Tuesday, May 30, 2006

sugar and bitter pills

Try to convey the fact that I'm one of those ladies who knows better than to believe a myth, and yet there I was last Thursday, payday, standing in a chemist, like a child in a sweet store with her pocket money.

Fiddled through sparkly things, and makeup of varying qualities, even looked at an odd pair of shoes that every madser in Dublin is currently wearing, apparently they make you walk with the gait of a Masai warrior and thus improve your posture. Never mind that I've not seen a Masai wearing shoes of this nature.

But am I one to talk? Hardly, given that I coughed up over ten euro on a package of 'slimming tablets'. Made from a herbal tincture, apparently.

Well, I don't know what it was, but I was compelled to buy them. At home, I looked at the packaging and read the small print. Nowhere does it say how they'll actually work. I popped one, no effect, two, no effect. Three, I felt a little peckish. Then I forgot.

A moment of panic when shrieking with laughter about a teenager I know who succumbed to the lav after knocking back three packets of some mint 'clear your breath' sweetie whose packaging had in small writing 'may produce laxative effects'. Then I realised I hadn't graced the toilet in awhile.

Here I am, days later, still maintaining adequate padding, still swallowing the pills when I remember.

Checked comments online. Apparently four weeks produces optimum effects. Blah to that I say.

In other news, I had two bitter pills to swallow in work over the past few days. Fair enough, the sugar coating helped get them down, but to be honest, gimmie a break God/Buddha/Mohammad/the robot in the sky. Blah to that too I add.

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

Rebel Rebel

Last Friday as I stood in a local chipper waiting for my cod to crisp and the spice burger to cook, the ground began to shake.

The lady in front of me, who had a very particular order for a burger 'no onion' and 'lots of ketchup', the sturdily built woman behind the counter who was making deft paper chip holders with a single movement of her hand, and the Chinese man who was nimbly flipping the burger while tossing the cod all looked up.

We turned towards the door.

A hoard of young men, citykids on the brink of adulthood, adorned with flags and pride, earrings and gobs the size of the Aillwee caves strode toward us.

The shop was visibly shaking, as were it's inhabitants.

The leader of the group began the chant 'YEAHHHHHHH' and they all joined in, fists raised.

As they came closer we looked at one another in terror.

The sturdy chip paper maker broke the tension with a smile, 'we'll need some more chips there Yang' she said.

He quickly lifted a big bucket of freshly sliced chips and they tipped them into the pan.

The first of the hoard made their way into the small shop.

Surprisingly most of them passed on, and we began to realise that they were heading towards a match, not heading up a mass revolution.

'How much is the chips missus?'.

'Two-fifty'.

'Wha?'

'Two-fifty'.

'Jeazus. Comeon and giz a chips then and a bottlacoke'

The woman winked at me 'I'll just get rid of these first' she said, 'and then I'll get your order'.

One of the lads dropped his money into the bag of the lady in front of me.

'Missus, I droppda my money in youra baga'

The lady looked on in shock.

The woman working behind the counter deftly packed the chips and said

'Aaaa gerra way outta that, you bagsnatcher ya, salt n vinegar on the chips then?'

The lad looked shocked. 'I'm only kidding ya' she said, 'two fifty please?'

Monday, May 22, 2006

rain it all away

The city is clean after 48 hours of rain, my local river was gushing water and the puke and mess of last weekend has disappeared from the streets.

Trees and plants are lush and green, and people are beginning to come out of their hibernation.

When the weather is that bad, it forces you to do things, such as book a summer holiday to Spain. I just hope I'm not overegging the proverbial pudding by trying to fit in too much - Seville, Morocco, Toledo and Barcelona in less than two weeks.

Aw well, sure if I get too tired, I'll just have some OJ in Seville and some Gaudy Gaudi in Barcelona before bringing my lobster pink frame back to the rainy country to cool off.

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

faking it

Increasingly, perhaps due to the sunshine, I'm finding it harder to fake being an office worker type.

I couldn't give a frigged coconut about working in an office, size of envelopes, oh i'm so upset about my little problem nonsense right now.

It's sunny between the rain folks. Get out and enjoy it.

Nah, instead I cluck and oh that's awful and ew that's horrible at intervals, when really I want to be heading away in a plane, or even by bike, to somewhere warm and interesting, where the tempo is slower and the craic is mightier and everyone is smiling, dancing, singing, kissing, whatever ing rocks their thang.

So here I am, my body in Dublin, my mind in the clouds.

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

sunshiny days



My dad called me and we met for lunch today.

It was beaming down and we sat outside that lovely eaterie/drinkerie in the Italian quarter, or Wallacevera dependint on what you make of it.

I never know what it's called, but it is a blissful place to imbide a bit of wine and italian cheese and bread.

It was so lovely, sitting there, my dad and me, like we never do, having a chat and a laugh.

Enjoying each other's company. I was so happy and content.

The waitress was a gem, smiling and happy.

After our pasta he ordered a black coffee and I said I'll have a cappuchino.

Then I felt stupid and added, 'I know you're not meant to order them after lunch, but they taste so good'

And she smiled, leant in and said, 'don't worry, I drink them after breakfast too'.

My dad was mystified, as I explained that the Rough Guide had said it was a real touristy cultural offence to order cappuchino after 12ish as they are a breakfast drink.

He laughed and told me that one of his mates, on a business trip to Paris a few years ago, had been treated to a lovely fancy dinner. After the meal, which involved copious courses and frothy fancy confections, and dinnery items galore, as the light dimmed and the other guests began to leave, the waiter asked him would he like coffee.

'Oui' he says, in his best leaving cert French, 'un café au lait, s'il vous plait'

The waiter sniffed, tired of this philistine.

'Avec croissant?' he asked, in heavily sarcastic tones.

Of course we have the breakfast roll I suppose. And you'd be hard pressed to find a nice one after lunch-time, not the done thing at all really.

Friday, May 05, 2006

Limey B*st*rd

It's the same feeling I used to have doing knick-knacks all those years ago - total spazzed hysterical fear ridden hilarity - if I must put it into words.

Following dinner in a Phibsboro eaterie, nice it was too, we decided to walk home. Had a lovely chat with the off-licence lady and she advised me that limes weren't available there, but my Corona might find it's bitter companion in a pub or a local shop or something.

Sun was shining, but there were no limes to be had all the way home. We chatted and smiled in the sun, and then we were nearly home.

There's a pub at the end of my road that we're both a bit scared of, and I think he was bored of stopping in every shop in my quest for limes. Let's face it, his Sam Adam's is just dandy without it anyway.

He's across the street, tapping his foot impatiently. There's the pub and nothing else between me and my beer.

Scr*w it, I think, and push open the door, imagining that if I weren't so shortsighted I would see his jaw hitting the pavement as I walk into the pub we're a bit scared of.

Inside I suddenly realise that it is full of men. Little ones, big ones, old, young, poor, angry, sad, men, men, men. The pub seems bigger and bigger. Men stretch away into the distance like one of those trick mirror infinity situations.

My breasts seem bigger, my hair seems longer, my accent seems posher. The fear is growing.

I stride quickly to the bar, and the men stare.

Behind the bar there's a little tiny bar boy type creature and I say, 'can I buy a lemon please', as in a flash of inspiration I realise that this bar full of men and sadness and weariness is not going to stock any lime unless it is that which resides in a cordial bottle.

He squeaks incoherently, or maybe my ears have stopped functioning.

The men stare.

A big man comes to the small man's aid.

'Can I help you'

He says.

The men that were selling tickets to the other men, and the men who are not full of sadness listen intently.

'I'd like to buy a lemon please' I say, 'that's if you have one' I add in a helpful fashion.

He looks at me.

'A lemon?' he says

'Mnfewpophrm' I think I say, suddenly wishing the ordeal would end.

'Here' he says, and tosses one to me

Years of missing and I catch.

'How much is it?' I ask

'You can have it' he says

'Thanks I say' as he nods

I leave the bar trying not to run, but it feels like a driveway years ago, and as I leave the big huge pub and go away from all those men, outside, I'm bursting, like I was years ago, to tell someone, to laugh.

I walk across the road, tossing the lemon in the air, and the sun is shining, I could be walking back victorious in a game of kick the can.

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