Ming’s Mong

It is time to talk about Ming, and his Mong.

Think Ming from Flash Gordon – a white man who looks almost Asian because his greasy hair has been pulled so tight.  I have no idea what Ming’s real name is.  All I know is that every time I see him at the Dublin football matches, he is wearing the same clothes as last time, Papabear makes a lot of huffing and puffing noises, moves away from Ming, and has begun calling him Mong, quite loudly.

The stench is getting worse.

Ireland has been basking in a heatwave, and not just a namby-pamby one where it doesn’t rain for two days in a row, no a fully fledged, 30 degree, no rain for weeks now, sunshining, humid, fetid heatwave.  What this means is that if you don’t wash, smell stale on a good day and wear the same heavy clothes for the last six months, do weed and don’t use deodorant, you will have a mong coming from you that is so smelly it is almost sweet, and can cause a grown man to sneeze with tears in his eyes.

This is particularly difficult at Dublin matches where the seats are tightly packed at Croke Park.  Should you find yourself sandwiched between a group of Dubs, already sweaty from the mid afternoon sun, it is best if you take the necessary sanitary precautions, and wash yourself.  Failing that, prepare to be left standing alone as the group, gathered in the smoking area at half time to dissect and discuss the finer points of the game, slowly take the necessary steps away from you in order to take good clean breaths of cigarette smoke, rather than your body odour.

Discussions on the matter continued way into the night at the pub, despite the fact that Dublin had overcome one of our arch rivals, the horrible Meath and it’s equally horrible followers in a match which saw Dublin fall apart in the first half, but come into their own in the second.  It was tense, it wasn’t easy, we won the day but it was ropey for a while, yet the topic of conversation was what does Ming’s mong smell like, where does it come from, how can we extinguish it and who is going to say it to him.

Lilsister says it’s his jacket.

Californiadreamin says it’s weed.

Papabear says it’s never washing, ever.

The Clipper says it’s not using deodorant.

Pointyshoes says it’s an inherited problem – the house stinks.

Scarydancer says he’s just a filthy bastard, and I have to concur with that.

Who will be the one to say it to him?

Lilsiter says she doesn’t know him well enough.

Californiadreamin says the smell of weed doesn’t bother him and we’re all mad.

Papabear says he’s happy to say Ming your Mong is disgusting but he’s not the most gentle of people and we all say no to that.

The Clipper says it should be Californiadreamin or Pointyshoes as they’re his friends.

Pointyshoes says he is clean, it’s the smelly house he’s in, and you can’t say that because it’s his parent’s house.

Scarydancer sighs and I say it should be Californiadreamin because he can say I can’t smell anything but others have commented but Californiadreamin takes a sup of his burbon and declares he will not, under any circumstances, say anything to anybody.  Then he asks if anybody is going to sing because if not he will kick off with some Eagles.

Thankfully the band come in and we can all pretend he never said anything about croaking up.

We Talk to God and Receive the Delaney Cup

A glorious sunny day, a rarity in Dublin, with light winds, bright rays, the Boys in Blue aka the Dublin Gaelic football team, beating the hell out of arch rivals Meath at the truly amazing Croke Park – and a couple of rows from the front in the Cusack stand, four very hungover and crimson-faced supporters, all hating the sun for making the alcohol, still in their systems from the night before, sweat and drip out of them.

First in the row was myself, constantly turning my arms over as I had NO sunblock on and my goth skin was beginning to burn, and how.  My sunglasses sliding off my nose, my makeup refusing to keep my rosy cheeks pale.  Next to me an equally beetroot Lilsister, panting in her Dublin top, fighting with me over our fourth bottle of water bought since getting off the tram in the city centre mere moments before.  Next to her, Scarydancer, equally dripping, and praying for rain, and splendidly at the end, Papabear, with an actual wet face, loving the heat, but cursing its intensity in our unprotected area.

Two halves later and as Dublin lift the Delaney cup, as proud Leinster champions, we continue to insult and argue with the lame Meath supporters around us who tell us that we might have beaten them but not by much, to which we reply look over there lads, there’s the cup, being lifted over a blue shirt – and get back to your farms, your sheep are missing you.  Hmmpf.

So it was a long weekend, with Little Star’s christening taking place on the Saturday, and promises of coming over for a couple of drinks afterwards, and a couple of drinks only, quickly falling by the wayside as the pints flowed and my little water bottle that held no water, but gin, started to go down a treat (firstly tested for its authenticy by myself and Papabear outside the church – burning chests meant that yes, it was definitely gin in there).   Little Star was christened, with Lilsister as Godmother, and Preggers and Firstbrother at the top of the church silently mumbling their allegiance to a God Firstbrother doesn’t believe in, much to my delight (being of similar persuasion myself).  I then interrupted a Catholic Church rant by Papabear, and advised him that whilst he may believe religion to be the root of all evil, we were guests in a house and should behave accordingly.

Straight over to the pub afterwards, no mean feat as I was wearing a DRESS, yes, one of THOSE, and some shoes – so walking was slow, and awkward.  Bottles of beer flowed (the three for a tenner routine being used as an excuse), followed by gin, followed by extra gin from my little bottle, followed by pints.  Platters of unhealthy but amazing food came out, and rather than queuing with the mortals to get some, Mammy grabbed a whole platter for our table, Sisinlaw took a whole plate and dumped garlic mayo on it, we topped up our beers, and feasted.   Mammy left early with Little Niece N and Little Star, using their tiredness as an excuse to get away from the madness.   A man came on and sang about six songs on his guitar, and was roundly declared to be ”crap” by all of us.  I begged Sisinlaw and Babybro to leave as I was supposed to be sharing a taxi with them, and instead left them all merrily (till 3.30am I later found out) chatting away as I hitched a taxi with The Baker and Middlebro, who brought me home in the complete opposite direction to their flat so Middlebro could come into the apartment and locate some partysmokes that Scarydancer may have left behind (he left empty-handed, and dejected, and practically sober).

Sunday morning drew over me with my head coming out of my eye, so I quickly rose, closed all the blinds in the apartment to keep the sun out, and feasted on headache tablets and my delicious scrambled eggs.  Exhausted by the effort I took back to the bed, and begged the universe for the strength to face Meath at Croke Park later.  Lilsister and Scarydancer arrived home, looking horrific, and we three soldiers made it in to join our men in the Great Fight.

It was an early night but it didn’t make getting up for my horrific job any easier.  I woke to find I had not bought my fruit for my breakfast, meaning I had to go into work EARLY, buy fruit and yoghurt at the supermarket and eat it in our horrible canteen, which has no actual dishes, but plastic bowls and spoons UGH.  Happily, I noticed that as I left work and went to collect my things from the fridge, some IDIOT had knocked over my yoghurt and left it spilling away in the door of the fridge, sans lid, so I threw it out, stuck my tongue out at the mess left behind, and closed the door.  We had no teabags in our kitchen today, and no spoons to take the tea bags out with – you want to treat me like an animal I shall bloody behave like one.

I am currently at Mammy’s where I have received chicken and cake, in that order, and am mellowed and ready for bed once again.  We have just re-watched the match and are more impressed with our team than ever.

Up the Dubs!

Rambles Whilst the Wimbledon Women’s Final Plays Out

I must be gentle and barely tinkle with the keyboard here as my head is currently making it’s way out of my eye, due to some hastily-arranged dirty pints with a work colleague last night, followed by gin and strawberry dacqueris (for her, not me, as I am too tough for girly cocktails).

I did not drink long but I did drink greedily, not having had alcohol in a whole seven or eight days, actually, now I think of it, it was five, what is wrong with me?  I find myself gulping a lot of alcohol on a regular basis, just as I am beginning to behave food and exercise wise.   Hmmmm.

Last week’s escapades led us to a local watering hole, where I was accosted by Lilsister and Scarydancer to ”get a life and go out” after telling them my plans to watch a Christian Bale film (dribble) and get my buzz on by draining my box of beers ever further.  Honestly, a box of 20 beers is so cheap right now, it’s almost wrong not to buy one isn’t it?

After a quick shower and the spraying of that shampoo in a can stuff onto my filthy hair (my GOD that stuff is amazing, it is HONESTLY like you ALMOST washed your hair!!!) I was out the door, to meet up with Lilsister’s old friend Creamer, and her new beau, HesEnglish.   We attacked the first local bar which had the ”three bottles of beer for 10 euros” promotion which seems to be springing up in all the classier watering holes in Dublin, and interrupted the deadest sixtieth birthday party I have ever had the misfortune to stumble upon.  A man, who looked ninety, stood alone and refused to dance to the twelve year old dj’s ”crap tunes” (the birthday boy’s words, not mine) whilst what I assume was his family sat on plastic chairs and drank dirty pints.  We also ended up sitting beside two Glaswegians who wanted us to dance before we were drunk (idiots) and who kept using Creamer’s phone to take photos of us, which I hate, due to my excessive ugliness and the fact that said photos appear on facebook within seconds.

Drunkeness eventually overtook us and we stole two of the ice buckets our beers had come in (Lilsister and HesEnglish) and one beer opener (me).  Scarydancer declared that his moves were ”endless” and Creamer had a smoke with the birthday boy who verbally bashed the dj again.  Eventually ”Moon River” was found on somebody’s phone and played, but the boring Frank Sinatra version, so I didn’t dance.  Birthday boy was pleased and we ended up in an Indian takeaway, being attacked by a girl in a blue dress who started a fight with HesEnglish because he was English, and then Scarydancer,  because he was carrying two ice buckets.  Creamer muttered to Lilsister that she was about ”ready to lambate that bitch” and wanted to know if Lilsister had her back.  Lilsister nodded curtly, and I told everybody to calm down, as I was too tired to kick the shit out of some faux posh cow in a silly dress in a rundown part of Dublin.   Then the bloke behind the counter started talking about what the English had done to India, and I put in an extra order of naan bread.

Last Saturday passed in a haze of headaches and shivering, and then we perked up again Sunday to watch our beloved Dublin beat Wexford in the Gaelic Football at the ever amazing Croke Park.  We played badly at the start, which I noticed coincided with my putting my hood up on my Dublin raincoat, so I removed the hood and put on my lucky hat, and wha hey, we started scoring points.  It would have been so much easier if it just hadn’t rained, but hey, it’s Ireland, it’s summer, so we’re all wearing rain gear.  Sigh.

Back to Baggot street for post match analysis, alcohol and singing, and for a change I gin and tonicked it for the night, getting a delightful buzz but without the headaches that wine and beer seem to give me.  I pretended I did NOT know the barman from last time, and when he asked me if I had made it home safely after our last session I stuck my chin in the air and said in my poshest dealing-with-the-servants voice that ”I believe I did,” before stomping off.  My family is now (loudly) convinved I am in love with this barman because he keeps smiling at me and I don’t hit him, but in actual fact he is laughing at me and I am too embarrassed to do anything about it.

I’ve also just realised that there is now a picture on facebook of me looking like I am falling into my gin, which of course, I was.  Oh dear.  This will not assist my husband hunting mission one bit.  I must go, and sigh.

Burning BumBums and Steak with Singles

A very disturbing message from Scarydancer via Lilsister earlier this afternoon, which I THINK was morning for the both of them.  Calling from her jollidays house further into the suburbs, she told me that Scarydancer needed me to do him a big favour.  Being stretched out on the bed at the time, chilling to a number of Madonna ballads, I was highly uninterested.  ”What is it?” I dribbled.

”He needs you to call the fire brigade,” she confirmed ”as his asshole is on fire.”

It seems that too much consumption of three for ten euro beers at the pub near their jollidays house, coupled with a burger n onion rings meal, has given rise to feverish beershites which have caused much pain in the bumbum area for poor Scarydancer.  I winced inwardly, as I thought of my own several beer consumption last night, firstly whilst reading the paper and then more at Panties and Hangsandwich’s house, where I was fed an excellent steak and baked potato meal, and got to meet the only other single in Ireland aged over 35, a friend of Hangsandwich, who appears perfectly at ease with his lot.  It is a great relief to know that these people actually exist.  I DO have my eye on an unsuspecting 36 year old, but naturally I found out he is girlfriended, so I had to put my husbandcatching net away there.  Will it ever get an outing?  Tune in to find out.

Work, Beer, Tea – it’s Friday

I’ve followed up my beer buzz with a cup of tea…not rock of all ages material, and it’s made me feel bloated, alone and ugly, as it’s Friday night and here I am sucking beers and then falling at the last hurdle and succumbing to tea.  The shame of being 37 and nine tenths!!!

It’s been a long week, for no other reason than it just HAS, and it’s rained every day.   Work continues to be awful, with no respite from the abuse, hatred and general rudeness that is the Irish population when dealing with their bank.  Ah, we truly are scumbags, raised in the back of toilets, judging by some of the language and colourful death threats I receive on an hourly basis.

I’ve moved seats and am currently surrounded by a group of girls, which horrified me initially, but seems to actually have turned out okay.  The girl beside me has a make up bag the size of my actual handbag, despite being at least 18 years younger than me, thin and not requiring much maintenance, but there you go.  Bear in mind my handbag needs to accommodate my book (hardback), my giant purse, umbrella, hat, various notes that I write to myself, my pens, phone, keys, sunglasses and my net for catching potential husbandvictims, so you can imagine it’s size.  So that should convince you that there is a SERIOUS AMOUNT of making up going on.  However, myself and the Glamorous One seem to have forged something of a friendship, based on our love of food and our raging hormones.  I may have secret crushes every five seconds but I don’t wander around the staff canteen trying to take sneaky photos of unsuspecting males, like my friend there, or walk around a nightclub in a circle trying to catch someones eye.  FOR AN ENTIRE NIGHT.  Good tips for me though, should I find my eye wandering over lunch or ever end up in a nightclub again.

The girl behind me is actually worse, and even has a creepy ”I’m coming for you, boy” look, which makes me squeal like a girl every time I catch her doing it.  It involves a trout pout, one eye closing and one opening, and a vigorous nodding of the head, to ensure the victim knows she’s a-coming, and she’s ready.  She is also obsessed with my ex-team leader’s arse, which she insists is like ”two eggs in a hanky” despite my protestations that it is flat, and ugly, and he is a pigperson anyway so he cannot be fancied. 

Aside from this it has been an uneventful week, broken up only by Ireland being hammered in the European football matches, a fabulous evening eating Babybro’s stew with little Niece N and Sisinlaw, and the departure of Scarydancer and Lilsister from the apartment as they mind Scarydancer’s parent’s tiny dog whilst they have their jollidays.  This has meant many beers for me, with my music playing while I dance about and try not to fall over every time I try to lift Scarydancer’s new weights.   Sigh.  My flabby arms beg me to reconvene, and soon.

Freddie Mercury sings to me in the background, and advises me to be free with my tango, and on that note, I will drain my cup, tidy up and hit my lonely bed for what I hope will be a deep, beer induced sleep.

Gaelic Followed by Garlic

Plodding through the work week after a long weekend is tough.  Especially when the forecasters promise rain, rain and floods for the next weekend.  Irish summers ROCK!!!!

Friday was spent in the company of Lilsister, Sisterinlaw and some good friends in a little apartment with wine and beer.  Sisinlaw got quite merry on the bottles of red and kept referring to loving ”sausages” and Babybro in a very leering manner I thought, which was practically enough to stop me drinking any more beer.  Luckily towards the end of the night as Lilsister and I curled up on the sofa and watched Sisinlaw get enraged when we told her she couldn’t spell the name on the Italian wine she was drinking (she could), I was shaken out of all sense of drunkeness as Lilsister repeatedly farted on me, man-style, and scared the life out of me with her noises and scents.    How I am single and she is not will always baffle me.

Saturday was hangover central day, made worse by the fact that Lilsister had offered to babysit not just our crazy little Niece N, but the newborn Star also.  This I found extremely difficult, as I could not deal with the very loud tea party that Little N had to have with all of Lilsister’s teddy bears and outdoor picnic set, as we were also checking that Star had not stopped breathing in her pram every ten seconds.  Sisinlaw had also popped over with her offspring and repeatedly begged her Little N to hug her or kiss her, but to no avail.  The child had discovered that one of Lilsister’s frog ornaments (don’t ask) lit up and this was the most fabulous thing of all, and hungover mothers and aunts and brand new cousins just did NOT cut it.  We went hug-less and our headaches continued unabated.

This meant that by Sunday we were all fine, and myself, Lilsister, Scarydancer, Papabear and assorted friends toddled off to the Croke Park and watched Dublin play the first match of the championship Gaelic football league.  Fabulous stuff, well not really, we looked a little out of breath at times on the pitch, but we had our new seats, much closer to the front than normal as we are officially season ticket holders this year, and we enjoyed all the Dubs have to offer from a much better angle than we are used to.  We do believe that we may be in a slightly more upmarket area though, as every time Papabear called the referee a cunt more people than usual turned around.  Oh well, they will soon get used to it.  I was also able to listen to the lads behind me declare how variety is the spice of life, which inevitably led to discussions of KFC variety buckets.  Sigh.

Dirty pints afterwards, naturally, and this is where it all gets a little hazy for me.  I do know that we were visited by Middlebro and his girlfriend, The Baker, for much of the night, and much singing and slagging was had by all.  A girl came in dressed in the Dublin jersey and sang IRA songs, to the delight of Papabear. 

Somebody from Cork came in and as Papabear sang anti-English songs we hugged and cried about our delight about not being English – it was most moving. 

Then some football players came in who had been coached by Papabear and addressed him so respectfully myself and Lilsister had to put down our drinks and ask them why this was, and why they didn’t call him Papabear, which seemed to scare them off. 

Then I went to the toilets and when I came back everybody was gone and the barman had to open up the pub to let me out, I confirmed his name, hugged him and told him he was alright, because Papabear and Lilsister had said he was a twat.  Hopefully I didn’t say that part.

The taxi ride home was driven by a lovely man who let me sing along to all the songs I wanted and didn’t complain as I hung my head out of the window (”like a dog” according to Lilsister) and played my Dublin football team umberella like an air guitar, and then used it as a microphone.  It truly is a multitasking instrument.

After we got out myself and Scarydancer made garlic pizza bread whilst Lilsister passed out on the sofa, and we found it hilarious when Scarydancer cut the pizza in half as it was really funny that we had two big pieces.  Then he cut it again and we rolled about the floor because smaller pieces were the funniest thing EVER.

Next morning, eating a two day old jam doughnut for breakfast, I contemplated the championship season ahead for Dublin, and quietly berated myself for not having more hangover food in the house. 

Dublin to win, and an abundance of fresh pastries to be held in the house for the forthcoming season.

Goodbye Grey Hair and Grey Skies – Ireland Shimmers

Well what a fabulous day I am having.  Here is Ireland, in the GRIPS of an actual HEATWAVE – no joke, it’s been 25 all week and sunny, with maybe six clouds over the last few days in total.  And allegedly, according to our unreliable weather service, it is set to continue hurray!!!  Excellent news if this lasts through to next weekend as the Dublin Gaelic Football Team have their first championship match, which will be attended by moi, Lilsister, Scarydancer, Papabear and Papabear’s mad friend, who hates anyone born outside Dublin.  Whether we win or lose we will live it up afterwards in Baggot Street at a proper boozer, and Papabear will sing songs, and Dublinlover will shed tears and tell stories about different times he beat up non Dubliners after football matches.  Gaelic culture lives!!!

As I type this, Ireland has just scored a goal!!!!  Yes, our Irish playered soccer team, playing in the full rays of the sun in Dublin, has just scored against Bosnia – GO IRELAND!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  Mr Long, we salute, and adore you. xxx

So I had my fruit and museli for breakfast, and had every intention of going out for a morning constitutional, even though I was dreading it (the face being quite easily burnt, even though I have had to purchase Factor 50 sunblock – could I BE any more Irish?).  Luckily, Lilsister came into my boudoir for hugs, and this delayed me somewhat, and then she talked me out of walking in this heat, so I popped to the shops instead for breakfast goodies, arriving back to cook my amazing scrambled eggs and inhale tea.

Afterwards, we headed up to Mammy, to take advantage of her sunny back garden, and catch some rays whilst the soccer blares from the tv in the front room.  We swopped health tips with the visiting window cleaner, who has given up dairy due to being lactose intolerant, and stopped mammy from giving him chocolate icecream because eh, he’s lactose intolerant, and chocolate and icecream contain much lactose, sorry.  Don’t worry though – Lilsister and I suffer from no such ailment, and happily munched on the lactose-levied sweets.  Yum!

I’ve also had Lilsister touch up my grey hairs with the hair dye whilst lounging in the backgarden, and then do my toenail painting for me after she saw how awful I am at doing it myself.  I used to get pedicures but this was before I got a job that paid just enough to eat breadrolls and nothing else all day.  Afterwards, Mammy did our tarot cards and stand up comedy came up AGAIN, so really it has been a busy day at the back garden salon.  Ah, summer in Ireland – you can keep your Italian Riverias and your Spanish coastlines – when the sun comes out in Ireland, and one half of the country retreat to their own backyards for barbeques, beers and beauty treatments, you are truly in the best country in the world.  Avoid us at your peril travellers!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Attempt to Run; Smear Chocolate on Self

I just ran up to the bathroom, and against my own advice looked at myself in the mirror, and noted that the chocolate icecream I had been inhaling downstairs is now, inexplicably, all over my neck.  Why why why?   And all this as I sit across from a picture of Dita Von Teese.  Sigh.

The icecream comes hot on the heels of some bad job news, I got a job, then they withdrew it, as they don’t need me anymore.  Major sigh.  I have come straight to Mammy’s, and had fried food with her and Papabear, and then inhaled icecream, as it is my favourite dessert.

Lest it sound pig-like, I will also have you know that I have been out walking and exercising several times each week in the last few weeks, and yesterday I even attempted running!  Wonderful timing on my part, as there was for some reason, a full gale force wind going on, which may sound awful, but it wasn’t sleeting and hailstorming and rain, and I could see a blue sky, so I went straight out into it.  I walked outside the door of our apartment block and my baseball hat was immediately blown off.  I did consider not chasing it, as this was not part of the exercise plan, but I really needed it, because it meant my hair had now blown fully into my face, and seeing in front of me was becoming an issue.  So I ran after it, retrieved it, and ventured out into the cruel cold world.  Please note this was NOT the running I was referring to, although it should count, as I did trot about the carpark chasing the hat, so it was at the very least, a warm up.  Ha!

Anyway, whilst doing my usual ”round” I felt extra bouncy and decided to give the old running a go.  I had ten euro in the right boob part of my bra (to stop at the shops afterwards, and buy the Sunday papers, after I sweated all over the counters and scared off the children), and my walkman (to encourage fast walking with 80’s pop music) stuck into my left boob, so everything was secure and ready for action.  I began to run, and immediately had to lean forward, towards the ground, to stay on my two feet, such was the might of the gale force winds.  I then began to worry about my hat again, so for extra sexiness, I pulled my hoodie over my head and tied it beneath my double chins, and attempted to run that way.  Unfortunately this ”look” is flattering to no-one, least of all to a 37 and seven eighths year old woman with no makeup, sunstroke (as we had some extremely weak sunrays pushing through, and I have no experience of this, so I was quite red) and leaning forward in the aforementioned unattractive manner.  Luckily, the White Bright Light running man I spotted some weeks ago was nowhere to be seen (I think) so I haven’t ruined my chances just yet.  But give me time.  I will.  I always do.

Thirty seconds later and I was heartattacking, panting and wheezing, but still on two feet, so I’m getting better.  I even looked up proper running shoes on the internet to help with my sloping foot which affects my gammy knee, so it’s getting serious.  Luckily the Olympics are a hop skip and wheezy jump across the pond in London; by June I should be marching through the opening ceremony, Irish tri-colour in hand, ready to do my country proud.  Or – maybe not.  Maybe I should just down pints in the pub with everybody else and watch Ireland in the football instead.  Hmmm.  Either way drink should be involved, which brings me to my next point – I need to start drinking again.  It had been several weeks since my last sup, and on Saturday night, filled with rage and general grumpiness, myself and Lilsister downed a couple of bottles of our beloved prosecco, which caused Lilsister to fall asleep and leave me and Scarydancer up discussing the merits of German versus Czech beer.  However, I woke up with an awful headache the next day, and I conclude that this is due to the fact that I have not kept up with my regular drinking, meaning I have become weak, and pathetic, and sober.

It stops here.

Wine, beer and spirits must once again enter my life, or I will become like a child – unable to handle the drink.  We have Ireland in the olympics, the European football and the Gaelic Football season all about to begin, and here am I, clear headed and not slurring – it will not do!!!  It WILL NOT DO!!!

Pyjama Party

I turned to Lilsister earlier to tell her that we really must get together to work on our stand up comedy routine, but she was busy scratching her arse, through her completely awful pyjamas – which are white with green trees on them, and the trees say ”smelly”.  I myself am a firm believer in good pyjama wear, particularly as I am wearing aforementioned pyjamas from about 6pm onwards most weeknights.  My current attire is matching top and bottoms that say ”fabulous” over and over again.  Hopefully the incessant message will get through to somebody, anybody, and they will confirm it, and my ego will soar (assuming I can find it, it has been buried rather deep lately).

Life plods on as it generally must, and flits between days at work and days of joy when I am not.  I am getting the hang of it, and find that lately I have ceased to dribble at the end of the day in sheer tiredness, and can generally manage to say words and stuff to my comrades, as I bolt out the door.  And I mean bolt.  It has actually been commented on about how quickly I move when I am going home.  There is simply a flash of light, some flames, and I am no more.

I am trying to see the beauty of life after the news of my sick friend, but stupidly, before he told me he was dying, I ordered a book by a writer who was diagnosed with cancer, and wrote about his experiences with the end of his life.  This book arrived about two days after my friend told me his news, and it has been pretty much impossible to read without being upset.  For some insane reason, I bought the book to stop me moaning so much, and hoped it would make me appreciate what I (don’t?) have but the idea has backfired in a spectular fashion, so I have a sick friend, an expensive book I can’t afford, many tears, and still bad humours about work.  Success!

I’ve also bought a big bag of jellies, which I can’t stop eating, and now that I have approached the sweet press (have I told you about our sweet press?  So many calories and cures for depression, stuck in between two shelves – our happy place) and tucked in, Scarydancer is following suit by raiding the sweet press himself and locating his own snake shaped jellies, and Lilsister is contemplating eating crisps.  Domestic bliss.

Hotel Loo and Pigeon Poo

Bumping into Scarydancer in the hallway on Saturday, both of us in our crazy party clothing (pyjama bottoms along with whatever top you happen to have worn that day) we discussed the presents we had both given each other.  Upon rising on Saturday morning, I was thrilled to discover that the end of the loo roll had been folded into a triangular shape, giving that lovely ”hotel” feel, but without the discomfort of leaving your home.  Lilsister advised me afterwards that this was Scarydancer’s gift to us before he departed for work.

Whilst he slaved away, myself and Lilsister visited a housing development which Lilsister and Sisinlaw swear blind they will live in one day, and priced three different types of houses, before finally settling on a three storey brick monster with centralised vacuuming and two bedrooms with built in wardrobes and ensuites (perfect because at the rate I am going I will probably have to move in with the happy couple when they leave our little apartment).  ”Your gift from me,” I advised Scarydancer in the hall, ”is the knowledge that my sister is fully committed to signing you up for a mortgage for the rest of your life.  Enjoy.”  We shook hands, and parted.

Our quiet weekend followed a long week, which was made all the longer by the sad news of my friend Isabella Bangin telling me about his brain tumour.  He reminded me that I was the only woman he ever went to bed with, after one of our nasty wine nights, where we picked up two bottles of something awful whilst out, brought it back to his place, tasted it, winced, drank it all, passed out on his bed and only woke up when it was discovered that he was quite literally climbing the walls and making a racket at first light the next morning.  He had no idea what he was doing, but we agreed that his gaydar was highly sensitive to the fact that a woman was about and it was best to get the hell out, be it up the walls or whatever.

We also had a visitor to the apartment on Saturday night, an extremely fat pigeon who sat on the bars of the balcony and did not move, even when Scarydancer went outside and puffed his partysmokes all over him, and I got close with some breadcrumbs.  As pigeons are usually grouped together, we decided that this particular one must have some issues that he needed to work out solo, and I declared that he must be gay, and feeling like an outcast.  It was at this point that I called him Georgemichael.

We got up on Sunday but no Georgemichael – just a long line of bird poo which was all over our balcony, the balcony below us, and the balcony below that.  Scarydancer swore if he ever saw him again he’d throw rocks at his head, and I told him not to be so homophobic.

But Georgemichael DID show up last night – outside my own window, just sitting there, looking at me, whilst squelching about in a pile of new poo.  Quite disgusting, and I told him he might be gay, but he was NOT stylish.  He flew off at some stage and we are still not friends.