Why I Was Hungover

Many moons ago, I sat an entrance exam to take part in a journalism course.  Next to me was a stoned rocker, with the nicest hair I have ever seen on a man, straight, shiny, and auburn.  Anyhoo, he too was sitting the entrance exam, which consisted of political and current event questions, to test our journalistic mettle.  I began talking to the stoned rocker after he tried to copy my answers, and then just asked me for them.  After that, I assumed I would never see him again, but I did, he turned up on our first day at one of our lectures, I pointed at him in disbelief, and a year later he was asked to leave the course because he took too many drugs and never came in.

Last night I sat opposite my now old friend, who is now 35, married, living in Naples and not taking drugs.  What a difference 18 years makes!  ”Spiceburger,” I said to him  ”I’d never know you.”  And the hair is gone!  Ha, I thought – now you just have normal locks.  To hell with you!

Another long and difficult day at work was followed by some wine at home, coupled with a lazy dinner of scrambled eggs and spelt toast.  Eventually I pulled on a blouse and jeans and met Spiceburger and his wife ShesAustralianOhDear for dirty pints at one of my locals.  Oddly, the Australian ordered water initally (?) and then moved to small glasses of cider.  This seems particularly unAustralian to me, but what would I know, I was only married to one for eight years.  Several pints followed along with discussions of past lovers, near misses, speed and creative careers (his, not mine – I have since realised I am a money hungry cow who needs to stop working for banks because I should have done something creative and helpful with my life, so I feel depressed and deranged, on top of my raging hangover).  Spiceburger asked what had happened to my marriage, and I couldn’t remember, so I said something about ”fizzling out” and channelled my inner Whitesnake, because lately, just lately, I don’t feel so beat up about it all.  Whitesnake DID say it best, my friends.

Afterwards, I literally fell through my front door, and for some reason, began cleaning up the kitchen and preparing my breakfast dishes.  I’ve moved house see, and am currently living alone in splendid isolation and it is GREAT.  After cleaning up, I went upstairs and put the radio on quite loudly, sang along for about two songs and then fell face first on the bed, in my blouse and knickers, and stayed that way until waking up a half hour later, to take a shower, brush my teeth and continue to sing along to the ”love zone” playing on the station (I think).  I passed out, and only got up to seek headache tablets.  Another successful evening.

The Madonna Car Sticker Bought in Cambodia

Last year, whilst trudging around Cambodia alone as ExHimself, based in Australia at the time, didn’t find the idea of seeing this aincent country appealing, I happened across an odd little shop filled with signs, musings and fancy quotations.  It was there that I saw what I believed to be a car sticker:


There is nothing more to be said.  I immediately bought it and posted it back to Ireland, to Trevor, where I knew she would love and treasure it.

Unfortunately it turned out to be a normal sticker, not meant for a car at all, but Trevor prevailed and stuck it up on her new fancy double oven, in her newly designed kitchen, and promptly took a picture of herself, thumbs up, in front of it.

I received that picture in Melbourne, where I was alone, missing my mad family and wondering what the hell I was doing moving here with Exhimself, who, true to form, had promised much but delivered nothing once he got back into his homeland.  I cried when I saw the picture and missed my friend.  I showed the photo to Exhimself who declared that Trevor was too proud of her new kitchen and fancy double oven to ”ruin” it with a car sticker that had purple writing.  This made me very sad.

I stood in Trevor’s kitchen on Saturday night, on my fourth glass of prosecco, and screamed as if seeing that car sticker for the first time.  There it still is, stuck to her extremely fancy double oven (which also appears to have some sort of professional coffee making machine thing in it – is that possible?  Or was I on my eighth prosecco?) and there it will always remain, because Trevor loves it and treasures it.

I declared this story to both Trevor and Boo, and while Trevor made angry fist gestures and I spat out my hate, Boo retreated to the solitude of the living room and watched a home improvement show, I believe silently hoping we would both just get the hell out of his house.

Break out the Big Hair

In what should be noted under the ”moving on from the end of mine marriage” chapter of my time on this planet (and allegedly the point of this blog), three things have occurred which convince me that I may be doing just that:

1. Whilst discussing food preparation with Scarydancer at the dinner table the other day, I mentioned the way my ex cooked a certain item.  Lilsister helpfully pointed out that this is the first time she has heard me refer to Exhimself as my ”ex”.  The actual name never even sprung to mind.

2. This morning, I followed an extremely handsome man around the supermarket.  Not something I normally do, handsome or not, and especially not in supermarkets, as they are full of food, and I like to look at food longingly whilst browsing.  It was also prior to beginning my working day, so for me to be even up and about, let alone stalking a complete stranger, was a miracle in itself.  Anyway, I saw him whilst I was browsing (but not planning on eating) the cake section (a girl needs something to cheer her up on a Monday morning) and once I had finished smelling the almond croissants, I followed him down to bread, cleaning products, gardening equipment  and eventually to the till, where he failed to even look up at me, even though I cleared my throat really loudly, and really manfully.  Sigh.  I tried to follow him outside but the bloke on the till INSISTED I pay for my goods (half healthy multi grain rolls if you MUST know).

3. A very good friend is dying of cancer.  Younger than me by a couple of years, he has less than 12 months with us living souls left.  After my immediate thoughts of why him, anger, shock, memories of him performing ”Don’t Cry For Me Argentina” in full drag in a club in Sydney one sweaty Friday night, thoughts of friends that I am grateful for came to mind, and encouraged me to send more texts and thoughts than I normally do.  Some responded, some not.  But not until a few days later did I think of Exhimself, and even then, only because his hometown is near my ill friend.  If he had any importance would he not have been the first face that came to mind?

Could it be?


To sing Whitesnake??????????????????

Tigers and Temptresses at the Tram Stop

I know I shouldn’t be but I’m watching telly as I type this.   There’s a film on which is set in Ireland during those heady days of the Celtic Tiger which I THINK lasted for about nine years.  Anyway it’s showing us all in Dublin stoned, drugged, pinging on ecstasy, drunk, vomiting and being highly aggressive in a host of fabulous places such as shiny clubs, gastro pubs, party venues and things called ”events”.  This is funny as I lived in Ireland for at least two of these Grrr Tiger years and all I did was work.  I feel cheated!!!!  Where are my drugs and ”events”???    Although I did get head hunted one night in a VERY fancy restaurant.  Sigh.  Now if I get to the pub up the road I am doing well (really well, as most people party at home now).  Hmmpf.  I might just go down to the tram stop and see if Mr Bright, my future husband, is flitting by, and try to seduce him with my alleged ”charms” which I am alleging I have, but only because my allegation has no basis in fact whatsoever.

The Bright Light at the Dark Tram Stop

I have seen the man who is going to be my next husband.

Conveniently, he appears to dwell near our little apartment so this will help with the stalking situation I will now find myself in.

Speaking of our apartment, I realised a few weeks ago that the area I am living in with Lilsister and Scarydancer is the area I lived in from the ages of about two to five, with Mammy and Papabear, and an even younger Firstbrother.  So life once again has come full circle.  I also think this is a sign that I am dying.  I have returned where I roamed as a baby, although the view is a little different.  35 years ago, this part of Dublin was farmland and our council house backed onto an actual strawberry field, where we would go and feed ourselves.  Now it is full of silly roads blocked with cars, a sprawling shopping centre and many, many apartments.  It is FULL.

This is handy because I believe my future husband lives in one of the many apartments, or I would not have seen him run by my local tram stop.

There I was, yesterday afternoon,  four day old dirty hair, tracksuited and in my Dublin football team rain jacket as it was as usual LASHING RAIN which it does every time I use public transport.  I was looking less than stunning and feeling miserable as the tram was 7 minutes away and the sky was grey, to match my soul.  Suddenly, a white light appeared before me and blasted brightness into the winter-themed afternoon.  I thought an angel had appeared to tell me she would make the tram come faster, but no, it was a male human person thing, in his running outfit.  Now I said he would be my next husband, I didn’t say he had any sense of fashion.  A white t-shirt (fine I suppose) but white shorts???  White shoes and socks?  With white i pod earphones?  Hmmm.  All matching the white hairs he so distinguishly owns.  Which means he must be at least in his thirties!!!  Hurray!!!

I may not be talking him up much but here is the best part.  So Mr Bright ran past me at the tram stop, I followed him until he became a dot, and then the tram came.  Four stops later, and there is Mr Bright again, RUNNING FASTER THAN THE TRAM.  AND he had gotten to the fourth stop quicker than me, and all he had was at most a six minute headstart!!!  I am VERY impressed by this.  It shows that he is fit, and active, and doesn’t spend his Easter Sunday drinking pints and eating giant easter eggs which is what I would have done if somebody had poured me a pint and handed me an egg.

These are all good things and I went out stalking, sorry, walking this morning and THOUGHT I saw him whizzing by but alas it was someone with a full head of brown hair.  Probably for the best, as my hair has now gone five days without washing, and not only was I tracksuited AGAIN and in my giant rain jacket (which does nothing for the figure) I also had a Dublin football team beanie hat jammed onto my filthy skull.  At best, I looked like a square male person.  However, Mr Bright gives one inspiration to go outside and exercise, something which is becoming increasingly difficult due to the horrific weather and the absolute depression and inability to do anything once I have completed a day’s work.

Now, where is my Easter Egg?  I feel a feeding frenzy coming on.

Jolliday Presents

Lilsister and Scarydancer are just back from their Manchester jollidays, which was fabulous for me as I got to roam about the apartment and feel very sorry for myself on Saturday night, thinking about Exhimself and how nobody loved me.  Ah, parties!

Naturally Lilsister stole everything not nailed down in the hotel room, including what is actually called an ”executive” shower cap.  We took it out of it’s box, put it on our heads and have concluded that it appears to be the same as every other shower cap in every other hotel room in existence, but that we must be wrong, and ignorant, as we cannot see it’s executive powers.  We must be silly billys indeed not to recognise it.

I have also received a box of vaginal wipes, which I am thrilled about, as a girl can never have too many.  Luckily, these wipes are completely flushable, although not bio-degradable, which is a serious flaw I would have thought?  Now if I ever get caught out having sex with a stranger on my way to work I need not fear, as my vaginal wipes will erase all evidence of fun times in an instant!!!!  And should I give up on our planet, and life in general, I know that the toilet will be the only one that knows my dirty secrets.

To Kill a Mockingman

Troubles rumble on with my buddy in the shipping company, whom I called today to vent with/at, which was great, as she sighed a LOT and complained about customs too and said her contact there was ”useless”.  Like all good public servants in Ireland, the ”lady” in customs dealing with my cheap workclothes is completely unaccountable for her lack of actions, meaning I cannot talk to her directly lest she has to work, or deal with humans or some other horror.  Instead she can retreat quietly into her cavern of sloth, never to be disturbed again.  My shipping contact also unhelpfully added that she had never had so much trouble with customs before, so I am feeling extra peachy about that. 

I also remembered that my two cookbooks are in the boxes, and I am most miffed about that, as one is my Nigella ”Kitchen” which is quite expensive, and my new wages just about cover the cost of transport to get to the office and not much else.  The other one I’m afraid, I don’t know the name and author of so if I do not get it back I will sink ever lower into my pool of self pity, as it is a bloody brilliant book.  I only learnt to cook in Melbourne last year, because I was alone 95% of the time, what with Ex-Himself still pretending that he loved me, but always ”disappearing” into the Australian sunset (which is crap by the way, because the sun goes down and then it is dark night, instantly, have these people never heard of the beauty of dusk???  The answer is NO.  Poor little Australians).  Anyway, this book covers EVERYTHING, even how to make scrambled eggs but best of all it is the only cookbook I’ve ever read that tells you upfront how many bowls, pans, spoons, spatulas etc you will need for each recipe and I LOVE that.  Plus I made the chocolate mousse recipe from scratch using it, and for a girl who could only burn toast mere months before, this was a HUGE (and tasty) leap.  I love this book, and I will kill the bitch in customs if she gets her greasy paws on it.

Far more worrying is my trainer at work.  His ”thing” is to read from an oversized manual for the eight or so hours that we are there, and presume that we absorb this fascinating information (for example how to send a customer a change of address form, how to stop a cheque, how to unstop that very same cheque, how to see the expiry date of a bank card etc etc) quickly and quietly.  He does not respond well to questions, or ”what if” scenarios.  In fact, he takes questions as a personal attack on his droning reading, something I find most odd.  He refuses to let us use the systems to do practical examples of his ramblings.  Why is this?  This afternoon, after the drool on my chin alerted me to the fact that I had been sleeping deeply during his speech on unlocking ATM pin numbers, I awoke suddenly and told him I was feeling rather overloaded with the information being delivered in this manner, to which he replied that he did ”not see how”.  Several of the group began stating the same fact, but I got the filthy look.  I asked him if he thought I was stupid, to which he moved gently away. 

Apart from this, he does occasionally venture into storytelling mode where we get to sit, non-enthralled, at his amazing impressions of stupid Dublin people (he is NOT from Dublin and therefore, in my opinion, as a proud Dub, NOT allowed to do an impression of a Dub anytime he tells a story of someone who he believes to be stupid).  So far, this terrible impression of a dumb Dubliner (of which none exist) has been used to prop up stories about unhelpful IT staff, drunk people at ATMs, people borrowing more than they should, banks lending more than they should, impressions of talk show radio hosts who talk about people and banks borrowing and lending more than they should, people who call talk show radio hosts about all that is wrong with society, people who forget that they have spent money in music stores and then call the bank saying that someone has stolen their money, people who engage in fraud and generally anybody that is not himself, and therefore of lesser intelligence, according to him.


And, like the Customs Cretin, he must go away, and stop embarrassing his profession with his existance, and fuck off and die.