I hate the Institute of Bankers. I believe I’ve mentioned this fact before. No they are not a necessary evil in the banking world. They are just EVIL.
So I’ve finally sat my stupid exams that cost a FORTUNE so I can say that I sat STUPID EXAMS. Did I mention they cost a fortune?
After my first exam which was on a SATURDAY at the ungodly hour of 9.30 AM YES I SAID AM (thankfully I had a lift from Panties, if I’d had to drive up and not find parking like everybody else I would have stabbed random bankers everywhere) I headed into the city to eat a late breakfast at my favourite breakfast place in Dublin, which is the Kingfisher on Parnell Street (where every meal comes with chips yes even breakfast and no I did NOT eat chips for my breakfast I am in the middle of attempting to be healthy as I am not getting any younger and need to watch the flabby bits or I will never snare anyone in my husband catching net). After a hearty spanish omlette sans chips, I took a stroll to Parnell Square where another favourite of mine, the Sinn Fein shop, also lives.
Now don’t start on me. I am no Sinn Feinner nor will I ever be. But dammit, they do bloody good Gaelic football jerseys. So in I went, and found the most amazing Dublin football team jerseys that I will ever lay my watered up eyes on, and whilst discussing how fabulous these were with the woman behind the till (who, really oddly, looked UNCANNILY like a woman who came forward in the media years ago in Ireland, to admit that she had a love child with a Bishop in Galway, which was OUTRAGEOUS at the time (but not now because considering what we have uncovered about our unholy Catholic Church in Ireland a mere love child is NOTHING), she happened to mention that I was welcome to continue browzing but to be aware that ”Gerry” was coming in shortly.
”Gerry?” I asked innocently.
”Gerry,” she repeated.
”Who that?” I mused.
”Gerry Adams,” she said, a little wearily?
”Oh.” I said back.
Immediately I rang Lilsister, who IS a Sinn Feiner, and believes that Gerry Adams should take over Ireland, and employ groups of vigalanties to kick the crap out of scumbags, teenagers, and bankers who are not her sister. Whilst on the phone however, wee Gerry walked in, speaking in Gaelic (Gerry, I’m no fan of yours but bonus points for speaking our native language as your first language) and holding something of a press conference. This caused Lilsister to go into fits of hysterics, and she begged me to get a photo of him, and with him and obtain his mobile number so she could call him and discuss the campaign for him to take over the country. I refused all, and tried to be quiet while he began his interview (again, in Gaelic).
After getting some dodgy photos on my mobile phone from 1998, I was spared the embarrassment of trying to avoid shaking wee Gerry’s hand as he scooted out of there rather quickly. An old bloke also working in the shop told me not to be too disappointed as he was in occasionally and would normally stop for a chat and photo. I was advised that he often did press interviews in the shop, usually indoors, as the last time he did one outside the shop a cyclist, after tying his bike to the railings so he could pump up a flat tyre, pumped too much and caused the tyre to blow, creating a shotgun like sound, causing the press, politicians and all around to duck and take cover from a potential sniper. So everything was safely indoors now.
I finished purchasing my football tops (for me, Lilsister and Papabear) for next year, winced at the giant Sinn Fein sign on my paper bag (you used to be able to buy stuff from there in a plain bag, since when have they got so cocky?) and hoped that the people of Dublin outside would not lynch me for my non-allegiance to the party. I escaped unscathed, even turning down a lift home from Panties, who would frown lots if I had told her I had been in the Sinn Fein shop in the first place, let alone spent money in it, and then bumped into wee Gerry. The bus did fine on the way home, the bag rolled up into a ball at the window seat.