Not Caring For Sharing

Christmas passed uneventfully enough, the highlight being a Christmas day lecture from Little Niece N (now a soap box adorning 4 year old, and therefore full of opinions) about sharing.  I had begun to open my presents and squealed with delight when I found that Mammy had bought me a box of my most favourite chocolates, rafaello.  I would describe them but then I would have to leave the house immediately to buy another box as the one in question here is quite empty.

I never share food.  I will make you some, I will buy you some, but don’t eat mine.

I was immediately pounced on by Lilsister and Little Niece N so I attempted to flee the scene.  The aforementioned lecture then took off in earnest with Little Niece N going hell for leather on a long rambling introduction to ‘sharing’ and all its charms.  I was unmoved, and counter attacked with the fact that there were many other good things to eat in the house and this was MINE and I never had anything nice to myself.

As if unified in their hatred of me, Lilsister, Little Star, Little Niece N, Papabear, Baby Bro and Littlebro all demanded a rafaello.

It was a time of utter desolation.


Where The Streets Have No Name (Literally)

So I finally hauled my increasingly flabby arse to a new gym for exercise classes, and today I can’t sit down it.

The gym was incredibly hard to find mainly because the roads surrounding it are so tough the STREET SIGNS have been kicked out!!!

The building, which is actually a proper, sweaty, ‘Rocky I’ style boxing club complete with smells, dirt, and aincent old men with huge bellies, is behind a school that appears to have a bit of a ‘reputation’.  Lilsister advises me that as a student she was driven to a basketball match there, and told that scores were not to be kept, to prevent rioting and the burning of teacher’s cars after, should the result not match the hopes of this evil place.

Lilsister is a terrible person and decided that if she could not win, she would have many fights during the match, and she hated her teachers anyways, so who cared if their cars got burnt?


Mammy Usurps the Irish Medical System, Adds Gin

After shelling out for the world’s nosiest doctor, Mammy and Daddy depart Irish shores to travel to the lovely Lanzarote, where it’s warm and medication costs less.

‘Get me my sleeping tablets,’ I bark at Mammy, ‘as I have no money left from the Doctor Prat-a-lot.’

Mammy does, and hands them over upon her return, alongside a very cheap bottle of gin, my drink of choice.

Gin and sleeping tablets – would the doctor be worried?  Surely they don’t cause alarm bells to ring if your mother gets them for you in a sunny place?


Oh, Vienna

Speaking to somebody the other day who said ‘if you love Vienna so much why not move there?’.  Indeed.  Many thoughts.  But my nieces don’t live there, even though the chocolate is amazing.

Maybe I should move.

Who will have me?


TV Orphans are Gateway to Deep Feelings

An odd couple of days at work.  A colleague asked about our knowledge regarding ‘panda porn’ (porn by zoo keepers featuring pandas, for pandas) and today I spoke with an elderly man with a stutter so severe it made me want to weep.  Am I getting softer?  I have been watching a lot of ‘Long Lost Family’ lately.  How could they separate siblings???  TWINS the other night.  Horrific.

New Ears

Disaster last night, when my Sony cd cassette recorder WITH REMOTE refused to play my (cd) audio book.  I immediately flicked about with it and finally got it working, but it’s happened a few times lately, and my old cassettes don’t always play – it might be a Sony, but it’s not alright.

To the interweb thing.  Well goodie, Sony doesn’t even make this model anymore.  Ebay doesn’t sell it.  If I want a cd player I have to buy an ugly box thing and manually move the radio dial myself!!  No remote controlled presets here!!!  As for cassette players…

It’s a whole new world my dear.  I will have to – what, MP3 it?  Ipod that?  I haven’t a clue.

Naturally I have turned to youth and called Lilsister a whopping 9 years younger than me.  I began my tale of woe and as soon as I said ‘MP3’ she audibly moved the phone from her ear whilst muttering ‘I don’t get that shit’.  I asked her not to underestimate the significance of the information she was receiving and she laughed.  How can I listen to my plays now?

I am going to have to (Jesus) sit down with Hangsandwich or Boo Boo, both IT experts, to get them to explain to me how to work an ipod and then how to transfer my millions of cds to said ipod, and how to listen to them on what I believe is called an ipod ‘dock’ (headphones are for walking).  I pity them already, and I am afraid.

There is hope, as I type I am listening to rainforest sounds on youtube via the interweb.  We stress heads like our rainforest sounds, you see.

Under the Sea

Went swimming with my nieces today, very nice.  Mammy and Papabear were going to the gym and Little Niece N wanted to play mermaids, Little Star just looked bemused, so off we all went.  I drove behind because with the two car seats there was no room for me, but it turned out to be a fascinating drive, what with Little Niece N waving at me every two seconds and blowing me kisses from her back seat, and me doing my best to return the compliments whilst not killing myself.

In the pool it was go go go on mermaid duty and after Little Star stopped freaking about being waterborne I had a spell put on me by Little Niece N which involved me playing dead for a long time, but only if I had my tongue hanging out too, otherwise it wasn’t right.  It gave me some rest but then the spell would weaken and I would have to be Mermaid Orna (?) again.

Afterwards I ate a lot of carbs at Mammy’s house and came home to sleep.

Wash Out

It was a tough day in work, and my manager volunteered to hand out the valium in her handbag to the team.  I don’t think she was joking, and I certainly wasn’t when I stated I required double what everybody else was having.

As I am the most exciting person ever, I rang Mammy to see if tomorrow would be a good wash day for my sheets.  I was informed it was not (it is a bank holiday weekend in Ireland and therefore, the temperature will drop, and it will be raining so heavily there is to be localised flooding).  In the background I heard Little Niece N and Little Star, and resolved to ditch my post-work library trip (again note reference to being Exciting) and play with them instead, especially as the torrential downpours haven’t started yet.

I knocked on the door, and immediately heard the screams of Little Niece N yelping to the house that I was outside.  She then ran to the door, which is locked to prevent her opening it and running out into the streets, and squealed at me from behind the window at the side of the front door.  I squealed back, and we gave each other a big kiss on either side of the glass, because Mammy was taking all the time in the world to let me in.

During all of this, Little Star then entered the hall and when the door was finally flung open I was immediately pounced upon by Little Niece N and could see Little Star actually jumping up and down, chanting my name, in a state of what I can only call self-induced heart failure.

Then we chased each other round the back garden throwing water from a bucket at ourselves, filled the six euro paddling pool and dumped the girls into their swimsuits and into it.  Afterwards I wrapped up Little Niece N in a huge towel and held her like a big baby (Little Star wouldn’t get out of the pool).

It was possibly the happiest I have been in the longest time.


A Niece With Four Legs

Middlebro and The Baker have bought a dog. It’s a girl called Lola. It’s very nice, but it keeps trying to lick my face. This disturbs me greatly. I do not like my face being licked by a creature whose favourite toy is half of The Baker’s padded pink bra (played with in the back garden in front of all the horrified neighbours). The other half, we believe, has been killed by Lola. Or eaten. Both thoughts are disturbing.

Middlebro (AND The Baker) are insisting that I think of the dog as my niece. She’s not my niece. She’s a DOG. A nice one, but I can’t have tea parties with her like I do with Little Niece N or play ladybirds, like I do with Little Star.

More disturbingly, when the family was out for dinner last week, both Middlebro and The Baker professed their sadness at missing Lola. She was 20 minutes away. Probably eating the bra. They were due to have drinks in Lilsister’s apartment and actually had a discussion about picking the dog up and bringing her with them.

This is NOT my niece. However, that is my brother, and that is more scary.

Diarmuid Does Dallas (Well, Phoenix)

The Tank – Dub Hero Diarmuid out making mincemeat of our country enemies

Sitting in the pub after Dublin dispatched Wexford in the Gaelic football at Croke Park, I was shocked to find that during the trad session there was an actual double of Diarmuid Connolly sitting in front of me.  Was it him?

It was not, it was an American from Phoenix with the same square jaw, sharp hair ‘do’ and rectangled body of the great man himself.  Lilsister proclaimed him to be Diarmuid’s double, made facebook friends with him and promptly sent him photos of The Great One.  He left pretty quickly after that, saying he was en route to Kerry.  We told him not to mention Diarmuid over there.