Go to Mass and Don’t Drink Wine

I have just been refused wine!!!

And not due to my non-youthful good looks.  Because of…grrrr….the ”system”.  Yes, in good Catholic Holy Ireland where no crime is ever committed, nobody ever does anything wrong and where drinking and fornication is a sin, you cannot buy wine in a public supermarket before 12.30pm!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!   I kid you not.  I have just been in the aforementioned public supermarket, and on behalf of Lilsister, stuck two bottles of a very lovely South African chenin blanc that we have been drinking throughout the Christmas period, on top of my tissues and a box of condoms, which I decided to buy in a vain effort to make it appear that this year, as per Middlebro’s request, I shall have sex.  Looking at my basket, I hoped that I would not need any assistance at the till, as I look like a total and utter slut with these contents (I HAD done my food shopping yesterday but returned as I needed to buy blueberries for my breakfast tomorrow.  I am studying for exams with the ever-pointless Institute of Bankers and blueberries are a good brain food.  I’ve also received a text from the Institute of Idiots during the week ”reminding” me that oh joy, it’s time to pay up again for a year’s worth of membership.  Yes, I have to sit exams for a job that I have 12 years experience in doing, pay for the exams, study around a full time job which will NOT give me study leave as I am ”only” a temporary staff member, and then pay for the privilege of sitting said exams with a (scam central) membership fee of forty euro per annum!!!  Bankers doesn’t rhyme with wankers for no reason, my little flowerpots).

Well I suppose the addition of blueberries takes away from the complete slut goodies I had with me so small mercies, as I must be allowed to say because it’s Sunday and this is Holy Catholic Ireland, where we all live in such fear of god’s smite that we never do anything wrong.  How can we – we’re all drunk or high 24-7.

Checking my basket contents again, I felt that the self service till would be my best option and I headed over to one, and began scanning the tissues, then the condoms (which took three attempts at scanning – something wasn’t working and I was THIS close to throwing them back over to the discounted bleach and other bathroom cleaning products stand behind me when they finally went through – and accounted for HALF of my eventual spend – since when did condoms become so expensive? ).  I got to the wine which immediately FLASHED  a warning message about a time delay.  ”I am not trying to open a safe,” I growled at the screen, and began flailing my first bottle at the screen in a desperate attempt to have it swipe and register the ”bing!” to tell me I could move on.  It would not, and I had to call the 12 year old male assistant to my aid, telling him there were ”issues buying the wine” to which he replied ”there are never issues buying wine” and I didn’t feel so bad about my unbagged condoms and tissues.  He looked as shocked as I did at the time delay message and went manager-hunting, returning with a frowned face to tell me that, amazingly, in 2013, you cannot buy alcohol in a supermarket in the Republic of Ireland (a Republic gained after 800 years of English oppression,  and after blasting Dublin to bits, executing the rebellious leaders and after we tore each other apart in a bloody civil war – all in the name of FREEDOM).  This is only on Sundays, because this is Holy Catholic Ireland.

”Is my sister to remain SOBER on this day?” I wailed but to no avail, there was Nothing He Could Do.  I rang Lilsister with the disappointing news, and I was glad to hear that she had already taken to the bed, because perhaps she can sleep through the afternoon, rather than face it alert and undulled by hints of peach and lemon.

Dirty Pints and Catching Billy’s Eye (Part 2)

The swan song of Saturday night came when myself and Trevor fell out of the Italian restaurant, with Trevor loudly belching her appreciation of her meal, probably ensuring nobody else enjoyed theirs.  Outside, a woman actually jumped as Trevor continued to let rip. 

Back on the streets again and with a hunger for more dirty pints, we happened upon a pub which Trevor declared herself and Boo Boo never went to, and went there.  

It was sticky, sweaty, and full of ugly people so terrible in the face department that me with my makeup now running down my face and a new hole in the back of my top, looked positively classy and attractive.  SO attractive in fact that I immediately caught the eye of a man I can only say looked like a ”Billy” – a rotund and teethy individual practically wearing the brown suit that is in the wardrobe of all eligible bachelor farmers in their mid fifties.  He flashed me a smile and I sat in the only available seat in the pub, which was directly in front of the ”band”.  Billy moved on, catching the oddly shaped eyes of two extremely large and undressed females, who were only too delighted with the  free vodkas and cokes bought for them.  I focused on who was the ugliest of the ”band” and in my drunken haze, could not figure it out.    I DO recall the piercing in the singer’s lip, which kept catching the one light working in the bar, and finding it quite distracting, and wondering why he drank dirty pints instead of dancing or ad-libbing for the many guitar solos.

We ended up moving to the back of the pub, near the pool tables, inhabited by younger scumbags, and discussed the hazards of immigration with somebody who was on the way to Tanzania to work in a quarry.  We all declared that leaving Ireland was shit, and that our government should be shot to death for allowing thousands to depart our shores each week for the unbelievable privilege of seeking actual work.  For shame, Ireland’s politicians!!!

Trevor has since been told by neighbours that she was seen slumped forward at this pub, but as I was sitting right beside her and didn’t see that, I can only refute these ungrounded claims.

Afterwards, Lilsister advises me that I called her to sing the Irish footballing anthem, Ole Ole Ole, but had to stop because I had fallen in a bush.  She tells me the voicemail was initially full of singing, then banging, then foul language, then pleas for Trevor to pull me out of the bush, then more singing, then complaining because now that Trevor had fallen into the bush nobody would be able to pull anybody out.  I have no idea how long we were in the bush, but I do remember that afterwards Trevor seemed to have a sudden lease of life and brought me into a field, and told me to run around it three times.  I could see it was a big field, so while Trevor skipped off, I patted the wet grass as if a pillow, and lay my weary head down.  Trevor eventually figured out that she was alone in her mini marathon, and joined me to look at the night sky and argue which lights were satellites and which were celestial beings.  It was extremely comfortable and I have no idea why we got up in the end.

Back at Trevor’s we were thrilled to discover that Boo Boo had left us soggy chips in the microwave, with plates, cutlery and cups already filled with teabags – as if knowing we would be incapable of  obtaining these items ourselves.  We inhaled, went to bed, passed out, and only rose to find headache tablets.  Trevor wisely told my niece, Little NN, not to go and disturb her visiting auntie as she was very sick in bed, which I was.  Boo Boo took Little NN out to swim, and when they came back, I lay on her bedroom floor and told her the reason I couldn’t play with her princess castle was because I was closing my eyes and visualising the story she was to tell me, and please tell it quietly.  Trevor stepped over me to tell Little NN that her auntie had to be driven home now, and I suffered a two day hangover, only helped by the coffee cupcakes Trevor had baked for me to take home.

Dirty Pints and Oscar Wilde (part 1)

My hair gets really fuzzy.  In rain, or sun – it fuzzes.  THIS is what I was thinking about last Saturday night, well Sunday morning, as I lay in the field near Trevor’s house and looked up at the stars.  It was only afterwards that Oscar Wilde came to me and said ”we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”  Well I was in the gutter, looking at the stars, and could think of nothing deeper than oh damn, the grass is very wet and I BET my hair gets fuzzy. 

Which it did – horrificially so.  I really must learn to control my ugliness.  It is having a shockingly adverse affect on the hunt for a boy plaything.

Dirty pints on Saturday with Trevor, as aforementioned.  We started out classily drinking prosecco in the garden, in the sun, and discussing our ageing process and who currently has the most wrinkles (I have shocking crow’s feet but Trevor is CONVINCED her frown lines more than make up for any lines I may have – they don’t).  She also was good enough to tell me that I am ”pretty, but need to wear makeup.”  Nice.  ”I’ll always tell you the truth,” she mused, while I wailed in the corner after witnessing my rosywithwine cheeks, sans makeup, and felt distraught.

Dear fuck, I’ve just realised that as I type this I’ve had some form of the antiques roadshow playing in the background.  I’ve just kicked the telly through the window and stuck ”Your Song” on instead.  Cheers Elton!

So after applying enough makeup to sink my crow’s feet and Trevor’s frown lines we declared ourselves sufficiently tanked enough to take to the streets of Trevor’s suburb and hit the local Italian, who had messed up our reservation and stuck us at a tiny bar waiting area with a child barman whom we insulted into serving us before everybody else, with dirty pints.

Dirty pints don’t go well with Italian but we ploughed on nonetheless, feeling quite drunk after our one course (we missed the early bird and refused to pay full price on anything else – there is a recession going on you silly restaurant owners, didn’t you know?).

Afterwards we bumped into some of Trevor’s neighbours in the toilets and I did a ladywhizz while she tried not to slur her pleasantries.  Once they’d left I signed my name on the toilet checking roster as Terence Trent D’Arby (80’s musos rise!!!) and then we sang many songs.  I’ve now just remembered there was a disgraceful drag queen singer in the restaurant, singing along with a karaoke machine – the food prices may not have been recession proof but the ”entertainment” had surely been haggled in on a knockdown price.  For any songs we didn’t know the words to, or refused to admit we knew the words of, we sang the Irish footballing anthem ”Ole Ole Ole” or, to give it it’s official title  ”Put Em Under Pressure” as released by the Irish football team once they qualified, for the first time ever, to play in the World Cup in 1990.  Now that Ireland has qualified to play in the Euro football finals for the first time in 10 years, the song is enjoying a resurgence and is being sung by our Green Army once again, in great hope and trepidation that we may actually succeed, for once.


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.

Puffed to a Crisp

Earlier this evening I was lucky enough to catch Lilsister laughing at what, I didn’t know.  ”What are you laughing at,” I unwisely ventured, only to be told that she was laughing at me, because my life is a joke.  Wonderful.

My running is continuing well, thank you for asking, and I am nearly up to a good twenty second jaunt, which makes me feel fabulous and fit.  I also got burnt yesterday in the raging morning sun, I think the rays penetrated my factor 30 spf cream and I feel dry, crispy and old.  Ireland is experiencing another little heatwave, with soaring temperatures of 15 degrees yesterday – sure how could I NOT get burnt to an elderly crisp?

Needless to say on my way home today I stopped at the chemist and purchased Factor 50.  I did not run – it was too hot at an alleged 19 degrees.  What is this, Qatar???!?

Work is hideous, naturally, and only the sweet non-rememberance of alcohol consumption gets me through the nights, not that I can have any during weeknights, as if I was to come into work hungover the customers would literally eat me alive, which they attempt to do on an hourly basis, and which I have so far, been strong enough to resist.  Having said that, I have inbibed a little prosecco this evening before tapping this entry out, purely for sleeping purposes, as I have had difficulty sleeping the last week, being filled with bubbling rage most nights.  Right now I feel mellow and ready to snooze – ah drink, you blessed friend of the stressed.

Speaking of alcohol, I was able to partake of a little over the weekend, with Friday night drinks with Sisinlaw and Lilsister, and then Saturday night beers with Lilsister at an alleged comedy club in the city, which cost a fortune to enter, had flat pints and a comedian that looked EXACTLY like Robert de Niro in Taxi, making the whole night quite unsettling.   They also stamped my hand on the way in after being fleeced with the entry cost, and even today, I can still see the magic word on my hand – ”Puff”.  EXCUSE ME?  What does this signify?  Except that it is strangely resistant to several showers and scrubbing  brushes?

So with my snoozy boozy drink, I depart and seek my bed, in the hope that tonight I sleep, and forget the unfunny joke that is my life now.  Sigh…


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!!!

Twisted with the Tourists

Pints with Trevor on Saturday for our not too regular catch up where we discuss the problems with Ireland, how to resolve them, and then cry because we have had too many pints, and because we love each other.  Fabulous stuff.

Several pints in Dame Street led to several more in the very touristy Temple Bar area of Dublin, where Americans roam in search of their Irish destiny, and we oblige them by singing Johnny Cash songs in a traditional Irish way with banjo, tin whistle and bodhran as was the case in the pub we ended up in.  After scaring some overly large Italians away by dancing to the crazy Irish beat and singing in Gaelic, we finally snared a table where we could see the band, and enjoyed our heritage until Trevor noted that the ageing, pudgy guitar player had a lovely collar bone and that she needed to ”bite it”.  I found this very worrying and requested an immediate venue change, once we found the loos of course, as we are old and full of wee.

We ended up then in our third location, in front of another band, much younger and uglier, in some half trendy bar full of hens parties trying to eat the young singer off the stage.  They formed a circle and began dancing until Trevor jumped into the middle and busted some moves.  We drank two gins (me) and two vodkas (Trevor) in twenty minutes and left, absolutely blind drunk and stumbling.  At this stage, neither of us were frightened by using public transport, so Trevor took her crap coach home and I took the tram, and tried not to fall asleep, by putting my walkman on really loud, and texting my brother, father, mother, sister, and Trevor and saying silly drunk things.  Then I realised the tram wasn’t running to our little apartment, so somehow managed to get Mammy to pick me up near her and drop me off outside my poor door.  She alleges that she parked her car across the road from the tram stop, and nearly died when she saw the huddling mess that was her daughter ambling towards her.  Supposedly I was walking with the top half of my body slumped forward, and had my arms dangling, monkey like at my side, until a sudden jolt caused me to lean backwards and shout ”FFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!” when I realised I had not swiped my electronic tram ticket.  I ambled back to the ticket machine, argued with it, perhaps hit it, and then fell into Mammy’s car.

After being deposited at the door of the apartment complex, I called Lilsister to confirm tea and toast were being initiated for me upstairs, which they were.  After this I am informed that I came in, and got a fit of giggles whilst buttering my toast, and spilt my tea on the sofa, which caused it to steam, and then tried to clean it up with a tissue.  Then I spilt it again, and when Lilsister and Scarydancer informed me I had done it again, I replied haughtily ”I find that technically impossible”.  Beautiful.

Woke up with my head coming out of my neck the following morning, and rose only to eat some fruit and inhale headache tablets.  Trevor texted to say that her husband Boo Boo had attempted to deliver fried food to her in bed but she had had to turn him away, much to her disgust.  She normally loves her fried food.

To upset me, Scarydancer then got up and kept busting scary moves in front of me, I think to make my stomach contents rock, and therefore heave.  Lilsister cooked a fried breakfast at noon, and I began to feel human again.  I was driven to Blessington nearby, in the beautiful county Wicklow, where we walked along the lake, visited a country house, and stopped for chips in a terrible cafe full of pink, with a very grumpy  waiter.

What a very successful weekend.

Saturday Feb 25th – The Nipple

Did you ever turn up to what you thought was a cup of tea round the table, but walk into a fully fledged party?  Not the ones where everybody jumps out of your hairy sofa and yells ”SURPRISE!!!”.  No, a GOOD party.

Well thanks to Panties that’s exactly what happened to me after I was invited to her abode to share in the festivities for her father’s surprise 70th b day.  As it had a 5.30pm kick off time, my assumption was that there’d be her family (parents, two brothers and two sisters), a vat of tea and hopefully some cupcakes.  Chat would be had, and I’d be in bed by 7pm.

I walked through the house, which had about nine thousand kids in the front room, through to the kitchen, or should I say party den of the house, through to the back garden, which had amassed a HUGE marquee complete with tables chairs and an entire TABLE OF CAKES, stuffed with people, including the birthday boy, the aforementioned siblings plus partners, a professional barbeque set up (Panties’ bro is a chef) with TONNES of meat, BUCKETS of beer, wine, plus Panties herself mixing icing in Manchester United football club colours for her Papa.  FABULOUS!!!  I got straight into the beer, said my hellos, and went straight into another beer, followed by another, followed by obtaining gloves from Panties’ younger sister, Spongecake, as my hands were cold on my ICE COLD BEERS.  This was followed by laughing at Panties’ hubby Hangsandwich with his latest ”boutique beer” which came in fetching matching wine like glasses, or ”lady glasses” as I called them in order to annoy him.  Panties, finished with the cupcakes at last, settled down to a bottle of prosecco, which I gleefully helped her to inhale, whilst discussing sexual matters and what jobs we find ourselves doing now that Ireland is in a fully fledged depression (the oddest I think being the youngest brother’s current stint in an ACTUAL LEPRECHAUN MUSEUM) with her and her various siblings.

Naturally the conversation turned to piercings, and Spongecake was at pains to show me hers in her right nipple, but thankfully Chefbro did not discuss nor show his, as allegedly it is in his nether manbits.  Not to be outdone, The Leprechaun produced his own man boobs and nipples from his top (with a deftness that leads me to conclude that he does this regularly at parties), and to upset me, rubbed them on my nice new red coat, which I only recently bought, after I just moved back to Ireland, with money I presumed I would have when I began working again, which was both naive and silly of me.  Even the YOUNGEST sister has a pierced tongue.  As the craziest thing I have pierced is my third earring in my left ear (not my right, at the time I did it I considered it COOL to have three piercings in one ear, and two in the other) and this particular hole has now closed over from lack of use, I felt a little daunted.  ”I have my blog,” I thought, ”though I am alone and unpierced.”

It also transpires that many men in the vicinity have had vasectomies, but as this information may have been divulged under increasingly drunken conversations, I feel I must drift away from that particular nugget of golden information.  Instead I have just remembered that some of our Scottish guests, Scots being our Celtic Cousins and all, did bring along some shockingly awful Scottish reels, which only very old and very young people seemed to be able to dance to.  I can confirm I was not one of them.

I ended up having a whale of a time, unpierced nipples and all, and the night was only temporarily cut short when Panties’ Papa announced he was leaving the party to watch his golf at home.   When you hit 70, you RULE!!!!

The Beginnings of a Beginning

Valentine’s Day…and Lilsister is busy lighting an aromatherapy candle.  The good one, which doesn’t give you headaches (we both suffer, although she is far worse than me.  There have been TWO incidents in the last week where I have had to go into full headache reducing massage mode, quite tiring when you are old and silly).  This candle is a big one, so big it has TWO wicks.  So there is a lot of aromatherapy in the air, this Valentine’s Day.  Sounds romantic?  You big eejit.  For one thing, I’m there, the Romance-Reflector, and for another thing, the candle is being placed in the bathroom after Scarydancer has had a particularly vigorous session emptying his bowels.  Ah, the joys of sharing, I remember it well.  Lilsister places the candle in the bathroom, in what I presume is a vain effort to reduce the demons of mansmells, and calls out to us both ”Happy Valentine’s Day”.  Mills and Boon, do call.

I’ve moved in with Lilsister and Scarydancer, having enjoyed my jollidays there so much whilst they were away.  I get to see little N all the time, as she is in the apartment block opposite with Sisinlaw and Babybro, and Preggers and Firstbrother are just two floors down in our own apartment block, so four of the five children are within 30 seconds of each other.  It is most cosy, believe it or not, toilet issues aside.  I have a little room, with a bed that I originally gave to Firstbrother, who gave it to Lilsister, who left it for me, where the mattress is a different size to the base, but I have a radio, a heater and about a quarter of a wardrobe to use (Lilsister SWEARS she will empty this out – I remain watchful, and wait quietly, for now).  On Fridays we consume wine with Sisinlaw and Preggers, and during the week we consume wine as we believe it helps us sleep, and because we can’t afford any drugs.

Lilsister runs the household with a Stalin-esque type grip, insisting on roomie meetings at least once a week so she can lecture Scarydancer and myself on whichever recycling we have failed to put out, or on meal planning (essential in a recession), or on something she has spotted which is dirty/incorrectly folded/on the wrong shelf.  Luckily Scarydancer doesn’t give a fuck, and I am quite drunk most of the time now, so it washes over us.

Mornings wise, it should work out quite well, Scarydancer rising at five am for his job, Lilsister who STARTED WORK THIS WEEK (whoo hoo!) rising at about 7 for her commute and as of FRIDAY, for a nine month contract, I myself should be getting up around 7.30 for my quite short commute to my new job, a little customer service thing for a big bank.  Hurray!!!!  Evenings should be spent eating, drinking wine to help us sleep, and complaining about public transport.  It will be divine.

Top Half Stressed Bottom Half in Magnolia

Stress can affect people in different ways.  You might lose sleep, or drink too much, and consequently because you are 37 years old, you spend half the night in the toilet having ladywhizzes (but not vomiting because at 37 you can drink a little better than when you were a young child – not that I was a child drinking, you understand, but it seems so long ago that I started drinking that I may as well have been a child.  Except for the time where I didn’t drink for four months.  I had spent a night on a disgraceful mix of pints, shorts and shots and ended up quite literally in a gutter, with my dress – buttons all down the front, split open.  As I say, I was a child then, so it wasn’t such an horrific sight).

Or you can have dreams where you are having sex with someone you know to be gay, whilst beside the bed your old HR manager reads from a list of things that you have done wrong in work.  Ah, my former employer.  I find the best way to deal with painful moments, or many painful moments as the case may be with my former employer, is to simply block them out.  I am Irish after all, and discussing difficult issues is strictly forbidden, although drugging yourself up on prescription tablets is both socially acceptable and morally encouraged.

Occasionally though I am reminded of the madness that once was my life, when having to speak to individuals this week, who may or may not have sneered across a table from me as I cried my eyes out.  Memories of emails about incorrectly discarded sanitary towels, sitting in the disabled toilet in the basement meditating my anger away every hour for fifteen minutes, particularly in the mornings, of the constant need for headache tablets, and the constant scarity of headache tablets for some reason (could we ALL have had so many headaches?) and naturally, the day when it all ended and a new life began.

But rather than dwell on that, like a thoroughbred Irish national I will brush it aside, to be stuck under the rug for another day with a big pint and a soapbox.

So in summary a few stresses this week, coupled with some painting, of the new baby room for Preggers and Firstbrother, which has completely destroyed a pair of tracksuit trousers, covering my legs and arse in magnolia for evermore.  Not to mention the sheer frustration and horror that is painting anyways, but also in a room where my bloody brother did not even empty, leaving me to paint AROUND the furniture, walk into it, and generally curse the day he was ever born.  His feedback?  ”You got paint on the wardrobes”.  Job satisfaction, indeed.  I did too.  This is what happens when you don’t pay professionals.  Not counting the chips I was given on Friday night, which were yummy I must admit.