Monday, February 27, 2006

mum goes techno

It still has to be grinned at, the thought of my mum sending me emails and rude forwards.

The woman who put the prim in primark (ok, so that makes no sense), the lady who refused point blank to refer to sex as anything other than making love, regardless of context.

Imagine my angry young idealist teenage debates about right to choice, lone parenthood, legalising condoms (how unhip were the 90s in Ireland, really - my 16th b.day diary entry has a bad illustration of a condom and reads 'now they are legalised and I am legalised, I can buy a condom' - took me many years more to know what to do with one....I blame my mum) being totally derailed by her referring to the 'responsibility that goes with making love'

even yet I cringe!!!

And now, she's sending me forwards of lusty men...

Plus: religion which was like God to her (hee hee) is now replaced by Angels.

Angels? I remember her going ballistic when I got a chain letter back in fourth class and telling me all manner of hellish things would rain down if I obeyed it's seemingly innocent request to send a postcard to ten randomers. Same lady is now asking me to send all my friends info about angels or ELSE!

Saturday, February 25, 2006

why...

We had visitors last night, up from the country, and I wanted to be a good host.

They asked me where they should go today and I listed all sorts of wonderous Dublin places to shop, browse, laze and gaze romantically into one anothers eyes in.

Waved them off, smiles and hugs.

Two hours later, with my brother and cousin, both teenagers but on good behaviour as they are out for the afternoon with me, we're making our loud, chatty way towards IMMA to partake of a bit of cake and maybe a slice of art, when we get stuck in traffic on the quays.

The news starts on the radio, and we hear that there are riots in town. We are joking and laughing, but we begin to listen to it, and all of us feel concern.

We decide to head towards home, and stop for coffee on the way, talking all the time about how strange and untrue it sounds that cars are being torched and building slabs thrown on our shabbily not chic but loved by me O'Connell Street.

Then I remember where I've sent my guests, and phone calls are made. They were caught up in it unawares, and had to run along with crowds of people down O'Connell Street. She had been shook by it and I just feel awful.

Later on TV, we watch the footage. My city, probably not beautiful by anyone elses standards, and I see these people with scarves on their faces, running riot wanting to create fear and mayhem, rejoicing in destruction.

I think of a million things - anger, fury, fear, sadness - I wonder what compassion it is that these people lack.

There is so much trust in the lives we build here together, that we choose to live. And if we aren't careful, it seems on a moment's notice, a knife's edge, that the laughter can be replaced by terror, by tears and loss.

It isn't a perfect life we have, I'm as easy to point to it's flaws as those wearing scarves to mask their faces. I will sit at a table with any man or woman and listen to their words, their perspective, and even if I don't agree, I will allow us to come to a consensus about the way forward.

But these men with anger so vicious they don't even need to form an argument or a perspective, that they think they can wreck havoc on my fellow dwellers and users of this city today, for these I hold no hope, I see only shades of black.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

snow

People in work were saying that the wise folks on tv said it might snow tonight, and then they were saying that it would be hard for them to get to work in the snow.

I would like lots of snow, so much snow that we had a day off.

It would be lovely to be snowed in. That never happens in Ireland.

We would all eat things from cans and light candles and dig out our sleeping bags.

Someone might even make a sledge.

We would all have fun and antics and get to know our neighbours better.

I keep sticking my head out the window, and while it is cold, I don't see any white flakes.

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

me day

Sometimes life can be hard for whatever reason, I don't need to be specific.

Maybe you have just had mildly awful news, nothing too serious mind or an appliance has broken, it could be you're snuffly, or you feel the chasm of hopelessness that any of us do from time to time.

I do not mean to take away from the blackness that some of us live through, but the feeling of hard life I refer to here is that just generic, 'ho;hum' why"£$£"! blah'.

Yesterday, FtheB was feeling a bit like that, he was fluish.

So we sat down after work, with a homely roast dinner, real traditional, and began to watch the Lord of the Rings, which of course I've already seen, and he has seen more often than that again.

And we just got lost in a world of elves and hobbits and rings and great injustices and wonderous overcoming of the odds.

It was like having a bedtime story read to us.

When I sat, I meant to get up and do things, but it was a blue Monday evening, dark outside, and I felt a sympathy pang of fluishness.

It was sheer bliss. I would recommend it to anyone who feels like that. Didn't even drink booze, I had a warm ribena. Aw.

And today was just heavenly after it. For some reason I was gabbing with everyone, nothing was stressing me out. Lousy traffic was just a giggle. I went to the gym after work and didn't scowl at everyone and every machine, I was all sunshine and light at the water cooler, having a chat with a nice friendly woman from Blanch.

So if you're feeling crap, just drag out whatever video or dvd that tickles that inner child and cosy up with a warm berry beverage, skiv off what you should be doing and hopefully the next day you'll be all the better for it.

Friday, February 17, 2006

gob a colb

Feeling a bit snuffly and sorry for oneself today, I limped around the office in a pity me state which gained me a little sympathy, yet more of the being treated as though I had a bell around my neck such as those that the lepers of old wore.

Once the wardens liberated us for the weekend I perked up.

Suddenly dinner and drinkies seemed quite the thing.

Went to Café Fitzers in Skuzzy Bar for the Early Bird, cos we were.

The food was nice, but the theatrics were better.

A man threw a glass on the ground and shouted in a most angry fashion at the kitchen staff before shrieking and flouncing out the door simultaneously.

So much the fury that after he stormed off the cops came in.

All most alarming yet entertaining as one ate their chilli jam and fishcakes.

We supped the vino and speculated.

Perhaps a lovers tiff? Maybe a chef who was not happy with the quality of the onions? What about a customer who is allergic to peanuts and yet spotted one in his hummus?

I dunno, but sure it was fun guessing.

Now for the Grub Critic Piece: Top Tip - the early bird in Café Fitzers, Skuzzy Bar was about twice the price of a much nicer meal in the Independent Pizza company, Drumcondra - can't guarantee the same drama though.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

day after yesterday

Writing letters in work today, I was thinking how strange it must be to receive letters dated on special days. Not that today was a special day in particular, but say if you got a letter dated 9/11/2001 or your birthday, or something like that.

An innocuous letter, mundane - bin charges or library fines - yet with your birthday on it. Would you have a little grin, even if you weren't happy about the letter?

I'm writing this from an internet café in Temple Bar - I'm just after trying on the most lovely jeans in Urban Outfitters, and, joy of joys, a Jem T-shirt. Good old Jem and the Holograms.

They just don't make toys of that ilk nowadays, or if they do, I guess I'm just not to exposed to them - my family is rapidly running out of young folks - not going to dwell on this one though, seeing as I'm the eldest of the youngest on both sides, dangerous talking about the need for offspring (of the literal not musical variety).

A childhood friend of mine was spoilt beyond words, she had a Jem and a Roxy doll. By proxy I got to play with them, and it was with fond memories I donned the T-Shirt. Damn this saving for trips of a lifetime though, jeans and t-shirt had to be given back to the trendy lady of the changing rooms.

Also on offer were Rainbow Brite t-shirts, which I may go back and try on now.

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

guns and roses


Valentine's Day 2006, who would have thunk it. Axl et al must be delighted to see that the headlines are awash with tales of guns (Cheney) and Roses (romantic peops buying one another gifts).

Would love to have an mp3 player so I could listen to this, reckon I'll have to trade in my poor old Commodore 64 (ok, I'm being a little unfair to my computer) or wait until next Valentine's day to download it. About time I figured how to use the proper computer and discarded this Snoopy stickered beige yoke once and for all. (only joking Pentium Two, I scorn not your simplicity).

In other news, Dublin was awash of angry looking bankers wielding teddies and balloons in a 'don't mess with me, I'm running for the Dart' fashion. Why people bother pretending to be grown-ups baffles me.

The girls in the office were in a flower war, to see who had the biggest bunch. I admired the floral displays easily from my rose free desk. Rang boyf to complain and he reminded me I had told him never to ever send me things in work. Funnily enough, I don't remember that.

Bonded with a girl I'd never noticed before in our lack of petaldom, probably will never speak to one another again, but hey, we can always say we had today.

In other news, couldn't find the Beckett book, the wrinkly one is avoiding me.

Monday, February 13, 2006

coincidences


Not to dwell on that whole unanswerable question regarding fate and all, but if something say pops into your life a few times in a week, should you pursue it?

Am I getting little nódanna (I love the Irish for 'hint' - kind of like a nod in the right direction) from some otherworldly source? Or am I just superstitious.

And this coincidence is so minor, so miniscule, it shows how empty my life must be for me to notice it.

Yet as it is to do with someone of intellectual standing, such as Samuel Beckett, I have to admit, I am determined to pursue it. Generally my coincidences involve purchasing Jellybeans or watching the same episode of Hollyoaks twice.

Mr Beckett, a man who I know zilch about, has been suggested to me by several people who's opinions I respect as a man of great wit and intelligence. It has even been brought to my attention that his finest works reside within this very room in which I write.

I do imagine he's terribly clever, yet, despite fulsome recommendations - the latest of which was in Cara magazine (hello, I'm taking the advice of an inflight magazine? Pass the valium Hilda) - growing up with Sean Hughes doing the Beckett thing and terribly serious documentaries about him, I just can't see how he could be funny. It took me a lengthy search to find a photo were he was smiling. I imagine he had searched for his glasses and was grinning self-depreciatingly as someone pointed out they were on his forehead.

I'm lazy, and can't help thinking it is irritating that I'm going to have to read him to find out if he's funny. And our books aren't stacked in alphabetical order, so I'll have to bypass the Copeland, Weir and countless Crime Fiction books (gore, I adore) to find this book. I can almost hear my muttered grumbles as I eventually sit down to read this piece of literary caviar.

Beckett, this better be good.

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