balls around with long poles, a situation arose. Though as completely enamoured of the lovely glowing heat coming from our radiators as we were, the boys had had a frank appraisal of their finances and decided that stern measures would have to be undertaken. Specifically, the cessation of all non-essential, money-using services in the house including and without equivocation all laser-light displays, monkey waiter service, nightly bottles of Moët before bed and heating after 6pm. What?! We just have the heating back, we complained, let us live in comfort for a while more! But no, the boys were stern. The heating was turned off immediately and vague theories expounded on the heat retention of newspaper when wrapped around the body. The boys were also well on their way to being drunk.

You'd think I'd have learned long ago not to argue with those with a slightly squiffy glint in their eye. Nay. While Burt waxed didactic to Aoife on the perils of an overheated home and the environmental disaster that was humanity's overuse of fossil fuels, David chose to examine the physics of the thing and demanded reasons why a house couldn't be heated sufficiently during the day and then merely release it's heat during the night.
'Because,' I spluttered, 'It's not a bloody solar panel-thingy, it's a house!'
'Ah! But what about the laws of thermodynamics!' he replied triumphantly. You can always tell a drunk by his absolute confidence in the utter bullshit he comes out with.
Momentarily displaced by his use of a multi-syllabled word, I struggled for a come back.
'You can't...you don't....asshole!'

I am not, unsurprisingly, the strongest at debates. Needless to say, the room went quiet. I shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another. Somethings are taboo, even in my house. The boys glanced gravely at each other and proceeded to mutter grumpily to each other.
'Did you hear...!'
'I can't believe she said-!'
'Of all the-'
'I'd like to know what gives her the right!'
They stopped their muttering to glare accusingly at me. Burt tutted softly under his breath. David reduced his eyes to the merest slits and shook his head. Faced with such an assault, I panicked. I lashed out with the only weapon I had.

'You owe me a fiver since Monday!' I sobbed and raced from the room. I don't seem to handle confrontation well. I may not end up in the front lines at the class-hatred fueled uprising I had planned.

Anybody for a drink before the war

Last night, spurred on by the four vodkas and three glasses of pink champagne she had enjoyed at a work leaving-party, Aoife let me know what she thought of my job. Not much, as it happens. Apparently though, grousing about your job is pretty much like calling your sister a whore or your father a stingy bastard: it's something you don't like other people joining in with.

Just because I am not a high-powered, overworked and undercompensated trainee accountant who has to get up at 6.30am and doesn't get home till after seven at the latest, I have a cushy job. Ha! Has she not been listening to me? Did she just forget the co-workers who hate me, the ignorant students, the long hours on your feet, the (moderately) heavy lifting, the days of relentless tedium? This snobbery must desist!

I see this latest quarrel as a class struggle, with me representing the diligent, uncomplaining service industry and Aoife as the self-involved corporate accountant. Us librarians must rise together to prevent our place in society from being demeaned, diminished and degraded! To prevent the awful advance of self-aggrandising accountants! [I foresee much alliteration in my future campaign speeches] I must warn you now, it shall not be an easy battle. Those accountants have sharp teeth and can add huge rows of figures at high speed. There will be much blood shed in the name of justice and truth. But with champions such as these, who will back out? Who's with me?!

PS: There will be no joining up after we have the battle won. If you are not with us, you are considered an accountant and after the final battle will be doomed to spend eternity trying to understand a balance sheet incapable of balancing, with only an broken abacus and Derek Mooney to assist you. The broken abacus is self-explanatory; Derek Mooney because I can't stand the bugger and by then there will have been enough bloodshed.

Waitin' on a Sunny Day...

What is up with outside today? I am generally not one to comment on the weather except to old ladies at bus stops, but a day like today warrants some notice I feel. It started with a bolt of lightening, proceeded to thunder, snow and rain till mid morning and now sees fit to remain sunny and breezy for the rest of the day. As a committed ditherer, I recognise indecision when I see it. In an act of hypocrisy much greater than any previous incidents [Lucy, to sister: 'Never smoke.' Pauses to draw deeply on cigarette 'It is very bad for you.' Lucy, to new co-worker: 'The key to this job is keeping focus. Thriving to be the best. Pauses briefly to sit around vacantly for three hours 'As I said earlier, it's all about staying busy.'], I now say: Wise up weather! Make a choice, so that the rest of us don't have to struggle whether to choose wellies, brolly or sunglasses every morning! Naturally, I would almost always choose the brolly, as I like to swing it jauntily from my arm and look dapper. Also, I don't own any wellies or sunglasses.

In other news, I have recently decided to title all posts with any song lyrics that wander unbidden into my head at the moment of literary creation. I made a commitment to be abitrary and illogical long ago and I'm damned if I'll give that up now.

Sponge! I never knew ye!

For the past couple of weeks I have been slaving away trying to get all our Annual Reports in order. There aren't all that many, and they're not in that much of a mess, but for some reason this task is taking me quite a long time. Some might call me lazy; I prefer 'creative worker' or uninhibited by time'. Or 'Lucy, maiden of the dawn with the glowing locks'. But I'll answer to anything, essentially.

This morning, cruising around government websites, I came across this little beauty. Guess what these guys do: test people's quality of life. Seriously. Just look at this. And this. And this. This is news to these people. Discovering amazing non-facts like these would be ideal for me. Last night I discovered that SquareBob SpongeHead [SquarePants SpongeBob. SpongeHead SquareBob. Squarehead Spongeman?] was a living creature and not just a weirdly animated bathroom item. Sponges are living things. This is amazing. And just look at this! The library service position is vacant! Can I cold-call them and ask for a job? Or would that be a small bit needy?
No. I am going straight home this evening to talk to the round yellow chap in my bathroom about his living and working conditions. All this time and I never knew!

A Stinging Blow

Having been away at home all weekend, and in Carlow on Sunday night for the opening of Rag Week with Annie and Marie, I saw the boys for the first time since Thursday at half past ten last night, as I rolled in from working late, all bedraggled and trailing bags after me. Bedraggled and scruffy because of Sunday night's alcohol overindulgence and having been rained and snowed upon waiting for a bus. Obviously. Misery isn't really misery without some unexpected precipitation and a hangover.
'You were locked on Thursday,' Burt said accusingly.
'Ah' I said with little interest.
'You were more drunk than I've ever seen you, ever.'
'Oh?'
'You picked Aoife up and then dropped her on her arse. In the middle of the dancefloor.'
'And you slapped me in the face.' Suplied David.
'And you laid into me for calling you a drunk.'
'Oh.'

I needn't tell you any more of the horror of that night, as I hardly think you need any more proof that I am a vile, debauched, spitting, biting mess of a creature. Only with a drink in me, naturally. I am lovely sober.

Nothing speeds along a good bout of misery like some beautiful melancholic music, so last night I opted for Declan O'Rourke's lovely Since Kyabram, which Annie lent me over the weekend. Track three, Galileo, is so whimsically lovely it hurts. Actual physical pain. Maybe thats only the echoes of my seemingly constant hangover, though.

The Commoners Have Let Me Down

Ahem. Am I not getting something here? Last night, thrilled with the realisation that my mother would be away in Paris for the weekend (note: She booked it in December. Lucy's realisation comes Feb 16th. One wonders how I get up in the morning) I swiftly formulated a plan to throw a party in my parent-less homestead this weekend. Trembling with anticipation (and the cold, heating not yet back on) I put my thumbs to work immediately. 'Party in my gaff this Sat. You are invited. Bring bottle of vodka. And whatever you're having yourself' I texted off to a half dozen intimate acquaintances. Replies? None. Three hours later Kathy texted back to say she had 'college work to do'. Yeah right, more like a rival party to attend. Since then, nothing. Does nobody get it? I don't give parties very often. And when I do, invites are like gold dust. I certainly don't invite just any raggamuffin. And now, when I deem to invite a few raggamuffins to drink vodka and sit in my kitchen listening to me talk for a few hours, the ungrateful scuts don't even respond! I am at a loss. Utterly without hope.

Speaking of hopeless losers, would you like to come to my party on Saturday? It's free in (before midnight) and if you behave, I'll let you sit next to me and brush my hair.

Jealous? Moi?

Bah. This place disgusts me. Naturally, I am stuck working tonight, Valentine's night. No-one even asked if I wanted to work. Maybe I had better plans, something to go to, hoards of eager suitors with romantic and/or debauched notions lining up outside my door. I didn't, as it happened, but would it have killed anyone to check? Instead I'm stuck here, checking out books to all the other losers who have nothing better to do tonight but come to the library. It's not all bad though. When it gets a bit too much, you can just remind yourself that everyone you will speak to over the next hour will, like you, not be having sex tonight. And that placates my huffy indignance just fine.

Just Toasty

Eek. The oil has run out again. And embarrassingly enough, it did so on the same evening Aoife and I managed to seduce the lovely Joanne into coming home with us after drunken shenanigans involving Frenchmen and small shots of something plunged in Red Bull at Pal Joey's in Temple Bar. Ironic. Or Alanis Morissette's version of irony at least. As we sat on stools eating toast in our kitchen (beside a grubby plywood something we have hilariously renamed our 'breakfast bar'), marveling at Aoife's ability to conjugate boire at 4am with the excitable Frenchies, we began to realise the old house was rather chilly. Aoife, in her usual inspired manner chose to kick half-heartedly at the radiators a few times but I, sensing the situation required an informed eye, slipped outside to check the boiler and kick that instead.

'I'm afraid', I announced on my return, 'that the boiler is officially fucked'. Joanne started mumbling something about getting a taxi home, where it was warm and the sofa was not stained with dried-on curry sauce. Sensing a crisis approaching, I came up with the grand idea of starting a fire in the sitting room [In the fireplace, obviously. Our house is not bad enough for arson just yet]. One hour, three dusty brickettes and half a packet of fire lighters later, I sat back proudly to survey the smoking mass of embers before me.
'Howzat?!'
'Just toasty.' Drawled Aoife. 'I don't know why we need central heating at all if you can lay down excellent fires like that all the time.'

So now my house is freezing again. Not as cold as December of course, but all the same, not too pleasant.

Why bastard? Wherefore base?

In a pathetically weak effort to be current, I read a newspaper yesterday. Specifically, the Irish Times. Being the fuzzy minded youth that I am, I had trouble handling actual news and after flipping to Doonesbury and scowling momentarily at the crossword, I turned to the letters page. I really should read the paper more often. Apparently, on Tuesday, right-wing columnist Kevin Myers in his regular opinion piece, An Irishman's Diary, criticized the lassitude afforded single mothers by the Irish government's overly generous social welfare policy. He also called children born of unmarried parents bastards. Wednesday's paper saw two vaguely critical letters about the column on the Times' letters page; by Thursday the the entire page was given over to vehement objections and impassioned disagreement. Also, a grudging apology from Myers. Terribly excited about this controversy, I gestured wildly at the paper and squeaked shrilly. My unimpressed co-worker glanced over and said: 'Oh, that. That was all over the radio yesterday. Had you not heard about it before now?'

No, I had not! Nobody gossips properly anymore. Mass media has made us all so lazy. Keen to catch up, I hastened to find Tuesday's paper in our filing cabinets. Then I realized all the filing cabinets were upstairs and since I was feeling so tired I really couldn't be that bothered. Instead I looked it up on their website (don't try this at home; we have a subscription and you don't). Shocking stuff! As I harbour secret yearnings to be a limp-wristed liberal myself, I was instantly stirred by the piece. My heart quivered in my breast. Maybe that was just a minor heart attack though. Then, of course, I had no-one to vent my spleen on. Everyone already knew about it. I briefly entertained the notion of writing my own letter of complaint to the paper [Dear Madam, Kevin Myers is a wanker. Respectfully, Lucy Aughney] but that would necessitate getting up to find an envelope. So I ruled that one right out.

Instead I pasted particularly objectional paragraphs from the article in an email and sent it off to my mother, charmingly headed 'To the mother of a bastard'. Of course, she rang me later to say she had already used that joke. Twice. I am so behind on my wry japes. Then, last night-miracle of miracles!- I found someone who didn't already know about the article and the tumult it had aroused (Aoife) and testified self-righteously for a quarter of an hour. Aoife, in her usual brutally blunt manner pointed out that my rage may have been drawn more from a feeling of personal hurt rather than an objective disagreement with the issue in question. To prove her wrong I screamed abuse and started to cry. Not objective my eye!

It does hurt of course, which is ridiculous because it really shouldn't. It's not meant to be about me or my mother, it's meant to be about women who abuse the system by getting knocked up so they can get a house, or who take welfare handouts gladly instead of working. Apparently. Figuring out my opinion on this makes me feel distinctly unwell. I never thought of myself as having any morals but it seems a few firmly held convictions are lurking in there somewhere, doing queer things to my stomach when someone questions their validicy. Discounting the rank crassness of much of the piece ('And how many girls - and we're largely talking about teenagers here - consciously embark upon a career of mothering bastards because it seems a good way of getting money and accommodation from the State? Ah. You didn't like the term bastard? No, I didn't think you would.'), which all of the complaining letters to the editor found issue with, the argument behind the ugly words, which less took offence to, reeks of misogyny to me.

Single parents aren't all women, and aren't all young. They aren't all single parents because they had irresponsible sex but apparently having sex at all is still enough to attract blame in Ireland. And they're not all unemployed, even when our constitution, out-dated as it no doubt is, prizes the mother's place in the home and recommends the state assist her in making her remaining there economically viable.

Speaking as a bastard myself, as the daughter of a woman who never married the father of her children, and a man who stuck around just long enough to bring them up with her, Kevin Myers is a vile piece of shit. I've never wanted to spit at someone before but his words encourage me to try new things. According to him however, my illegitimacy increases my chances of being a mob member. With bastards accounting for 31.4% of births last year, that's quite a mob to start calling names, Mr Myers.

FAME!

Fame as finally come for me! My mother has had my graduation picture put in the Munster Express, Waterford's weekly source of valuable and necessary news items. Try this one, found under Tramore notes:

Buala Bhos!

Well done indeed to the two teenage girls going home from school who took the time and trouble to repack a senior citizen's shopping bag when she dropped it as a stray dog annoyed her.

This ones mad, because I actually live in Clarinwood, so it's probably my dog fouling up the place:

Thank You

A group of residents at Clarinwood, Tramore wish to extend sincere gratitude to John Deasy T.D. for his diligent representations on their behalf involving a number of collective and individual matters, including the provision of dog fouling warning signs.

Honestly! They put this crap on their website but I can't find my picture anywhere! Somebody in that office has very strange priorities. It's alright though, I'm sure my mother has bought the paper and cut it out for me. It can now go in my scrapbook of fame. Also in there is five-year old me giving the bouquet to Kathleen Watkins, me coming third in my school's obstacle race, aged ten, and me receiving an Oscar for best sound engineering. One of those awards is not entirely true. The fun is in the guessing.

Quota Filled

As of today, I have enough friends. I'm not taking on any more. I get enough hassles from the ones I have already without taking on new meat. So, from here on in, no room at the Lucy-inn. You're either already in or you're out in the cold. Everyone who I consider my friend will recieve a Lucy Friendship Pack in the post, containing some or none of the following: a lock of my hair, a handwritten poem about mountains, a copy of my typing certificate from Transition Year (22wpm) or a photo of my dog. Don't come crying to me if you don't get your Friendship pack; I will merely fix you with a frank stare and repeat slowly: 'Everyone who I consider my friend...'.

PS: Some of my original friends may, of course, die. In fact, at some point they all will. To remedy this problem I propose to draw up a panel from which replacements will be drawn. To apply for a place on this panel, please forward your name and favourite cast member of The O.C. to my HQ. Any applicant who suggests lazy-eyed teen alco 'Marisa' will be immediately dismissed and a team of rabid dogs despatched to their home. Or Marie. Whichever I have handy, really.

The End of Faith

This book sounds BRILLIANT. Not that I intend reading it or anything. I think that reading the review has provided me with quite enough material to keep me belligerent and irritating whenever I am drunk over the next few weeks.

This ain't nothing new

Last night I watched the Superbowl. A s a person who has never seen American football except in films, I must say right now that it is an extremely dull sport. There is a huge amount of standing around and yelling, and lots of complicated number sequences that I do not understand. Why does anyone watch this crap, I wondered. Then the cheerleaders came on screen, all heaving cleavage and dazzling smiles and the boys in my living room went silent. Ahh, I murmured to myself as comprehension dawned.

Still, the rules of the game elude me. Thinking that Americans (which I have also had little experience with outside films) followed the same rules of logical numerical progression as ourselves, I glanced up from my perusal of the Observer's travel section to find the words on the screen changed from '3rd&11' to '1st&10'.

'What?! What just happened? Did we just move back in time?' I demanded of the room.
Burt took a deep breath and launched into a lengthy explanation of the technicalities of the game, which seems to involve yards and other things I thought the EU made illegal when we all went metric. There's ten minutes of my life I won't get back again.

When he finished, with a knowing nod and a swig of his Stella, I hummed appreciatively and fumbled for the Funday Times supplement from that day's Times. Evidently, I am not made for such viscerally real experiences as this.

To sum up, and in a synopsis I'm sure you would have rather had at the start: Lucy watched sport yesterday and did not get it. Nobody is surprised by this rather unfunny revelation. Lucy sighs heavily and crosses another topic off her 'Things I can converse cleverly on' list. Getting to be a pretty short list.

We've All Been There

Email recieved from Ms McIntyre earlier this afternoon:

'Oh god I replied to u and sent it too him oh god I may well die'

Ouch. Too distressed to run spell check, Ashling? Your situation is indeed dire.

I, Being Born A Woman and Distressed

I have reached a new low. Yesterday evening, tricked into believing I was going to be seeing group naughtiness and sexual dilemmas in Closer, I met Marie and Claire outside the Savoy on O'Connell St. They were nearly an hour late and I was ten minutes early, which is an unusual occurrence (me being early that is; Marie is always late) so I was mightily pleased to see them.

'What ho, young pals!' I hallooed cheerily at them. Malice sparkled in their eyes. 'What are you smirking about then, turds?' I queried, polite as ever.
'Claire's seen everything else, so we have to see-'
'No!'
'-Meet the Fockers.' Finished Marie.
'Everything? You've seen everything?'
'Yup!' Lied Claire promptly to a look from Marie.

I tried to persuade them to leggit up to UGC to see A Very Long Engagement with me but they just shook their heads sadly. 'I am too tired to walk all the way up there!' Whined Marie. 'I'm up since ten!' Bloody students. So I had to see Meet the Fockers. In my usual passive aggressive manner, I bought myself a big bag of peanut M&Ms and ate them all scowling at Marie and Claire and refusing to share. As a result of all the scowling and scoffing of chocolate, I felt pretty sick on the way out of the cinema.

'Look at her struggling to think of something critical to say about it!' Crowed Marie. 'You can't think of anything, can you? Because you liked it!' I had no choice but to nod quesily and try and suppress my nausea. That's another revenge plot thwarted by M&Ms.

Upon arriving home I discovered to my alarm David and Burt very cosily ensconced in front of The Terminal. They informed me that they had been food shopping- together -that day, bought toilet paper and toothpaste (enough of a shock in itself), and had taken the brave step of cementing their relationship by getting a Dunnes Club Card. Together. As a couple. Do you see why I am disturbed by this?

Oh, Gosh...

A disturbing thought from Mossy this morning:

'I have decided to try become more active on the whole blogging front. Its like sex. You really get into it at the start, then its still exciting but you want to try different ways of doing it and it just gets messy.'

Now, if that doesn't make you want to run and hide yourself in a cupboard somewhere, you have issues.

All is Well

Burt (aka David Burtenshaw) is not moving out. Thanks to all NONE of you who offered to move into his room and cover the bills for me, but he's staying put for the time being. Last night I probed the matter gently.

Lucy: So...what are you watching?
Burt: [Avec much eye rolling at the telly] The soccer!
Lucy: Ah, right. So... are you moving out, then?
Burt: Dunno yet, may do.
Lucy: But, this Friday...?
Burt: No. Not this Friday. Anyway, Aoife said I have to give two weeks notice if I want to move out or she'll cut my balls off. So I thought I'd think about it a bit more.
Lucy: Aha. Good plan. And why, exactly, do you want to...?
Burt: Can't say. But I'm sticking around until I get a few things sorted out.
Lucy: Like?
Burt: Actually, it's more like a few people I have to sort out, if you know what I mean.
Lucy: Ah. No, actually. What people?
Burt: Can't say.

What does all this mean? Is he being purposefully obtuse or just enigmatic? Or has his wish to become a CIA hitman, declared last week while watching The Bourne Supremacy, finally come true? Who is his next hit? What the hell can he mean?

Trouble Ahead?

Burt, it would seem, does not embrace the particular brand of joie de vivre we cherish so dearly in our house. On Friday night, on the dancefloor at Break for the Border he announced he was moving out. 'I'm moving in with Gary and the lads on Friday!' he roared over Beyonce's Crazy in Love.
'What?' I screamed back. 'Why?'
'Cos I fucking hate ye! And the house is a dump!'
Eh, hello?
'But... what will I blog about if you go?' I implored.

This did not sway him. I tried the tough approach to get him to stay. I threatened to reveal a piece of information he told me on Thursday night. I will share this with you now in case he kills me and this nugget is lost forever. When Burt saw Braveheart for the first time, aged about fifteen or sixteen, he was so scared he didn't sleep for three days. Braveheart. An historical epic. Also, Notting Hill is his favorite film. Two excellent pieces of blackmail material, one would have thought. Burt ignored me completely, however. Foolish boy. I shall raze his reputation to the ground I vowed and shook my fist angrily at the ceiling of the club.

Later, moved to desperation at the thought of having to cover his rent for the next month, I sat outside his bedroom door after he went to bed and sang Dido's Don't Leave Home. Not a flicker. The stubborn bastard went straight to sleep.

It remains to be seen whether he will move out or not. If he does I plan to stick him with a bill for €103 for the oil, gas and electricity bills. I would have left him off the €3 before Friday night but now my back is most definitely up. Suffer my wrath, Burtenshaw.

A Diversion

Because of recent ruptures in my household, I am unable at present to relate to you any of last night's events until I consult my legal team. Instead I will share with you something entirely irrelevent and frivolous. Lucy's Top Ten Favourite Songs! At the moment, naturally. I reserve the right afforded all women to change my mind at any time I please.

1: Can't Let Go- Lucinda Williams
2: You're Pretty Good Looking (For A Girl)- White Stripes
3: I Wanna Get Married- Nellie McKay
4: Desdemona- From Verdi's Othello
5: Somebody Told Me- The Killers
6: UnWritten- Natasha Bedingfield [I'M SORRY, Ok?]
7: Lonelily- Damien Rice
8: Use Me- Bill Withers
9: Spiral Staircase- Kings of Leon
10: No Cheap Thrill- Suzanne Vega

Now! Doesn't that give you a little more of an insight into the wonder that is Lucy? In fact, if you were a real fan you could make up a mixed tape of all those songs and sit in your room and listen to it and imagine you actually are me. Wow.

Over-Indulgence

On Friday morning Burt got his Christmas bonus from Super Valu, where he works, in the form of €100 worth of shop vouchers. By half six that evening, when I returned from work, my living room was filled [Not exactly filled; it's not that small] with one hundred bottles of Stella Artois. Normal people would have bought some food with their vouchers, perhaps a slab of lager. I personally would have bought twenty jars of gourmet jam. Not our Burt! Why waste money on food when you can buy more beer than you can carry? He is now working his way gradually through the beer lake by having a bottle in his hand at all times. Before we went out on Saturday he and Kellyo drank thirty-one bottles of the stuff. Thirty-one bottles. In two hours. That's fairly impressive in my book.

Blog Visitors: 64

I am climbing the charts! Slowly but surely I am edging up my visitor numbers! Not through anything of my doing, obviously, because I am terrifically lazy and would very much like to become an internet celebrity through someone else's hard work, but it is happening none the less. I expect this is what Girls Aloud felt like when they were going for Christmas number one. And then they were pipped by that crummy Band Aid single! What a con.

Nobody comments though. Don't you know that comments are my lifeline? I understand if my colossal intelligence is intimidating and you really can't think of anything to say that might equal my hilarious anecdotes but please, do comment. Even if it's just a simple 'Lucy- you rock' or 'Lucy- you are the most fabulously lovely creature I have ever seen, can I take you out for a drink? Or, since I am not worthy of your fabulousness, let me post you the money in an envelope and you can buy yourself the drink.' All good things, people.

My sister has developed a slight complex regarding my blog. Having read it once or twice, she has concluded that everything she says is fair-game to be uploaded and shared with the world. Last weekend, while recounting a humiliating romantic disaster she had suffered during the week, she paused eyed me suspiciously and said, 'You're not going to put this in your blog, are you?'
Not likely, I exclaimed. Why would I post about other people when it is obvious that there are sixty-four people out there that like to read about me, and only me? I ask you! The vanity of this girl!

So why no comments, people? Where is the love, as the Black Eyed Peas might say. And Valentines is coming up and all!

A Grievous Error

I have just been appraised of some awful news. RTE's long running soap, Fair City, has no fan-site. Why is this? Are Fair City fans not people too? Do they not deserve a forum where they can meet and mingle with other fans? Or are they desperately sad and ashamed about their Fair City obsession and meet in secret in back-alleys? All good questions, friends. None will be answered by me though, because I am working and have no time to ponder such things.

I mention this only because the other night, while the lovely Aoife and I chowed down at a local eatery we were struck dumb by the sight of one of the actors scoffing white wine and pasta with a blonde at a neighboring table. I'd tell you his name or even that of the lad he plays on the telly but I don't have a clue. [Mark this moment: Lucy admits to not knowing something. This will not happen again.] Naturally, I hot-footed it on to the net the next day to post my sighting on some fan-page's message board. I was toying with working the event into a bit of a drama with me walking up and slapping his face for getting off with his teacher last year and since taking up with her daughter, when I gazed in surprise at the screen. No fan-site! No online shrine to the wonder of Carrigstown! What am I to do? Who can I brag to, if no hapless obsessed fans exist? They must be out there, though. In hiding no doubt, but they are there.

I challenge you all to find a Fair City fan today! Find them and bring them into the light! You have a moral imperative to free this sadly maligned group from their isolation! We shall start our own web community and begin stalking all the actors! Eventually we will become legendary and iconic and we will get all the shit-cool merchandise all the Buffy fans get! I shall see children carrying a Harry Molloy lunch box yet!

God, I'm good. Sometimes the brilliance of my plans sends small shivers down my back. And sometimes I'm just cold.

Uh-Oh

I am now, for the first time in my life, officially in debt to a financial institution. I have just rung up my bank and asked for an overdraft. It was very frightening and I had to take a few deep breaths to get through it, but I managed. The worst part is that I will have to make sure I do not get fired this month or I will not be able to pay it back and the bank will track me down and shoot me in the legs. Naturally I am always trying not to get fired but seeing as there is now an actual life and death reason for not get fired...I'm concerned.

A Confirmed Loser

Oh dear. This morning I took the plunge and installed a blog counter thing. If you can't see it it's down a bit to the right. See it? Don't laugh. It's not my fault I'm still in single digits. It's horribly depressing though. It just sits there and looks at me, reminding me that only four people have visited my blog today, two of whom have been me. The other two are meaningless and transitory as they did not comment nor leave me any sweets. It's so pathetic and needy. I'm thinking of taking it down. Like I needed another thing to fret obsessively over anyway.

Think I'll go off and read this. That might calm my fears of rejection.

What just happened?

Oh. My. God. The boys bought washing-up liquid yesterday. AND WASHED UP. Something is seriously wrong. The world is spinning backwards. The may be plotting something. Watch this space...

Failed Experiments

Last night saw the first official guests arrive at the Lucy Aughney B&B, located in the heart of lush Dublin suburb, Santry. Lucky first-time guests were Ms Margaret O'Neill and Mrs Joanne Gillane (nee O'Neill), vacationing overnight from Tramore. Said Mrs Gillane to questions posed by journalists: 'I knew it was going to be a dump, but seriously: mould in the bathroom? And what's with the weird brown stains on the sofa?'
Said proprietor, feisty Ms Lucy Aughney: 'Bite me.'

Yes, friends, last night I had Mags and her sister to stay. This morning they flew out to Swansea where Mags is interviewing for a course, and if my fiendish plan went correctly, they will never ever return to my home again. Despite early troubles on the way up from Waterford, where Lucy managed to forget where she actually lived and had trouble directing Joanne due to a small problem with telling her right from her left, we arrived fairly unscathed outside the pile of rubble I call home late yesterday evening.
'It's not that bad' declared Joanne kindly. 'I mean, it's got walls and a roof at least.'
'And windows!' helped Mags. 'And a door.'
Wait till you get inside, fools, I thought.

Upon entering, I sped instantly up the stairs with a bottle of cif to clean the bathroom and forbade anyone to enter the kitchen before I had a chance to hide all ketchup and curry stained plates in a press. 'Alright' I announced once I had this done. 'It's not so bad now.' Only to find the girls perched warily in the sitting room surrounded by empty beer cans and congealed taco-fries. Joanne was peering doubtfully at a stain on the couch. 'It's soy sauce!' I insisted. I hurried them back into the car to get something to eat and hissed at the boys to do something about the mess while I was gone. They didn't of course. They hate me.

'Do we have to go back?' asked Joanne sadly as we sat eating chips in the car.
'Yes.' I said sternly. 'It's not so bad, it's only messy really. Like, I don't think you could actually catch anything.'
'It's cos it's a student house, Jo. You're used to more civilized people.' Mags insisted.
'Eh, no, actually, it's not. 'Cos only David is a student, see? The rest of us are normal.'
Joanne looked unimpressed.
'It's 'cos they're boys, Joanne; they're messy by nature. You know the way boys are!'
'My husband was never like that. He's a boy.'
'Yes, but before the civilizing influence of you came into his life, I'm sure he was inclined to leave the odd take away rotting on the coffee table for a few days, hmmm?'

'You and Aoife aren't boys.' Mags pointed out.
'Yes, but we are very busy. And we're teaching the boys a lesson about cleanliness. We're not cleaning till they cop on and clean too.'
'Really? Is it working?'
'Well, we've been teaching them a lesson since November, so....no, probably not.'

Shocking!

Wow! Ashling's gone all pink and girly! Who would have thought it? Wouldn't have taken her for a slanderer though. Slapper.

Score! Bingo!

Misspent life commented on my blog! And Topic Drift has me linked! Ah, the magical nature of the internet that allows me to pretend I have friends!

I'm Torn

There is a helicopter downstairs. I swear to God. My question is, just how did they fly it in here without me noticing? Is there an dastardly kidnapping plot afoot in DIT? Is the president or Bono visiting, and no-one made parking arrangements for their vehicle? Or is it just some stunt they're pulling for tomorrow? I'm torn...

The Highlight of my Week

, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Last night, searching for sewing needles on a stand in EuroSpar, I managed to knock a shelf of tights all over myself. I say shelf, because the tights were not stored according to logical retail practices on hooks and according to size and shade, but instead merely jumbled carelessly on top of each other on a shelf. As the packs containing sherry, nude, calypso, natural, tropical and mediterranian tan rained down on to my unsuspecting head, I let out a peal of madwoman's laughter. Seriously, fellow Spar patrons looked nervously for the nearest exit. This, I thought, is the funniest thing to happen to me all week. And that's a pretty sad way to be.

Verbal Abuse

I have recently become aware of a somewhat upsetting fact. Before I moved into the lovely, if rather shabby home I am now in, the boys made a bet with each other to see who could make me cry first. Aoife, in her usual perceptive way, found this out and called a halt to it before any damage could be done. All the same, I worry that there has been some kind of unofficial recommencement recently. In the past week, I have fled the sitting room five times in an effort to avoid extremely explicit banter. This, admittedly, was unwise. Sensing my discomfort, the boys have stepped up their antics and expanded their vocabulary considerably. Both are already committed fans of the seedy underworld of porn, human perversions and extremely criminal behaviour which features frequently in The Sun and other such rags but the last few days has tested even their limits of imagination and experience.

What began as lewd and demeaning comments whenever a female came on the screen or was mentioned in conversation has degenerated into a foul onslaught of curses, obscene suggestions, gratuitous toilet humour and the passing of gas. 'I love it when she puts her fingers to her temples and sighs, don't you?' chuckled Burt last night at my response to his description of exactly what he would do to Angelina Jolie if he ever got a chance.

This cannot go on. I am not cut out for situations like these. I'm just too much of a lady.

Garfield

Garfield, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Seriously. I am shit hot at this posting images malarky now, aren't I? I expect I could build a computer from scratch now, seeing as I'm so clever and all.

DorothyLSayers

DorothyLSayers, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Emphasizing my extreme, exhalted intelligence, it has only taken me seven months to figure out how to post a photo onto blogger. So? It took Albert Einstein till he was 26 to get published and another two years before he got offered a teaching job. So screw you. You're not a complete failure till you hit 27. That is my newly adopted dogma.

Ladies Don't Squat

There was me thinking Manual lifting would be a breeze. Hardly! Maybe it was because I was sniggering all the way through the talk and trying to make one of the boys laugh by throwing my pen on the ground and making him pick it up, or maybe it's because I am dense and can't do anything right, but the course leader kept picking on me to demonstrate how not to lift things. It's not my fault, I have a natural tendency towards grace and poise and therefore am dis-inclined to squat and stick my elbows out and clutch boxes to my chest. And then she kept pissing me off while talking about the skeletal system. It's all very well to say your spine supports your head and all that, but calling it your 'big, heavy head' and 'heavy arms' and even 'massive vertebrae' just gets my goat. Can we not even maintain any bodily dignity anymore? I feel used.

Vicious Circle

I like to keep notebooks by me at all times. Not that I ever write anything worth reading, but because I have a horrendous memory. Truly awful. Back in November I couldn't find a notebook to write 'pay electricity' in and yesterday we recieved a third and final notice to pay five months worth of bills. See what happens when I have no notebook? See?

Last night some random thought occurred to me as I lay in bed, exiled there due to the boys' insistence on watching darts on the television downstairs and Aoife not being around to scream at them for me, and found I had no notebook to hand. What a to-do! All my notebooks have, at various points, had important things written in them and and then been left, unwisely, in my locker at work where I can never get at them because I forget to look for my key. My umbrella is in there too! And it's lashing out! Woe is me.

So I actually had to get out of bed and search for something to write on. All I could find was the back of a tights packet. Which is why an empty tights packet bearing the words: 'Shoes from cobblers. Buy vodka. Figure out DVD player. Sew button on coat. Buy toothpaste. Buy more tights' fell out of my pocket this morning as I demonstrated lifting to a height this morning at the manual lifting course. This tights packet contains my life. And everyone else at the course saw it. I am undone!

Hurrah!

My bronchitis is gone! All that lingers is an unfortunate hoarseness of the throat which affords me the extremely displeasing sympathy of errant students I attempt to scold. 'Ah!' cried the blonde undergraduate I was extracting a fine from this morning. 'You poor dote! I'm in pain just listening to you!' This will not do. Pity does not command respect. Also, I am starting to sound like a pre-pubescent boy, with my voice wheeling and wavering and cracking at inopportune times. Inopportune times means, in this instance, when you are telling noisy students to shush, or making announcements over the intercom, or singing 50 Cent's Many Men in the staff room thinking you are alone but actually are not. One's gangsta machismo falters slightly when one is suddenly singing in a little girl falsetto.

Good Luck With That

In the year 2005 I resolve to: Get the chick next door pregnant. Get your resolution here

Unappreciated in my own time

Bah. No-one believes I have bronchitis. I tell you, it's true! Last night I overdosed on strepsils before bedtime and had horrible hallucinogenic dreams all night. When my alarm went off this morning I moaned 'this is going to be a rotten day, I can just feel it.' Unfortunately there was no-one around to hear me so my forecast went for naught. I often feel that someone should be following me around, writing down all the clever wittisicms I utter. I mean, Oscar Wilde surely had someone to write down all his stuff, right? And I've already got the hair.

Er, what?

A three-minute silence for the victims of the Asian tsunami has just ended in the library. Everyone is looking around in confusion at each other. This is a library. Does this mean we are allowed talk now?

Also, I started typing before the announcement to say it was over, and all the students scowled at me in disgust. I am a godless, irreverent hind. And I haven't given any money to the disaster appeal yet. I am going to hell for sure.

Calling Time

I am just back from the shoe department in Brown Thomas on Grafton Street and let me tell you, I am not impressed with what I saw there. Rich people's shoes are pretty much the same as the rest of our shoes! This whole designer shoe malarky is a con, and I'm calling time on it. Alright, they're made of divine, supple leather and suede, studded with gems and satin ribbons and graciously stamped with an elite logo, but really, what have you done for me lately? Scuppered, Mr Jimmy Choo! You've flogged your last betassled, jewel-encrusted stiletto, Mr Gucci! Prepare to see the Moschino empire fall to pieces, all on the basis of my word!

Aye, me!

Oh dear. It looks like I do have bronchitis. This is terrible. How can I look Aoife in the eye again, knowing that she has been right about something? Also, I now have to monitor the colour of my mucus to make sure I am not dying a horrible, phlegm-soaked death. Nobody else would notice if I died anyway. Except maybe when the rubbish starts to pile up and they realise I haven't been putting out the wheelie bin.

Heigh-ho

Well. Me and Aoife discussed our highlights of 2004 last night. Then I coughed solidly for half an hour and Aoife suggested I maybe had bronchitis and I wrote that idea down in a notebook for consideration later. Aoife's highlight of 2004 was hearing the Pixies sing Here Comes Your Man in Phoenix Park in June. Mine turned out to be waiting for a bus one rainy morning in October. Who would have thought it? That's just the way things work out, I guess. Then we considered what might be our highlights for 2005. We couldn't think about philosophical things like that so I asked Aoife 'have you seen my tin whistle?' and she wisely feigned sleep.

I can see the flag of the Croatian Embassy from where I'm sitting. At least, I think it's the Croatian Embassy. I'm not as up on my flags as I once was.

Mairead Adds A Further Perspective...

'...And then we were walking into the Baldy and I knew you were having trouble walking in your shoes-'
'The heel fell off one.'
'So I said to you to straighten up and walk proper so that the bouncers wouldn't give you any hassle but you said you were grand-'
'I was grand.'
'So then when we were going in, didn't you stop and start talking to one of the bouncers! And you must have been talking about some film you had seen or something-'
'The Sound of Music. I was telling him he reminded me of the Mother Superior.'
'Yes, because you were doing all these gestures, and then you were singing a Johnny Cash song and saying 'now that was a great man'.
'Uh-huh.'
'Then I got you inside and put you sitting down but you kept getting up and running off when I turned my back.'

'And what about the fight?'
'Oh, I don't know what happened there. It was over so fast and when I asked what had happened, you tapped the side of your nose and said you had it all sorted. And that Dell wouldn't be bothering anyone for a long time.'
'What does that mean? Was I organsing a hit?'
'A what? I don't know. You were pretty locked. You wouldn't get in the car to go out to Brian's house unless we all agreed you were stone cold sober. Then you fell over getting in.'
'Nicely done. Ironic, you might say.'

'Do you remember yelling 'Here's to 2005, fuckers!' at people out my car window?'
'... I don't remember. Period. It wasn't a good night for memories all round.'
'How about you sticking your fingers up at the angel on Brian's tree cos you said it looked at you funny?'
'No. That sounds like a good memory though, i'll pretend I do. God, I'm such a fool! Such a drunken idiot! Do you hate me? Does everyone hate me?'
'No. Everyone was drunk, it was New Years after all.'
'You weren't drunk.'
'That's because I was too busy watching you fuck up.'

Utter Drivel

Happy New Year! Did you have a good one? I had to kiss Jenny at midnight because I couldn't find a young man equal to my exacting standards, but all in all it was good. I mean, Jenny is a very good-looking girl. I have a good feeling about 2005. I can safely say that this looks like my year.

And like all good things, I feel it should start with a bang. Hence my little display in the ever-lovely Baldy Man last night. Before I tell you what I did, I must ask you a question. I must insist that you be frank in answering it. How do you feel about fiery young ladies who blatantly faff about drinking wine and whiskey (separately, naturally) though they are fully aware of the existence of the proverb about not mixing the grape and the grain? And what do you think of people who take their shoes off in pubs and stupidly sit on mucky walls in their new white skirts? Who wander around asking people 'have you seen my husband? He's the rich looking chap, I cant think where I left him!'? Who forgoes conventional money storage solutions and keeps all her change in her bra? Hmmm? Pretty bloody cool, I think we can all agree.

Also, I was almost in a fight. Me! In a fight! I wouldn't know a fight if it came up...and punched me in the face, actually. I would like to pretend it was over the honour of an honest maiden or something, but I am done with falsehoods. It is my new year's resolution: Give up smoking and falsehoods. I would also like to say that it was the kind of event that will remain lodged in my mind forever, a tense and profound insight into the vigour of quick-simmering violence, but I am afraid I had had quite a few drinks and am a complete blank on the subject. In fact, I didn't even know it had happened till Mags rang me this morning.

'Do you remember fighting with Dell last night?'
[Ahem. I should point out that in this instance Dell is a person, not a computer manufacturer. I have no quarrel with Dell the computer crowd. Lovely people, I'm sure.]
'Eh, no. What about?'
'He came up to you and said "Rachel is gone off upset, will you go look after her?" and you told him to fuck off and mind her himself since he was the one to upset her and he said you were a crap friend and you told him to go fuck himself and the next thing we knew the two of ye were bawling at each other and you were going for his neck. It was deadly, I had to hold you back.'

Now. 'Gobsmacked' is a word I don't use very often but I think I can safely say it fits here. 'Holy shit' fits here too but I've done quite enough blaspheming in my lifetime so i'll leave it at gobsmacked.

'Wha- seriously? I tried to hit him?'
'But he tried to hit you, Luce.'
'A girl? He tried to hit a girl? Aren't there, like, laws about hitting girls? That is scandalous, I am shocked.'
'Well, you did keep screaming 'no, no- fuck you!' at him. I wanted to hit you.'
'Mags! I'm hurt.'
'You've never seen you drunk, obviously.'
'Hmmm. Ah, well. Good night altogether, wasn't it?'

Learn your lesson and move on. That is my other New Year's resolution. That and to avoid saloon brawls if I can help it at all.

Why?