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.
Back to work tomorrow, not in the mood. Overheard two girls comparing notes about how wonderful customers are when advised of delays due to traffic/weather/drivers not working as – Holy Codfish! – they decided to take a Christmas break to, you know, celebrate Christmas and all that it entails.
Many versions of ‘stick it up your hole’
‘Go and fuck yourself’
‘Fuck yourself and your drivers and stick it up your hole’.
The winner being
‘Go and die’.
A gentle time in the delivery business, here’s to treating people like shite when you’re standing bravely behind your telephone.
Another long day at work, today’s main topic being the Christmas party last night which I did NOT attend, and how one bloke thought it was hilarious to draw a girl’s lipstick all over her face.
This girl is of a gentle nature and I am quite upset on her behalf. Last week she told me through tears in her eyes how she was walking around a block of flats and espied a dog standing on the edge of a balcony. She screamed, told the dog to back the fuck back, which he of course didn’t do, and then she began to feel stressed as she was carrying a packet of ham in her hand, unbagged because she refuses to pay the 25 cents needed to buy them at the shops, and hoping the dog wasn’t thinking her screaming was an indication to jump down to her and the ham.
The dog never moved, but she stayed where she was whilst her boyfriend ran up to the apartment owners who expressed a total lack of concern, even stating that the dog regularly stood on the edges of the balcony, with no indication of jumping, for processed ham or any other reason.
My colleague was then so distraught at this additional information she went home for an immediate lie down.
Is this the sort of girl who deserves her lipstick smeared all over her face?
Trevor rings me. She speaks in a low tone. I think she is either going to tell me about a terrible act she is about to commit, or she’s committed the act, gotten caught, and is ringing me from the courtroom where the jury has taken 16 minutes to decide she’s guilty.
‘I have to tell you something,’ she breathes down the line.
‘Of course?’ I gasp, in upspeak, as if to say, tell me if you want, but don’t expect me to like it. She keeps doing terrible things to her husband when he’s drunk such as standing behind him when he sits down to watch tv – she puts her hair over her face and stays still for the 45 minutes it takes for him to see a hairy creature in the mirror behind him. She also blows up balloons and ties them to the inside door handle so when he falls in he has to contend with what he believes are ghosts grabbing at him. Then she jumps out at him. She has been known to lie in wait for two hours to do this, and I fear he has finally had the heart attack we all know is coming. She’s killed him. With hundreds of balloons.
‘So this is what it is.’
‘Okay. Go for it.’
‘You looked very svelte the other night when I saw you.’
‘Right. Did I?’
‘Yes. I didn’t want to say it in front of the others because I know you’d kill me. But you’re looking well. Sorry. I know you hate compliments.’
I hang up, but not before I scream at her that it’s a good thing we’re both in counselling because my giving out for receiving compliments and her apologising for handing them out is messed up.
Best to try new things, especially with gin, so myself and Honeymonster were recommended an elderflower tonic by a bar man who seriously, and I am not just saying this because I am 39 and 7/8ths, was about 12 years old. Very nice indeed, except we both felt very sleepy afterwards.
Have also been trying the soda water instead of tonic, to cut calories (I’m aware it would be easier to cut out scones, but would it? Be easier? To cut out scones? No, it would not.). I suppose I could get used to it, but there was no zing, even with the addition of cucumber (essential to a clean cut gin drink – barmen, take out that bloody lemon and throw away the lime! Cucumber is the king of gin!).
Whilst purchasing my soda water, I was accosted at the bar by a Cork football supporter who had the temerity to ask me if Dublin had won the match. ‘Of course we did!’ I yelped at him like a wounded dog, amazed that he could envision otherwise. He then advised me that the ‘rebels’ (a name the ignorant Corkonians call themselves) would happily see off Dublin ‘soon’. I reminded him of our quite recent victory over this alleged ‘team’ and then we both started snorting at each other like bulls. My gin was ready, and I left him ordering Beamish, or whatever shite Cork people drink instead of Dublin Guinness.
Our Ball – the Dubs explain to Wexford that they are surplus to requirements
So it turns out that I am a celebrity!
I just realised the power of the public blog – ANYBODY can read it. Even people who know you and don’t care about you in the real world, but still like to keep abreast of all your highs, and confer and discuss all your lows!
Feeling very powerful and interesting. Who knew that my joke of a life would be of such gossip worthiness to those whose own is without upset or surprise?
I would like to begin by stating that despite making a list of healthies from my various cook books last night, and despite purchasing some of these healthies (pears, kiwis, various nuts and seeds for snacking, ingredients for my Lebanese salad which is a regular make I must admit) I also inhaled a scone the size of my face earlier.
I had to, for I had to deal with the social welfare again.
I turned up to my ‘guidance’ appointment at the allotted time and walked into an office run entirely by old and obese people. My being ten minutes early seemed to cause some consternation amongst the staff, and the older lady that barely greeted me at reception went running away almost immediately to find somebody called ‘Billy’ (names have been changed to protect the useless). This left me with an obese lady who had been standing at the reception as if propped up, who then looked out the window and shuffled away. Then an obese man sat in the reception chair and wondered aloud how people sat ‘in this fucking thing’.
I took a seat beside some boys who smelt like cigarettes and was immediately called in to an office to see Billy.
Do you know who Lily Savage is? He didn’t look like her but with a Dublin accent, sounded a bit like her. He looked like Lily’s creator, Paul O’Grady, but seemed to have computer printed pictures of a wife all over his bulletin board, alongside, bizarrely one of a very young Jennie Garth of 90210 fame (who knew she used to be so chubby?).
Billy and ‘Mary’ then proceeded to have a long and deep and meaningful conversation about the data base on Billy’s computer NOT stating that I had been ‘engaged’ despite being to an ‘engagement gathering’ (see previous blogs for that golden nugget of time-wasting). Cue lots of keyboard bashing which achieved nothing except sighs and declarations by both that I was ‘pending’ – something which appeared to be a Very Bad Thing.
I had been handed a folder, I looked through it and discovered that it had glossy colour photographs of the office I was marooned in and a printout of a Powerpoint presentation about what they were supposed to be doing in this office for me. In the Key Words and Actions slide it did not say ‘pending’.
Been at a computer training place to sign up for an expensive but practical course to make me more ’employable’ once they’re finished with me. There is a place that sells cakes downstairs so it’s a great location.
Course is fantastically expensive but not to worry, our welfare system does help some people in training courses so off I toddled to my shiny social welfare office with the fancy new name, to symbolise how all the welfare components are there for YOU, the unfortunate non-tax payer who shouldn’t be allowed to live because you’re not paying tax.
The upshot is that YES, you can apply for partial funding once you provide a letter of offer of employment.
No, I said, this is a TRAINING course, not a job.
Yes, they said, so as long as your employer provides a letter stating your role is dependent on you doing the course, we will pay towards it.
No, I said, the point of the TRAINING course is to train you to GET a job.
Once you have the job we will look at paying towards the course.
If I had a job I wouldn’t be on welfare asking for help with payment would I?
Is there anything else we can help you with?
Bought a scone and a ‘come on you can do it’ writing magazine afterwards.
Will get fat(ter) and poorer as writing magazine was not cheap.
I am going to my exercise class later, what joy.
To not celebrate, I have been eating cous cous with roasted vegetables. For excitement, I added coriander, parsley, lemon, garlic and whoopee!!! salt and pepper. Strangely, the excitement hasn’t hit yet.
My stomach is literally churning with health, so I must balance this with tea and a chocolate chipped biccie.
In happier news, Exhimself has emailed me to say he has just gotten married (four months after the divorce was granted) and would I like to see pictures of the event?
I think I’ll make that two biccies.
After a truly horrible morning, confronted with my own ageing process (it being quite bad) which brings forth depressing thoughts about my impending 40th b day, that parole blokes seem to be more cheerful than allegedly free me, and that in Ireland, ten days means whatever the hell we like cause we’re the passport office, I decided to once again treat myself to a scone from the supermarket.
This was all fine until I spotted the hag from the post office, the invader of my personal space, breathing all over the scone display!!!!!
She shuffled off, probably to spread her misery vibes even further, and I made sure to take one from the bottom, and the back.
Luckily myself and Lilsister have decided that today is fat day, and are meeting to inhale burgers and chips later. Our fitness routine (that meaning, the one time we went for a walk and Lilsister refused to run) has been interrupted because Lilsister has no trainers to, em, train in. They will be purchased this week, we will eat burgers, and then next week we are boxercising. It begins.
Breathe on that, biddy.