Four Tubs of Butter and an Idea

Whilst in therapy today, I came up with an idea for a sitcom.  Is this good or bad?  My counsellor says it’s a good idea, but it’s not the idea, it’s the location of the springing up of the idea that concerns me.

Another good thing about therapy is its location is across the road from the discount supermarket where I get my butter (I got four today, buy in bulk Mammy says when it’s cheap) and even more importantly, a really nice Thai takeaway (hard to find in Dublin, in my humble opinion).  I came home ready to butter up my veggie spring rolls and wok fried chicken.  Bliss!

Google Penetrates My Subconscious

Another dream which Mammy partially interpreted (we were busy screaming at each other because we had become lost in the Ranelagh area of Dublin, trying to find a place called Sandford School of Languages, which will be teaching Mammy Spanish.  Unhelpfully, it was in a building called the Milltown Institute.  When we found the Milltown Institute there were three doors, one saying Milltown, one saying nothing, and another saying Emerald.  The building we wanted was the one that said nothing.  This is why people slag the Irish).

I told Mammy of another disturbing dream regarding the pop ”band” One Direction.  I am not a fan, although I have had discussions with Papabear and Lilsister that their last effort, something about driving a car all night and talking walls, does not make me vomit.  I mentioned this to Spongecake who nearly clapped with delight.  At 37 years of age, she is more excited about the upcoming One Direction concert taking place in Dublin soon than her SEVEN YEAR OLD daughter.  There is no accounting for taste, or madness.  I told Spongecake that I did not understand the lyrics to whatever this song is called, she said to watch the video and all would be revealed.  I’d rather clean the sleeve that Little Niece N keeps wiping her nose with by using my tongue.

There is an Irish bloke in One Direction (the shame!) and in my dream it was announced somehow that he had 11 months to live.  I can’t remember why and I think in my dream I didn’t care because of who he is, even though I thought it was sad that someone that young had such a short time left.  I knew the songs would continue without him and I think that was the more sobering thought.

Mammy says it’s the numbers here that are significant, there is a ‘One’ Direction and ‘Eleven’ months.  That was as far as we got because we finally found the Milltown Institute at that stage and Mammy went banging on the door with no name to see if it was the Spanish class place.  I stayed in the car because I really needed to go to the toilet and if I had gotten out and moved I would have wet myself.

Lilsister googled the dream whilst being not busy in work and yes the numbers are significant.  I asked her to email me the link she was looking at but as usual she didn’t bother.  What I do remember is that the ‘one’ part is telling me I want to be creative and fabulous, and the ‘eleven’ part means I want to be fabulous and alone.  All of this makes sense and I am in awe at what my brain is doing to me when I am asleep.  I was listening to a radio play by Agatha Christie last night so how that turned into a teen pop group telling me to trod the creative path alone has given me plenty to consider whilst I eat another cupcake.

Papabear Meets the Poltergeist

It’s been so long!!!  I have felt the need to tiddle the keyboards but unfortunately in my 21st century hectic lifestyle, I do not have access to a computer!  Several reasons:

My phone (embarrassingly, it must be said) is from about 1998 and the most amazing thing it does is take (blurred) pictures.  It does not have the fancy internet thing (also known as the ”scrolly uppy downy” features, as described by Papabear).

I have just moved back into my humble house, where I cannot afford the mortgage.  This means that although I have a computer, I cannot afford broadband, so the computer remains in the attic, whilst I take blurred pictures of my new sofa cushions with my embarrasingly old fashioned phone.

I would NEVER log into anything wonderful on my work computer.  For several reasons: the bastards are watching, the computers at work are older than my phone (my hard drive has an actual HOLE in the back of it – I called the IT guy – he came four days later (he works two floors up!!!!!) and he told me to stop tapping my foot on it (I told him I was tapping it but in reality I was kicking it with my boot, to get it started most mornings) and then he ACTUALLY PUT THE COMPUTER IN A SLING AND HUNG IT UNDER MY DESK.  No, really, he did.), and did I mention the internet takes about an hour to upload even the basic google screen?  And when it does IT CRASHES ALL THE OTHER PROGRAMMES YOU HAVE OPEN.  Joke!

Another major issue is that I used to visit Mammy’s house and use her computer but this had to stop.  Several weeks ago now, Mammy was safely tucked up in bed asleep, whilst Papabear was hitting the streets of Dublin in an effort to drink himself sober.  Eventually he trudged home and walked into the kitchen, where he felt a strange, cold feeling, and noted that the press at the back of the kitchen, the giant one which the stereo sits on, which has about forty little drawers (for prettiness sakes) and about five big ones, and two huge ones, was standing, which was fine, but with EVERY DRAWER OPEN a la Sixth Sense.

This is the part where I must also remind you that where we live in Dublin is known for its hauntedness, due to the fact that most of the housing estates were built on aincent and not so ainent graveyards, bodies unmoved.  I also happen to have a mammy and lilsister who are finely tuned to the spirit world, and have felt a presence several times in mammy’s house, for some strange reason particularly in the bathroom, which is cold and unwelcoming in my opinion, and could do with re-grouting.  The spirit, who happens to be female, has a thick Dublin accent (naturally?) and always talks in the bathroom and keeps opening the door to the boxroom, which used to be Lilsister’s bedroom until she finally grew up and got the hell out.

Faced with the ghost’s workings on the kitchen press, Papabear, fourteen pints at least in his system, was immediately peturbed by the latest ghostly turn of events, and attempted to run up the stairs to Mammy, but probably took half an hour to get there because he was twatted out of his brain.  He woke Mammy with the words ”I don’t want you to worry, or scream, but come downstairs immediately.”  For once, Mammy did as she was bid and followed Papabear back down the stairs (she walking, he stumbling and hitting every second or so step) to the kitchen where Papabear, sweeping his hand across the room theatrically, queried with Mammy ”what had happened here, had the ghost she had been on about all these years finally turned poltergeist?”

Mammy took one look at the press and screamed ”Eh, we’ve been ROBBED!!!” sweeping her own hand towards the gaping hole in the living room where the tv used to sit. 

They also took the laptop, and robbed me of my right to blog.  Damn junkies!!!!!!

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.


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!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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.

Spicy Pork Chops Interrupt Serbian Mysteries

I’m TRYING to have an intellectual night in my room by blogging, listening to Madonna’s possibly best album (Ray of Light – it transends, people) and getting my brain ready to tackle the last few pages of my Kabbalist inspired mystery type story by the Serbian writer whose name I cannot spell (except the David part) which has been written without the benefit of paragraphs, so is just hundreds of pages of block text, and is quite difficult to follow.  Brilliant, but fuck do you work for it.  However never let it be said that it does not contain one of my most favourite lines ever in a book – our hero, being completely stoned and looking around for something in a kitchen, kneels down, and peers into something, where he tells me he felt ”my brain touch my forehead on the inside.”  This is fantastic, and should be a medical description of all self induced highs, be they drug, alcohol or naturally attained.

Anyway, here I am preparing myself for the superior onslaught of writing far better than I will ever achieve in my non-career, when Lilsister calls me from her mobile phone, worryingly, as I had left her in the living room ironing only moments before.  Do I want spicy pork chops for dinner tomorrow, she asks.

I don’t know, I reply, because I like mashed potatoes with my pork chops, but Scarydancer is cooking tomorrow, and he doesn’t like mash, and if he makes anything else it won’t be right.

What is Scarydancer putting with the chops, I ask, and Lilsister says she doesn’t know.

We both ponder a little in the silence.  I decide to throw caution to the wind.  Okay, I say.  Sure lash on the pork chops.

He’ll figure something out, she says back.

Where are you, I ask.

In bed, she says.

In the next room?  I ask.

Yes, she says.  I couldn’t be bothered getting out to ask you and Scarydancer is going to defrost the chops first thing in the morning so he had to know now.

Oh, I say.  That’s fairly lazy of you.

Yeah, she says.  But it’s Monday.

Hunting Jobs and Des Bishop (Both Elude Us)

Do hangovers work backwards?  Woke up yesterday tired, but generally fabulous, in Lilsister’s spare room, and whilst I didn’t bounce out of the bed I was capable of organising juice, tea, scrambled eggs and healthy grained toast.  Have I ever told you about my scrambled eggs?  They are buttery delights in a pot, and on special occasions, made with cream if I’m feeling like having a heart attack before I’m forty.  It is also scrambled eggs that made me fall for ExHimself, as when I first met him, I could not cook AT ALL, and used to go to a particular cafe in Sydney for my scrambled eggs on the weekends, as a hangover treat.  Anyway, one Saturday I awoke to find ExHimself cooking scrambled eggs in my little white kitchen and that was that.  I kept him on for many years on that basis.  So much so that when myself and Trevor met for lunch on Monday she told me that when I finally meet a new man (in the mists of the future I think) that ”he must NOT be allowed” to make me scrambled eggs.  What this means, and I’m not digressing, is that as nobody needs to make me scrambled eggs anymore, I will be alone forever.

I went back to bed, refusing cuddles with Lilsister (I HATE to cuddle when I have been on the drink) and we both got up at 1.30pm, which is disgraceful, but there you go.  I ate a fizzy cola bottle, for the sugar rush, and felt more tired than before, but okay, until we drove to Papabear, bringing him his junk food fix (burger with extra onions, and onion rings) and then I felt quite ill in the stomach area, and had to pop an anti vomit tablet Lilsister found amongst Mammy’s many medicines in the kitchen.

After that it was a junk food date with Sisinlaw and our niece N and life slowly returned to the old bones, but I have to say I did feel a lot worse as the day wore on.  Is this an age thing?  I know hangovers are supposed to hurt more but I find the older I get the more I drink (for obvious reasons) and it takes a lot more to HAVE  hangover.  But a reverse one is a newbie for me I must admit, and very confusing.

So on Thursday Lilsister had a second interview with a company in Harcourt Street for an actual job.  We were terribly excited so decided to celebrate the fact that 1.There is an actual job going in Dublin and 2.Braille had secured a second interview for this rarity.  As the interview was at 3pm, we decided to make an evening of it, deciding upon a couple of glasses of wine afterwards, followed by a nice meal.   The interview finished at 3.30 and off we went to the wonderful basement of Fallon and Byrne’s to sit at a barrel and drink Spanish white, and then a little Italian sparkling.  Feeling warm and giggly, we then made it all the way to Westmorland Street for earlybird (read: cheap – there’s a depression on in Ireland you know) Thai, which included a VERY oaked bottle of wine, which I complained about, and got normal tasting wine instead.

Now I forgot to mention between Fallons and the Thai place is the International Bar, and we took it as a sign that it was comedy night, so we decided over dinner that we were to go back to the comedy club and somehow get our comedy careers started.  We’ve been in deep discussions about my writing and Braille performing some standup, but obviously with my background as a banker and Lilsister’s as a credit controller we are a little bemused as to where to start.  Anyway.  We noted that the alleged comedy club in the International Bar is hosted each week by either Des Bishop or his brother, whose name escapes me, although Lilsister had met him one time when she was last at the International, as he came over to her and said ”do you know who I am” but alas she did not, and the brother could not capitalise on dear Des’s Irish fame.

I’m not exactly sure what the plan was but I think it would have included the general accosting of Des Bishop (for what, I don’t know) and the establishment of ourselves as fully paid up writers and comedians, by the end of the night.

Des wasn’t there, but Lilsister recognised the brother on one of the few seats, so we did our own stand up at the bar and hit the beer, and accosted the musicians to play something we could sing along to (this is how bad they are – they sang ONE Simon and Garfunkel song, and then advised me that they didn’t know any others.  Call yourselves stoners lads???  Disgraceful.  They also had a toy xylophone – pathetic.  Clearly just there for the girls, who it has to be said, SURROUNDED them).

We never made it to the comedy night anyways, as I spotted a not so familiar face sitting right beside me, and it turned out to be a bloke I had last seen, in college, 18 years ago (I hadn’t realised it had been 18 years, this was kindly pointed out to me by my friend later – THANKS).  This was a GREAT friend of mine in college, he was in my little gang almost from the first week I went there, and we roamed the streets on Friday mornings hitting the pub instead of attending classes, and have had many deep and meaningful discussions along the way.  He also stood up in one class one day, and declared he was going home, but before he did, he sang a rousing rendition of ”New York New York” with overcoat, manbag and umbrella in hand, ending up on his knees, practically in tears with the emotion.  And it was only half nine in the morning.  Great stuff.

So me, Lilsister, the Newyorker and his two friends basically drank beers for the rest of the night, and had a huge fight over who made the best shepherd’s pie between Lilsister and one of Newyorker’s friend (Lilsister’s SOUNDED better, but, frighteningly, the friend had pictures on his phone of a recently-completed shepherd’s pie – straight out of the oven, and then with a slice taken out of it).

Then Lilsister got the hiccups really badly so we ran out to Grafton Street for Burger King, a quick call to Papabear to wake him up and tell him that we were eating again (he thinks we’re savages, the fool) and then taxi back to Lilsister’s place, where we woke up Scarydancer in our slow but giggly search for some pyjamas for me.  Lilsister hiccupped throughout, and then I passed out, in a t-shirt.

It’s All About Timing

It’s half nine AT NIGHT and I am trying to WRITE.   I am also in bed tapping away on my laptop.  Papabear is asleep in his boudoir.

Mammy has decided that this is excellent timing to climb up into the attic and throw down two giant plastic bags which contain the familial Christmas tree.  This has made an unmerciful noise.  Which is fine.  Because banging around an attic and throwing stuff down the stairs gets you all the attention you think you need.

Mammy has also decided it is now time to shove the NEW Christmas tree into the attic.  This gigantic box containing the aforementioned newbie tree has been sitting in the downstairs hall for at least two weeks.  Somehow, it has been moved to Papabear’s boudoir.  It is about five feet tall and extremely heavy.

Naturally, it has become my job to cease working, as Mammy has called me to go into Papabear’s room and obtain the new tree, and pass it up the ladder to Mammy.  Which is fine, as I didn’t do any weight lifting this week.

I have nearly broken my neck standing on the two giant plastic bags that contain the old Christmas tree and pulled a muscle passing the new giant box of a tree up to Mammy who then proceeded to yank the thing from me, drop it back on me, and proclaim that I wasn’t helping at all.  I also had to wake Papabear, not advisable under normal circumstances, let alone in a Christmas tree crisis.

I am most miffed, and having jumped back in bed to continue my writer’s block, realise that Papabear is now awake and yelling at Mammy from the bottom of the ladder.  The radio has been switched on and The GaGa is advising that she is bluffin with her muffin, and I SO get that.