January 21, 2005

Corroborate Me

The weather was so fantastically bad that we overturned our jazz club notion and instead K, I and Les 'Ousemates Extraordinaire went to the local greasy spoon for burgers and then to O'Keeffe's for a pint, booya.

I am now decompressing, alone, just me and my laptop, while the rest of the losers in this house infect their souls with such television junk as The West Wing and...whatever else is on.

The last exam went mediocrely. I want the results now. I request that one of you contact my university and make this happen. Stat.

I cannot entertain you because there is nothing left inside me. I am a dishrag of small proportions. Grey in colour, and possibly in need of a wash. I want to listen to lugubrious piano songs and stare at the ceiling. I'm not exactly sure why, but I'm sure it will cheer me up.

I have a very full weekend ahead but the part I am most looking forward to is the Scottish night hosted by my Scottish friend, who is going to tie us down and force-feed us haggis through tubes up our noses, as is the custom where he's from. Or so he says. And we will all be wearing kilts. Leather kilts; very short. In fact, he sent a long letter detailing how we are to dress and what we are to bring. The list included a bottle of hard liquor, two clothespegs and a whip. Team-building exercises perhaps? Wearing only your underclothes and using just two clothespegs and a whip, work together to build a tower that represents "unity"!!

Here's hoping.

The upshot of this spout of very windy weather is that the next door neighbours' new fence fell down again. Ha ha. They recently put up a very ugly, very tall wooden fence that blocks our view of the rest of the street and casts a shadow on our lawn. The Irish weather detests it, however, and it collapses repeatedly. Whenever it falls, Mags and I whoop with joy and send then anonymous "YOU'LL GET WHAT'S COMING TO YOU" notes made from letters cut out of Woman's Way magazines. They don't know who they're from but it makes them edgy.

K is back, and he is kicking his new fair trade football around the bedroom, so I had better go and sedate him.

neuro-praxis -- Is Not Your Mother

Posted by neuro-praxis on January 21, 2005 12:15 AM, in the category Limb Infections