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.