Galaxy. Never stop falling in love.

So. I've had a long day, with two enthusiastic children with multiple dull interests, in that sleazy moneypit, Funtasia. Embracing our cultural stereotypes, Zoomspouse is in need of a few beers and I am in need of some chocolate. In my feminine cocoa need-frenzy I rip open the wrapping with my teeth, only to find VERBATIM (I was even true to the stilted punctuation apparently put together by their lust-struck tea-lady) the pile of sun-dried turds you see before you above.

I probably should apologise for making you read it. I almost wanted to write this bit first, for fear you might think it was me who had spent time composing it. That would be further damage, added to a reputation already perilously fragile, I could ill afford.

At the risk of repeating myself, the big whooperdoodle?! Just when you think that civilisation cannot sink any lower, a CHOCOLATE company goes on to ruin my day by putting itself in the category of:

* Tabloid newspapers
* Reality tv themed around DANCING
* Jewellery designed by Jordan
* First holy communicants lashed in fake tan

I'm done with that company. Galaxy Chocolate, if you are reading, I hate you, and I hope you die.

In other news, while waiting in our "restaurant" for our food to arrive this afternoon, I decided to slip out for five minutes and buy a bra. Pick my size off the shelf, pay the kind lady, bing bang boom I'm back at the table. Inquisitive child number one asked what I had left to purchase. I replied, "underwear" to which he giggled like a schoolboy. Oh wait.

P.S. Heartfirst? Puke.

neuro-praxis -- she broke your throne and she cut your hair

neuro-praxis -- they came; they saw; they conquered

To prepare, I must drink four litres of Klean-Prep^TM. NO PROBLEM, I think to myself, WHY, I AM QUITE THIRSTY. I follow all of the fasting and dietary instructions and prepare the first litre, and refrigerate it, which allegedly "improves the taste".

After an hour of refrigeration I indulge in a tipple, resulting in a spray of vomit in the kitchen sink. NOW CLAIRE I say to the air, GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF; YOU'VE GOT 3.95 LITRES LEFT. I hold my nose and gulp down a half a glass, promptly spraying it back up again into the sink, along with my "light lunch".

I tearfully ring the hospital, explaining that my body is too wise to endorse tomorrow's procedures. The kindly gastro man tells me that if I cannot succeed in downing the muck, then I must also endure an enema.

Tomorrow is being renamed Black Tuesday.

neuro-praxis -- she'll post you the photographs

We'll start with an exhortation from Zoomspouse.

1. One movie that made you laugh
Bruce Almighty. Ok, it's a crap film. But it's got that scene where the Godsome Carrey makes Carrell speak while reading the news and it's just priceless. I actually cried laughing. Maybe my period was due.

2. One movie that made you cry
The Passion of the Christ, although it was less crying and more sobbing hysterically.

3. One movie you loved when you were a child
Finian's Rainbow. I went through a strange period of watching this low-budget no-plot piece of crap once a day for almost an entire academic year. Don't ask me why: I'm not sure I even enjoyed it. It was about a Leprechaun and some twee Irish family living in a cardboard meadow in the US.

4. One movie you’ve seen more than once
Edward Scissorhands. And I'd watch it again, damnit!

5. One movie you loved, but were embarrassed to admit it
Ah now, there are a few of these. Dirty Dancing, for one. It's right up the genre of movies I hate, and probably fulfills all the stereotypes too. That doesn't stop me repeating "Nobody puts neuro in the corner" ad nauseum, however. Another one is Awakenings. Cheesetastic. I love it.

6. One movie you hated
Lost in Translation. Yes, you heard me. I despise that piece of indulgent nonsense.

7. One movie that scared you
The Exorcist. I wish to this day that I'd never seen it. Don't watch it.

8. One movie that bored you
The Simpsons movie. Sorry.

9. One movie that made you happy
Little Miss Sunshine

10. One movie that made you miserable
Dancer in the Dark. The misery lives on.

11. One movie you weren’t brave enough to see
What was the name of that prominent movie with the eleven minute anal rape scene? Not a chance in hell, my friend.

12. One movie character you’ve fallen in love with
That sexy teenage Kevin Bacon in Footloose!

13. The last movie you saw
The Incredible Hulk (with the delicious Edward Norton).

14. The next movie you hope to see
Prince Caspian

Well, that'll do me kids. Give me a few months to think of something else to astonish you with.

neuro-praxis -- she carried the watermelon

The Cardboard Mansion^TM has been pampered and is looking rather dashing. We worked our butts off in early August with painting and sanding and drilling and all kinds of niggly little jobs. The house certainly got the Spa Treatment, ha ha ha! We felt manly indeed with our HAMMERS and what have you. All the physical labour during that time significantly reduced my desire for violent behaviour. I only lash out the odd time now. Only joking! I only direct medium-strength attacks on people who can't defend themselves - as David Brent would say "handicappeds" or old ladies. No, I take that back. To quote the man, "There are limits to my comedy. There are things that I'll never laugh at. The handicapped. Because there's nothing funny about them. Or any deformity. It's like when you see someone look at a little handicapped and go 'ooh, look at him, he's not able-bodied. I am, I'm prejudiced.' Yeah, well, at least the little handicapped fella is able-minded. Unless he's not, it's difficult to tell with the wheelchair ones." Well, somebody had to say it.

I got the one year itch with work. Hey work? If you are reading this, everything I write here is a lie. The jobsearch has begun again. If I can't get better work, I might as well have a better location that doesn't involve a commute. And I might as well get paid a few quid more. I have also begun my research masters. That's good: I recommend it. But don't join my department as there will be less funding for me to go on whimsical trips abroad to look at original texts and what not, you hear? I am liking being back in the library, the musty smell of the other students and eating exclusively beans from a can, topping up my nourishment with Dutch Gold (six for seven) on a Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday night. I finally get to sleep in all day and watch tv in a hungover haze, but this time I get to pay five grand a year for the privilege, plus life expenses. It's "da bomb" as my old friend Sean would say (in between snorts of cocaine and misogynistic comments).

So finally, to the topic you've all been wondering about: how am I getting on with my bento boxes. Well, where do I begin? It's been a long road. We've had our ups and our downs, like the episode of the spilt orange jelly leaking out into my handbag, and how could we forget the stale cracker incident. But for the most part, like any relationship, we have gotten along well enough. The only problem is the small issue of my fidelity. For at this moment in my bag, next to my shampoo and towel and stripey togs (I had planned to go swimming but the hole is SHUT with no sign on the door indicating when it will reopen) sits one of these bad boys - which I know might be considered a bit, well, vanilla, but every now and then I just get a hankering for the old days, you know? When things were simple and straightforward and morally decent? No compartments, just lash in the old sambo and the apple and the packet of crisps, no fuss? It's good to remember.

But soon, soon I will return to my bentos, some days I even use two of them at a time, and although the guilt regarding their cost has not quite subsided, and the credit card bills continue to pour in as my collection of lunch-boxes and flasks increases by the very day, I can rest easy at night knowing that I no longer have to eat mashed banana sandwiches scraped from the bottom of my bag, and if I want to have orange jelly for my lunch from a nifty container I can damn well do so. Has there ever been a greater pleasure? Frankly, I doubt it.

neuro-praxis -- And people say she's just a big pair of tits.

I've said it before: I have a special love in my heart for Adrian Mole. Me and Aidy, we go way back. One time, Adrian makes an American friend called Hamish Mancini. When Adrian informs his grandmother, Edna May Mole, that Hamish is staying with them, she decides she won't be coming over for her dinner as she is simply too old for Americans. That passage made me laugh my head off, because I know exactly what she means. We cooked for a bunch of Americans last night. WHY ARE THEY SO DAMNED ENTHUSIASTIC ABOUT EVERYTHING?! As demonstrated by the lunch-box episode, I am quite an excitable soul, but they make me look like a corpse. Although I can't blame them frankly for being excited about the dessert I made: chocolate fruit fondue. Being presented with an enormous paltter covered in fresh strawberries and pineapple plus a big bowl of chocolate sauce does rather make you feel as though all of your birthdays have come at once. (Actually if all of my birthdays ever came at once, I would know I was shortly about to die, so I wouldn't be too happy about it. )

Here's a window into a difficult topic. Speaking of birthdays and dying, my grandmother died there on my birthday. Only joking. I got a letter this morning in the post from Hodges and Figgis, informing me that at 11pm tonight they will be selling the new Harry Potter book, for which I have already paid a deposit, and which they failed to mention in the letter, and for which I fear I may have to fight. Too many whiches, ha ha ha! Oh God I need a holiday. Anyway, I won't be queueing up for the book tonight, because I am not INSANE, but I will be buying it next week, and it is possible that I will go to see the new film today. I may be some artsy fartsy up myself pseudo intellectual postgrad leeching off the state wannabe floppy-haired leather patch elbowed pipe smoking Dante quoting wet liberal, but a good yarn about teenage wizards isn't beyond me, no sir.

neuro-praxis -- deed done is well begun!

neuro-praxis -- In the name of obsession, no sun and a thermos purchased, amen.

Ladies, I present to you, from the luxuriant setting of my kitchen table next to her matching carrier bag and a strategically placed vase of flowers: Bento-Praxis the first.

I'n't she pretty? It's rare that I go so girly but well you all know. I have a bit of an obsessive problem with this lunchbox. It has become more important to me than my marriage.

These beautiful little bitties are saucepots. That's right - saucepots. That sounds a bit rude too, but it's really not. They're just miniature pots for what one ought to be putting their sauces in. No hanky-panky there, no sir. These are some straight-edge punk saucepots.

This is the box all spread out. (This is beginning to sound like a thirteen year old boy describing down the phone a feature he found in a skin-mag to his best mate.) See all the compartments? Each one of them is filled with joy. Or love, whichever you're craving the most.

And last but not least: a tribute to the vegan lunchbox, although utterly sacriligious as my lunch contains pig. Sorry, vegans.

In this lunch you will see the much revered ham sandwich on wholemeal bread with the crusts cut off. INDEED. To the right of this the wily eye will spot a tiny pot filled with home-made salad dressing (wholegrain mustard, olive oil, honey and balsamic vinegar). In the second layer there is a crispy cos salad with tommatters and peppers. Lounging around the box in the typically nonchalant fashion of uneaten fruit you'll find a plum and a pear, and of course a pot of chocolate Alpro Soya; a treat too delicious for you to imagine, so don't buy any.

Now. That's my good deed done for the day.

I am feeling particularly cheerful this evening, as a I enjoyed a rather encouraing meeting with the supervisor of my research master's degree. He was so enthusiastic about my ideas that he kept shaking my hand and saying, "Welcome aboard!" and "Bless you!" It was great! I got access to the library and had my first real day of academic work in years. Boy, am I ready for this. Getting a bento box and entry to a dream master's all in one week is beginning to frighten me though. Is my husband about to die? I mean, how can things be this good? I am of course joking. My husband will never die; the details are fuzzy now but I think it was part of the marital agreement. Most of that wedding stuff is a blur: everyone was weeping and gnashing their teeth. You know what these events are like! It's all black dresses and tea and sandwiches back at the house. Pure depressing.

neuro-praxis -- neuro gives; praxis takes away

1. Your name spelled backwards: sixarp oruen
2. Where were your parents born? 10 Downing Street. Both of them. Loooong story.
3. What is the last thing you downloaded onto your computer? Smut. No, not smut. Um. My laptop is dead and my firewall in work is resistant to downloads. In the way that the pants I am wearing are resistant to flame. Flame retardant pants. For slow-mindeds who might burn themselves.
4. What's your favorite restaurant? Curry
5. Last time you swam in a pool? It was...in Offaly. In some hotel that left a free biscuit in my bedroom.
6. Have you ever been in a school play? Have I? You bet your bottom euro I have. I wowed children and grown-ups alike in my roles as the lion in the Wizard of Oz and the narrator in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat. I was so tall for my age in the latter that all the parents thought the school had hired me. Post show, my friends' parents asked me, "So, do you do this for a living?" Cue me shrugging and running off to play Mosh.
7. How many kids do you want? Depends what for? And what colour?
8. Type of music you dislike most? Cat
9. Are you registered to vote? Once a week
10. Do you have cable? Around 2 metres
11. Have you ever ridden on a moped? Only on a motorbike. I was 14. He was 40 and not a relative. This is true.
12. Ever prank call anybody? Hello, is that the Adams family? Yes? Can I speak to Morticia please? Hello, operator. I'd like a Big Mac and large fries please. And can I have that to go, I'm in a hurry. Hello Samaritans? I'm thinking of killing myself lol
13. Would you go bungee jumping or sky diving? What day is this happening?
14. Furthest place you ever travelled? This is such a stupid question. Furthest from where?
15. Do you have a garden? Yes it is on my windowsill, it is rosemary in a pot.
16. What's your favorite comic strip? Don't like manga porn.
17. Do you really know all the words to your national anthem? Doesn't it go, let's shoot some British soldiers, la la?
18. Bath or Shower, morning or night? Shower in morning - this is not a preference.
19. Best movie you've seen in the past month? Driving Lessons, yeah!
20. Favorite pizza topping? Paperclip
21. Crisps or popcorn?Ahhhh, this is tough. I am the Savoury Queen. Popcorn *if* and only if it is homemade and smothered in melty butter. Otherwise, crisps every time, particularly chilli flavoured ones. Oh. Oh.
22. What color lipstick do you usually wear? Sexist! I use some sort of clear stuff - Juicy Lips or something. Despite its cheap tart name it's quite dear.
23. Have you ever smoked peanut shells? What?
24. Have you ever been in a beauty pageant? I don't think you've seen me.
25. Orange Juice or apple? God, would you be consistent with your capital letters?
26. Who was the last person you went out to dinner with and where did you dine? I don't know, I wasn't paying attention. No wait! I went out to dinner with 14 relatives and we ate in a restaurant in Westport and I ate a burger that was bigger than my head.
27. Favorite type chocolate bar? Curry
28. When was the last time you voted at the polls? Shut up.
29. Last time you ate a homegrown tomato? Probably at the same time that I was sewing together a patchwork quilt and making my own bread.
30. Have you ever won a trophy? Yes, for being the best at everything.
31. Are you a good cook? If by good you mean bad, then yes.
32. Do you know how to pump your own gas? No, but I can put petrol in a car. In theory.
33. Ever order an article from an infomercial? I actually did once. I wish I hadn't.
34. Sprite or 7-up? Whatever you're serving: I'm not rude. "Oh, sorry, no thanks kind host, I only drink the other leading brand which tastes the same and is actually made by the same company."
35. Have you ever had to wear a uniform to work? Sweet Mary, yes I have. The days of waistcoats and aertex shirts with retaurant logos are far behind me, praise Allah.
36. Last thing you bought at a pharmacy? Cough sweets for my boss. She embarassingly insisted on giving me money for doing this.
37. Ever throw up in public? Ah yes. the fabled days of the whooping cough, when neuro puked on all things and people indiscriminately for many weeks, including her own clothes, which can be seen in many family photos. All the cousins and neuro: in her knickers with a bit of sick on the side of her mouth.
38. Would you prefer being a millionaire or find true love? I believe that the former bringeth the latter. Or is it the reverse? Either way I'l take the cash - not risking a booby prize, thanks.
39. Do you believe in love at first sight? Oh piss off.
40. Ever call a 1-900 number? What's this now?
41. Can exes be friends? They can be ex-friends?
42. Who was the last person you visited in a hospital? Mona! (bun in oven)
43. Did you have a lot of hair when you were a baby? Not after they shaved me.
44. What message is on your answering machine? "Hello, you have reached the morgue. If you have died and would like to be refrigerated, please press 1. If you would like to leave a message for neuro, please press your own bellybutton which will make a beep sound. Then say stuff."
45. What's your all time favorite Saturday Night Live Character? This no mean much me.
46. What was the name of your first pet? Scotch (cat) and Ted (dog) were both around at the same time. I don't know who came first. I know who died first though. Granny.
47. What is in your purse? Do you mean handbag? Again, sexist. Answer: the usual. Plus a lot of litter.
48. Favorite thing to do before bedtime? Ooh, naughty!
49. What is one thing you are grateful for today? My ham sandwich.

Those of you who frequent this blog frequently (ha!) may have noticed a new link to the right - The Vegan Lunch-Box - which I inadvertently discovered during a sweep of the internet for some kind of hippyish bullshit recipe (no doubt filled with chickpeas). Anyway, if you like food blogs (which I didn't know I did), you will love this. I read every single entry posted since its conception over two hundred years ago and have been inspired (truly) by the creative way the author feeds her son vegan food, which of course I had previously assumed was just cans of chickpeas eaten with a spoon. I became so inspired in fact that I broke my lifetime habit of buying lunches from the local delis near where I work and started bringing my own. Helloooo lentil burgers for lunch! It's been great, but there's been something amiss: a lack of an exciting lunch-box in which to place my lentil burgers. And so I have purchased myself the last four items I will ever need. My consumerism is officially over. Thanks to ebay, I've now got a dinky bento box, miniature saucepots for bringing my salad dressings to work, a MATCHING BAG for the lunch box (no more wasting paper and plastic bags for me, noooo sir) and a little thermos flask for soups and meatballs. I am so excited about having my own compartmentalised lunch box that I think I might be mentally ill. Either that, or my life in general has faded to such a murky shade of grey that the purchase of even the smallest of plastic goods manages to punctuate the equilibrium of my workaday existence to an alarming degree. What I am trying to get at is that having a nice new lunch box makes me happy. Possibly happier than I have ever been. Around about midday Monday to Friday now brings a euphoric hit similar to that of taking an E. A similar sensation hits when preparing my lunch the night before. And while I am of course subtly using satire here to demonstrate the temporary sense of fulfillment offered by consumer goods (hell, how did “retail therapy” become a viable phrase for fork's sake?) unfortunately even if you trim the hyperbole all of the above remains true. The moral of the story is that everybody needs a bento box. Maybe as much, if not more, than they need Jesus. I would particularly recommend one if you have no friends: you can whisper your secrets to it on the train on the way into work.

Speaking of friends, I am thinking of writing my philosophy research masters thesis on the topic of friendship. Friends: How Can I Get One? is one possible title. Adjusting Your Personality To Fit In With The Help of The Ancients is another. What Is Friendship and Does It Truly Exist is the third and final option. I don’t know much (or anything) about the subject but am looking forward to giving it a go. Also, I am really hoping that my supervisor will get in on the project with me – maybe we could go out for dinner together a couple of evenings a week to discuss it? Or they could come down to my country house on the weekends and we could read silently side by side in the garden, just comfortable to be around each other.

neuro-praxis -- Push It Uh Huh Uh Huh

Clearly exhausted

SAFE TOPICS

This week I enjoyed the spectacular talents of the Dave Matthews Band (in the Point - boo hiss) and Duke Special and his team of clever music monkeys (in Vicar Street - calloo callay etc.). Aside from the soul-enriching delights of being in the same room as mighty musicians and thousand of their fans was the pleasurable knowledge that I didn't buy any of the tickets - they were gifts. Thanks to Mullen and Wylie for the love. :) Duke Special even came down into the crowd and taught us a sailor song. I was so close I could have pulled his dreadlocks, and it may or may not be true that I did in fact give his dreadlocks a little tug when the security guard wasn't looking. I might also have cupped a Nordie buttock. You can't prove it was me though.

This week I also had my first experience of wandering Dublin's strange but oddly pleasing IFSC quarter, where I encountered these handsome fellows and ate in a really cheap Italian restaurant where the pizza sauce tasted like ketchup. I was forced to pelt the ridiculously beautiful Italian waitress with my ketchupy meal but I think it worked out ok because we left before the police arrived. Nifty: that's me.

So today, the husband unit and I have been watching the 2006 smash hit (ha ha ha!) Alien Autopsy which has given me the chance to relive my childhood crush on the delectable Declan Donnelly. By-ah Grove, anyone?

Gwan - give us a quick round of the theme tune. I believe it went a little like this:

Oh yeah. That's what it's all about baby. I enjoyed Alien Autopsy though, in spite ot the hideous reputation that preceded it. It's a genuinely fun recounting of a mysterious tale. If we were together in person I'd make a spooky noise and wave my hands about a bit here. As it is you'll have to just imagine me doing it. Sorry.

I'm glad that the June bank holiday weekend is approaching, as I am feeling the need for festival and in its absence, bank holiday is the next best thing. I know I am in need of a bit of fun when I find myself planning what I'll buy my mother for Christmas or what I'll dress up as for Hallowe'en. (I have to admit that even where our office might go for our Christmas party has crossed my mind.) I am planning an end-of-term party for my colleagues that won't involve a Wild West or Hawaiian theme, but might involve a lot of food and the unending amusement of watching stiff academics turn into floppy gossips with mouths full of tapas and plonk. I'm the sober one with the camera collecting the taxi fares. So we're thinking of trekking down to a magical house in the secluded woodland of Leitrim for a lot of beer and barbeques and perhaps we'll catch the musical wonders of Liam McDermott who is in some kind of inexplicable song competition in the nether regions of Drumshanbo. Not exactly the mardis gras but distinctively Irish and I'm all about reclaiming the heritage and all that crap.

We also watched a great documentary on the discovery of lithium as a use for bipolar disorder in the forties. Maybe you saw it too? It got me thinking what I could discover simply by injecting a lot of urine into the abdomen of various domestic animals: cats for example. I don't have a cat as the husband unit is allergic to them (nerd) and I'd love to have one and apart from the urine injections I swear it'd all be cat-treats and belly-rubs. What else could you inject into a cat - brown sauce? This might help cure AIDS. Might as well give it a bash. Don't think I don't love animals though - I went to Dublin zoo on Sunday and fed cheesy puffs to all the animals and birds I could reach.

neuro-praxis -- It's Tuesday, It's Fat, And That's Quite Enough of That

All of the below is not not not not untrue.

Did you know...?

Most rural Japanese villages have no proper ground to walk on – the marshy substance on which they must tread resembles the floor of a cheap funfair Spook-House. To help them traverse, Japanese farmers wear multiple lacrosse racquets sellotaped to their bare feet. This tradition has not been completely lost, and in large cities it is not uncommon to see people with similar attire navigating their way through the crowds – particularly amongst people who work in the coffee-pot development industry, which was born out of farming. Although the ground in major cities has been solidified, these people (usually children of farmers) continue to wear the lacrosse racquets to honour their mother and father. To not do this would be punishable by death.

The Japanese have very poor eyesight. This is useful for when you want to trick them: for example offering what appears to be money to homeless Japanese people from a slight distance, which upon examination turns out to be Koka noodle wrappers. You can tell that their eyesight is bad because of how their face is set in a permanent squint. (Unknown statistic: almost 85% of all Japanese people are homeless.)

No Japanese person can read text unless it is written in the speech bubble of a Manga cartoon character. This is why there are no libraries in Japan – only comic book stores. Also there are no universities in Japan. The Japanese think that learning "attracts evil spirits". If you want a deaf person to understand you in Japan, you have to draw cartoons of both of you with your verbal statements coming from speech bubbles of the cartoon of yourself. If you are bad at art consequently no deaf Japanese person will engage you in conversation. The deaf population in Japan (approximately 25% of all people) are among the finest artists in the world, with paintings done using only soy sauce in all major national museums dating back almost ten thousand years.

The Japanese will not place any two round objects close together – two oranges for example – because of the similarity in shape to a pair of breasts. Breasts are considered offensive in Japanese culture and as such none of the women have any. They use their mind power to stop them growing during puberty. Similarly the carrot is considered offensive, but men do not eliminate their penises with mind-power as they are unable to.

You will need to bring a plentiful supply of underwear to Japan as it is impossible to buy new underwear in any of the shops – only soiled underwear is for sale. And don't try to get around this – if you employ a seamstress to make you some new pants, she will insist on using soiled fabric, or may give you a pair of her own (being caught wearing completely new pants in Japan results in imprisonment and a fine up to 81661550 Yen which is approximately half a million Euros; also the seamstress's implication in the crime would mean she gets her face surgically removed – symbolic of having stuck her nose into a foul situation).

All Japanese people have two stomachs – one for processing soba noodles, one for tofu. Some of the poorest Japanese people only have one stomach, rice farmers for example, but Amnesty International is fighting for their rights in this regard. Any food that is not noodles or tofu is digested not in the stomachs but in the throat region where the nutrients are immediately absorbed into the bloodstream.

Dental surgery is strictly outlawed in Japan because appointments with the dentist cut into the working day. A dental appointment will only be allowed if it is on Christmas day (although the vast majority of Japanese people are secular, with some Buddhism, Christmas day is their only national holiday) and if you have worked an average of 140 hours per week in the preceding year. This one-minute appointment is likely to cost within the region of 1660000 Yen (around 10,000 Euros). As a result of this strict rule, only 1% of the population receive any form of dental care so most Japanese people have very blackened and rotten mouths (toothpaste, dental floss and mouthwash are also outlawed for the same time-wasting reasons).

There will be more: oh yes. There will be more.

neuro-praxis -- racist today, gone tomorrow

TODAY'S MOST SUCCESSFUL PHONE CONVERSATION:

Phone: Ring ring
(at 2.15pm) Me: Good morning, department one speaking.
Person on phone: Er, sorry?
Me: Um, I mean neuro speaking. And good afternoon. And this is department one, also.

TODAY'S SECOND MOST SUCCESSFUL PHONE CONVERSATON:

Person on phone: I am ringing about Margaret Burke’s appointment with Dr. Whatserface. Blah blah blah, moan moan moan. When can I expect <extra-special service that I am unwilling to pay for, or perhaps even turn up for> to happen? I would like everything yesterday please.
Me: Let me just get Margaret’s file here. I see she has special needs. Are you her mother?
Person on phone: No, I’m her husband.
Me: Oh dear. Ha ha ha. Excuse me.

That’ll do.

neuro-praxis – Could Have Done More But Didn’t Want To

So I've been doing a little temping in another department in my building. Their unwillingness to do any work has left them with a frighteningly vast backlog. My first day was somewhat of a shock. Compared to my department, this office is what you might call a dungeon: dark, dusty and full of instruments of torture and old bones. My keyboard is full of fingernail clippings and food: my boss looks like she's nigh on ninety and straight out of Tales From The Crypt. Her reputation as a nasty piece of work preceded her but I must say she has been rather nice, if a little odd.

I am known round my office for being well-organised: I have good systems for managing gazillions of duties (gazillions being the technical term, you understand) and occasionally in this super-ordered pursuit I use paper-clips. You know. For clipping one document to another. Firm, but without the messiness of Sellotape or the potential finger scratching of a staple. Amidst the dirt and chaos on my temporary desk I could find none. I had a root in the stationary cupboard but still: no joy. I was weeping for the lost paper-clips when my temping boss tottered alongside.

Me: Hi, old woman. Where can I find a box of paper-clips?

OW: Paperclips? <narrows eyes> What do you want paper-clips for?

Me: To clip some documents together.

OW: We don't use paper-clips down here.

And that was the end of my silly notion that I could use paper-clips in the dungeon. Now I use elastic bands and Sellotape like all the others. It's really great.

So, anyway, with my naive enthusiasm fresh from my clean and airy office filled with sunlight and modern art, cool spring water and smiling faces, not to mention the streams of paper-clips to swim in, I lashed into the dungeon's backlog of work, only to be told at the end of the first day that I was "going too fast". I was urged in a conspirational whisper to "go slower". WELL HOLY MOTHER OF GOD. What am I here for if not to help you bash down that almighty pile of work you've gathered while you were taking fifteen coffee breaks a day (not to mention the fags)? Mark my words: they'll all be dead of lung cancer in a month. Lucky I've got a killer pair of black stilettos for the funerals.

So in other work-related news: I've applied for another job internally for which I interview on Friday, which if I get it, will bring my current number of jobs in the same building up to three. I'm impressed even with myself there. Of course I don't yet know if I'll get the job but between you and me and the internet I'd say I have as much of a chance as the other applicants, except for the ones with more experience, you know what I'm saying? I'm pessimistically hopeful. Presumably if I flash a bit of leg at the interviewer it'll do me some good. However, I do happen to know the interviewer and she's female and straight, got engaged last week and has the sense on humour of a plastic hammer. So maybe I should just brush up on my lying, like always.

I am sick for the fourth time in 2007. I took my sorry ass to the doctor this time and he gave me some Pinaclav (which tastes and smells like vanilla) and a sick note, of which I am availing while I convalesce. I might as well: I feel like a soaked and squeezed machine knitted pullover, trun on a dirty bathroom floor, probably owned by dirty students (trun being the Dublin word for thrown); noisy pretentious students whom I HATE. I have had no sleep at all - I've been far too busy hacking up yellow loogies into strips of toilet roll while my husband tosses and turns next to me. It has been a fabulous bank holiday weekend - one to remember for sure. However it has given me the chance to read a super novel - The Testament of Gideon Mack; a fabulous tale about an atheistic Presbyterian minister who falls in a river and meets with the devil. My co-worker saw it on a bookshelf and immediately thought of me. I don't know why: perhaps my Presbyterianism comes across as contrived? Maybe it's simply the devilish glint in my eye? Whatever the reason, she purchased it for me with great kindness and I lurched upon it like a literature fiend who has been forced to read Mills & Boon novels for a number of years and devoured it in a couple of days. You ought to do the same, and quick. I hear the world will be ending sharpish and as we all know, the afterlife is nothing but sitting chubby and naked on a cloud: no time for novels about satan then.

neuro-praxis -- Part Wallace, Part Rabbit