In headline news, my friend's two year old child pulled down the curtain, along with the curtain rail and all its fittings, dragged the hollow tube of a curtain rail into the toilet and had himself a fine big drink through it. Mmm-mmm! That is the kind of story that makes me wanna be a mama. That will suffice for your greeting.

In less shocking developments, I handed in my notice at work today. I've given two months, which I think is reasonably fair. By handed in, I mean tearfully confessed to my lovely boss how much I hate my job. If I quit she will have to close down. That's how obscurely skilled I am. Neither of us has two years to train somebody else in the field, and the handful of people in this country who can do what we do are currently employed. Why do I have to be so mysterious? Because, quite simply, it's more interesting than admitting what we do. Also she should not have to be connected to this dubious website which contains dirty words such as SHITE and BOLLOX.

So what now you ask? I haven't a smelly notion. I do have a smelly child (soccer) though - I put him in the shower. He is not my child I hasten to add, I am babysitting him, as I am wont to do of a Thursday, but I do proudly claim guardianship if it means a cheaper ticket to anything.

But back to careers. There are options, the first one being the dole. I am awaiting inevitable rejection from a much-sought-after Masters degree. I will hear in one month. As for money, most of my neighbours leave their doors unlocked. I'll think of something. Plus I can order any provisions I may need on the internet and charge it to my company credit card. I am currently in dire need of a third dvd player.

So in order to celebrate losing my smidgen of financial security, I went to Liffey Valley and bought myself two pairs of jeans. I feel it was appropriate as I recently ripped a large hole near the crotchal area in my one and only pair of denims. I have found myself feeling vulnerable without a pair of jeans in my wardrobe. Now that I have a staple to wear again, I will try patching up the old jeans. Tattered and worn and stinking they may be, but they are the only ones who will get close to me and not leave screaming. No, they just implode.

And so we are hurtled forward to the present. I am preparing myself (spiritually speaking) for a weekend in Cork. I ain't never been to the Cork before. I hear it has bad roads and a defensive population. "We do have theatres in Cork." "Cork has cinemas too, you know." "We've got plenty of paedophiles without Dublin's help, thank you." And so on. Luckily we are visiting people who did not originate in that filthy village, although why they moved there is beyond me. Black pudding? You can get that meaty rubbish in any newsagents. Probably next to the bleach and pegs. Why they relocated to Cork shall join the warehouse of things that are beyond me, mostly due to my very, very short stature. For practical purposes I carry a small stool with me everywhere I go. (A poo?) So, it's a FIVE hour journey. That's, like, practically a whole day. Five hours, four people and a souring poo, stuffed into an old Ford Escort that sounds like a spaceship taking off. I'm going to bring a lot of music and a big bag of apples and possibly, if I can get them, some Sam Spudz crisps. Those were the car food of my childhood, that is to say, when we had a car. Mostly we ran around shouting "Vroom vroom!" Yes, my father too.

Is anybody reading this anymore? Our survey says: Doubtful..

neuro-praxis -- Not Your Average Golf Club (pricier)