neuro's:blog

Into the Tunnell of Love

It wasn't so much Black Tuesday, as Brown.

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

For The Plebs

And then I thought to myself, it is unfair of me not to share the amazing aesthetic pleasures of my bento box with everybody else. It's downright selfish. What these people need, I said to myself, is a little excitement in their miserable lives; those miserable lives filled with drudgery and the foggy thinking that accompanies a mid-range IQ and a third-rate career.

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

You're Sorely Mistaken

So another birthday has been and gone. I’m not sure how this has all come about. I could never understand people who began to freak out a little when they hit thirty, but I understand it now. It isn’t that I mind getting older, I don’t - and at twenty four I’m still in my prime for goodness’ sake; it’s just that I cannot believe where the time has gone to! Twenty four! I am married! I am grown-up! I have a responsible job! But I am sixteen on the inside! This is dangerous for society!

Anyway it’s not all bad. I was given a disgusting amount of presents, of which at least 50% were toiletries. It’s Christmas all over again. I still haven’t sorted through my trough full of gels, mousses, soaps and lotions from December. The biggest perpetrators are always the people you know least well – colleagues and so on. Belying this theory however my mother also gave me a giant spa set, I can only presume because she sees me as a giant spa. Let’s hope the cosmetics aren’t lethal when combined and applied, a la the marvellous original Batman movie, which I saw for the first time recently. That movie changed my life. Isn’t it time for a change for you too?

All things filmy: I went out last night with the intention of seeing Rocky Balboa with my handsome husband (WATCH! ME! PUNCH! THE! AIR!) but while enjoying a pre-movie coffee we decided to ditch the movie because conversation is so much better. He’s clever, is my husband, and says things I like, even if we are in a feud at the moment about the “book” The Little Prince, which I find interminably pretentious and meaningless, and which he finds “deep” “thoughtful” and “quite good”. Outrageous! I have married some class of a moron! A Grade A Moron, in fact, akin to the kind of person who would ever question eating meat. Anyway, I do hope we manage to get to see it some evening, perhaps on a night when we are drugged and thus our conversation less sparkling. Don’t you love those victory movies – those underdog achieving his dream even if it causes brain damage movies? I do! I can’t sit still during the Rocky soundtrack. I’ve just got to punch the air (and my husband). Otherwise it feels like I’m wasting an opportunity!

We went home and I made some popcorn in a pot with a see-through lid (thrill) and then we ate it and watched Hellboy on TV (which incidentally was interrupted by the “news” about snow and some model finally snuffing it – I think she died by ingesting the ashes of a thousand dollars) and it is a great movie! Really great! And would you believe, of all movies, it is laced quite heavily with the Christian narrative. The number of movies which relay the gospel is really quite astounding. Hellboy himself is a being whose natural purpose is destined for evil and he makes the conscious choice to honour his father (sound familiar?). Plus he’s big and red and fireproof! And witty! And his girlfriend explodes! It’s a gem of a movie.

Back to birthday: my husbandry unit used my birthday as an excuse to spoil me rotten. I am the kind of woman that other women hate, because my husband doesn’t fail to remember special occasions and invariably has some thoughtful event planned. I on the other hand use his birthday as an excuse to beat the living daylights out of him. “Get BORN will you!”

He took me out for both breakfast and dinner. (At exactly the same time, I had a fry followed by a steak in quick succession. I spent most of the evening vomiting.) I was presented with three gifts: one in the morning, one in the afternoon and one in the evening. The first was a girl’s treat – a fluffy dressing gown. The second was a man’s treat – a slow cooker which cooks soups, stews and curries over a whole day. The third was a brain’s treat – the classic novel Steppenwolf, which I read in under a minute, thanks to my genius and genetic relation to Johnny 5 (alive).

So with the dawning of my twenty fourth year I have done some narcissistic reflecting. Nothing new there then. I am “taking stock” (of my toiletries). I decided it is time to do new things. This includes a master’s degree (at last) and a stand-up comedy workshop, which week by week grows in me a ball of terror so great I fear it will eventually digest me and I will be nothing more than a lump of rancid meat dissolved by digestive juices. That would make for an impressive stand-up comedy act, if rather unfunny. But hey. Is it spectacular or amusing you’re after, because you can’t have both? Unless of course you have a clown covered in diamonds and crying his eyes out. Now that’s comedy my friends. So the gig is in a few weeks. I have never been less ready for anything (other than every exam I’ve ever taken…oh and all those kids I unexpectedly gave birth to one day…boy was my face red).

So I’ve organised a big night out in work – drinks and huge servings of tapas at a trendy city bar. Yes, I’m the chirpy new girl who’s come along into the office with her head full of naive ideas about how we’re all going to start getting along. Anyway, everyone has signed up, and with no coercion, except for Dr. Obendorff, who’s been receiving death threats, but that’s not directly related to the night out. I am not one of those people who believes that one ought to socialise with one’s work peers – I didn’t go the Christmas party in my building for fear of being asked to dance on the table and being pronounced a “dry shite” upon my refusal. I did attend my department swish dinner out though, where I discovered that my co-workers are human beings and this at least we have in common. So I’d quite like to repeat the experience, but in a cheaper environment, as I have to fork out this time. That’s right. I’m chirpy and stingy; a formidable combo. Speaking of cheap and cheerful, I am having a little fantasy about a slice of pizza at the moment…loaded with mozzarella and ham and crispy vegetables. I wonder what the office etiquette on ordering takeaway pizza at 9.35am might be. Hrm. I think it might be time to set some new trends. How do they feel about JD and Coke at lunch? Just to get the weekend off to a decent kickstart.

To while away the hours in work I have been availing of www.pandora.com for free music. I stick on my headphones and type away at my unthought-out opinions on internet message forums and it looks to unsuspecting passers-by as though I am in fact hectically typing out my dictaphone letters. Which, I would be doing, if I had any to do. The trouble with this clever little Pandora invention however is that it has just played fifteen crap songs in a row that are utterly unfamiliar. If it wasn’t a virtual contraption floating down wires I’d chuck it out the office window. Damn free stuff! What a rip off.

neuro-praxis – her cat’s name is Mittens

What A Joy To Be

I have had a lovely afternoon in the local pub eating a delicious lunch, and then lounging in my cosy sitting room with my handsome companion, so you can expect a blog entry filled with vitriol and ranting and so on. Welcome.

I am so glad that I bagged a man before the age of texting. Yes folks, there was a time when none of us reading this had mobile phones. It was a time free of panic when we left the house without a portable telecommuting device. It was an age of innocence, before text-bullying and porn-pic texting. It was a time when there was no risk of sending a dirty text message meant for your husband to your friend Karen. But onto my gripe: there seems to be so much panic nowadays in new relationships about the meanings and timings of text messages. K and I used to say to each other, "I will ring you tomorrow." Then with the old-fashioned telephone (now known as the "landline") we would ring each other as promised, and then there would be no more contact until the next call, which was usually 24 hours later (or more). It was quite exciting, waiting for those calls. But now, it's all CANT WAIT 2 C U AGAIN THX 4 GR8 NITE LOL XXXX and YE ME 2 HAD LOTS OF FUN SLEEP WELL XOXOXOXOX and NITE NITE BABE SWEET DREAMS XXXXX and everyone's panicking if they don't get their replies within fifteen seconds. I have advice for you all of you Desperate Texters^TM. Your lovely cacks? Determinedly relax them. Take drugs if necessary. I may even have some left over from last night's Daft Punk gig. It was not K's cup of tea, nor his mug of hot chocolate, nor his bottle of Coke, but he dutifully danced and shouted and waved his fists about and generally made me proud. It rained a lot and the crowd was drunk and high and hyperactive. All in all, frightening and enjoyable. Like my marriage.

The night before was spent listening to Michael Knight and Mumblin' Deaf Ro in Bewley's (wonderful) theatre on Grafton Street. Frankly, we were blown away. K wrote a nice review here. He does them a little more justice than I can.

NEURONEWS

So I bought a micro-brewery to make home-made beer. I can't wait! Soon we will be almost entirely self-sufficient, weaving our own clothes and drinking out of jam jars. Then there will be no need for me to find a job. I can just grow all of our food and develop a wormery. It will be great. I will wear woollen jumpers and sit by a fire, keeping a diary made from recycled paper and eating a bag of seeds. Plus we will be locked out of our heads all the time.

Still no words, of rejection or encouragment, from Desirable Company^TM. Sigh. I am obviously not an exciting candidate. I spent a lot of time this afternoon on puclicjobs.ie searching for gainful employment that I am capable of and I found one, but the software for its application form was broken, so I couldn't apply for it. Is nature conspiring against me? Although it might be pushing it to consider technology part of the forces of nature.

I went to yet another wedding last Sunday, and the last one of the season is tomorrow. Hallelujah. If I have to listen to another couple declaring their eternal love for and commitment to one another I will...be very bored indeed. Ah I cannot lie. I cried during them all. I won't be crying tomorrow though. Why? Because I do not know the couple. What I do know is that one of them is English, and even though this is reason enough in itself to cry, it would be tears of a more bitter sort than previously. No, I am merely a servant of the wedding. It is my first professional gig. I am a solo soprano in a small assembled choir for the occasion, singing the (rather stunning) compositions of a friend of mine. Calling it my first professional gig is only undermined by the fact that we are not being paid a sausage. The couple getting wed did pay for food and drink at our last rehearsal on Thursday night but alas I had other things to do (at Bewleys) and did not stay for the festivities. I can't wait til it's all over.

neuro-praxis -- Nobody's Child

Dirty. Orange. Boring.

I am a little paint-stained. A little paint-stained what? A little paint-stained person! Although only a blind (wo)man could call me little. The paint is orange and the living room is almost finished. This is the problem with broadband! Always a-calling. I am on my lunch break, eating breakfast cereal, watching Eastenders, talking to you. This is Multimedia Neuro. I am quite excited at the prospect of having a living room that you can sit in, and maybe read a book in. There won't be a television in it, or much furniture, but there will definitely be an old stained suite of furniture that my sister in law gave me. Ugly, but comfortable. I am currently looking at an ad for Land of Leather and their clearance sale, which is allegedly bursting with bargains. They're offering me one leather couch for one sum of seven hundred euros. I am looking in my wallet and wondering if they will accept a handful of foreign coins, euro coppers (non-policing) and a bunch of Tesco vouchers. I am guessing what the answer will be.

It's so hard being white trash.

CAREER UPDATE

Second interview for Good Job^TM with Desirable Company^TM on Thursday Morning^TM. Wish me luck. And now: leisure time terminated, paint time resumed. Behave yourselves.

neuro-praxis -- Must She Live In These Concrete Ways

You'll Need This Invite At The Door

Recent Neuro Blunders:

1. Believing that a bundle of clothes at work was the dog, and addressing the clothes by saying, "Hi Molly" and then petting them.
2. Pouring an entire box of fruit and fibre breakfast cereal on the floor of the passenger seat in our car.
3. Carefully packing my glasses for work (without which I can do nothing) and then promptly leaving them behind, rendering my having turned up for work a waste of everybody's time.
4. Deeming the barbeque I lit a failure, as it simply wasn't heating, then removing all food from the barbeque and cooking it in the kitchen. Meanwhile, the barbeque took it upon itself to glow red and develop a wonderfully hot cooking temperature while I struggled inside with burgers in the frying pan, cursing, loudly.
5. Agreeing to edit the church magazine.
6. Forgetting my own name while I was at my own book signing.

The last one is a lie but sure it makes no difference; nobody reads this drivel and if they do, they're nothing but lousy racists.

neuro-praxis -- Max. 4x SPEED

He Knows His Claret From His Beaujolais

I don't usually do movie reviews. In blogs, they're just so damn tedious. And that's why I'm not going to do a review here. Instead, we will all enjoy a NEURODIATRIBE against that pile of ARSE that stupidheaded metacritic gave an average score of NINETY FOUR PER CENT (YES! 94%!). I can't really blame metacritic; they are after all merely a collective of all of the major movie reviewers, whom I now declare to all be morons. And I will never ever trust any of them ever again. Never, ever. The sacred trust shared between what I thought was an insightful and sensitive website has been broken. Smashed. Smashed like the plate K stood on this evening. Why was it on the floor? Probably because Metacritic put it there. Because they obviously enjoy sabotaging things. Things such as my eyeballs and my brain. Which were fooled into watching this stupid stupid film. From now on, movie reviews are banned as gosh darn subjectivity (particularly the subjectivity of "professionals") cannot be relied upon.

The movie is so dull and slow and pretend-deep and also so sad and empty (and please note that I am still watching it - partially out of a compulsive need to know the ending of every story that brushes within 50 feet of me and partially because we probably paid Xtra Vision about €3,000 for the rental of it) that I wish death would just come and take me now. AND ALSO, WHAT IS WITH ALL THE EXCESSIVELY DRUNK DRIVING? This film is a very bad influence on me. Why, right now I am getting hideously liquored up in order to go on a spree in our 94 Ford Escort. Nay, not a mere spree, but a WILD spree. Where I smush people's relatives, and then laugh manically as I drive away (my eyes just barely visible above the steering wheel) like a character from the increasingly outrageous Home and Away.

And you know what's even worse? I STILL HAVE THE FLU. I am snotty and coughy and shakey. And as though the list of my woes could not get longer, the chicken that we got from the local chippy tonight was drier than a cupful of sand from the Atacama desert. What a crock, eh? FURTHERMORE, the Christmas tree is still in the window of this room! It's brown! And by now I have eaten all of the candy canes off it so its purpose is no longer clear. Why hasn't it evaporated yet?!

Well, I ought to go. I've started to enjoy the movie and it's about time for another beer.

neuro-praxis -- Without assurance, certainty, certitude, confidence, conviction, credence, credit, dependence, entrustment, expectation, faith, gospel truth, hope, positiveness, reliance, stock, store or sureness.

You Could Make A Play On That

France was French, and I continue to struggle in an angst ridden way about the desperately unsure nature of my future. We ate cheese and I fretted a bit: the others ate shark but I just rubbed its skin to get that sandpaper-feel - I didn't eat it (although I admit it is the ultimate revenge). I did help cook it: I am sure I achieved karma points (karma! ha!) in my roasting of the evil one's flesh.

The little village we stayed in had gone to sleep. I wanted to inject it with stimulants so they'd open a goddamn restaurant or a cinema or something. Not that we were bored. We talked, a lot, and played cards, and got a bit drunk on cheap wine. I didn't sleep well - the mornings were so dark and so hot, and my bed was funny, with two mattresses, but it was good and I would go back. The locals were sweet and let me bumble along in pigeon French, and while waiting for takeaway pizzas one night, me and friend Gavin were given complimentary wine while the other (French) customers looked on, mildly disgruntled. Presuming their thoughts were in English, I can only assume they were thinking "Hey! How come that foreign muck gets wine and we get nothing?"

I am sure that under their handsome leader they desired to kick my brains in, but they resisted, thank goodness. I arrived home safe and sound with K to a house filled with normal beds and a complete lack of garlic sausage.

Work is...work. It gives me a cheque.

I wrote a long letter to ex-housemate teragram but have not yet posted it. This is one of the stupid things I do. Teragram, it will come. I promise.

SAD THING

All my life, I have had a similar route to get home. I have moved further and further west in my different houses, but always have had to pass a particular bridge from the city centre. Since I was a young girl, there has been a plaque on this bridge where a young man fell (?) off and died. Every day, and I mean every single day, that I have passed it, there have been fresh flowers there.

Tonight, on the way home from the cinema, I saw that there were no flowers, and now I am worried that the person who has faithfully been placing flowers there every day for years and years has died. K says maybe they're on holiday...but I just don't think so. There were no traces of flowers whatever, not even two week-old remnants of a pre-vacation visit.

This makes me sad.

I am cold, and I am also tired. I know this is not much of a journal entry and I apologise, especially to faithful reader OG. I promise I will buck up and get some comedy gold out here just as soon as time and inspiration permits. I am still recovering from a weekend in Kilkenny with K and Stig. We drank so much tequila I went blind! No, that's a lie: it was a Christian conference but I was too ashamed to say.

I will return.

neuro-praxis -- Watering the Sockets

Attractin' 'em

So I'm standing under the Eason's clock on O'Connell Street, soaking up the evening sunshine after work, waiting for a date with my brother. In the distance I notice a foppish sort of fellow heading my way. About 5' 8", late fifties, scrawny, slightly staggering on his tiptoes, dressed in a buttoned-up too-small suit and with a number of colourful, filthy scarves round his chicken neck. In the most Prince Charles voice I've ever had the pleasure of hearing, he said,

"I'm terribly, terribly thorry, but...I don't thuppothe you hev any thpeh change?"

I felt about in my pockets and found none, and imagining I only had a tenner in my wallet, I said, "No, I'm sorry, I haven't." Then realising that I'd gotten change to park the car earlier out of my tenner, as he began to move off I said, "Oh actually - I do!"

He stopped, and as I fished for a two euro coin, he smiled, leaned in and through brandy breath said, "I...don't get paid until...Thurthday, you thee..." With a little flourish of his hand he demonstrated how his wages had flown away. I smiled, to myself, and said sympathetically, "I know. It's hard to make your money last for the whole week."

He didn't seem to have heard me. I handed him the coin. He smiled again, turning the coin in his hand, then paused, and looking at me as intently as a camp, drunk man can, said, "I like females..." He looked away into the distance again and I stifled a chuckle. "That's nice," I said.

"You thee," he continued, turning his gaze to me again, "I'm...mathculine...and I like...the feminine...you understand?"

I said firmly, "I'm married." And even if I wasn't, I'm not usually attracted to old, drunk, filthy, homosexual beggars. "Quite," he replied slowly, looking at the sun again. He began to saunter away, waving his coin.

"Thank you ever tho much..."

neuro-praxis -- Crazy In Love

New Favourite

I spent this evening after college baking pizza bases from scratch. I did this so that I could know the exact nutritional content of the food I eat. (Yes.) Then I loaded the pizzas with toppings, wrapped them in clingfilm, labelled them and put them in the freezer.

So.

It would appear that I am my mother.

Liking Fashion = Having Feet Chopped Off

AND RIGHTLY SO.

Hello. Do you have a child of your own, whom you hate and wish to brainwash? The following story should aid you in your desires.

The Red Shoes
by Hans Christian Andersen
(1845)

ONCE upon a time there was little girl, pretty and dainty. But in summer time she was obliged to go barefooted because she was poor, and in winter she had to wear large wooden shoes, so that her little instep grew quite red.

In the middle of the village lived an old shoemaker’s wife; she sat down and made, as well as she could, a pair of little shoes out of some old pieces of red cloth. They were clumsy, but she meant well, for they were intended for the little girl, whose name was Karen.

Karen received the shoes and wore them for the first time on the day of her mother’s funeral. They were certainly not suitable for mourning; but she had no others, and so she put her bare feet into them and walked behind the humble coffin.

Just then a large old carriage came by, and in it sat an old lady; she looked at the little girl, and taking pity on her, said to the clergyman, “Look here, if you will give me the little girl, I will take care of her.”

Karen believed that this was all on account of the red shoes, but the old lady thought them hideous, and so they were burnt. Karen herself was dressed very neatly and cleanly; she was taught to read and to sew, and people said that she was pretty. But the mirror told her, “You are more than pretty—you are beautiful.”

One day the Queen was travelling through that part of the country, and had her little daughter, who was a princess, with her. All the people, amongst them Karen too, streamed towards the castle, where the little princess, in fine white clothes, stood before the window and allowed herself to be stared at. She wore neither a train nor a golden crown, but beautiful red morocco shoes; they were indeed much finer than those which the shoemaker’s wife had sewn for little Karen. There is really nothing in the world that can be compared to red shoes!

Karen was now old enough to be confirmed; she received some new clothes, and she was also to have some new shoes. The rich shoemaker in the town took the measure of her little foot in his own room, in which there stood great glass cases full of pretty shoes and white slippers. It all looked very lovely, but the old lady could not see very well, and therefore did not get much pleasure out of it. Amongst the shoes stood a pair of red ones, like those which the princess had worn. How beautiful they were! and the shoemaker said that they had been made for a count’s daughter, but that they had not fitted her.

“I suppose they are of shiny leather?” asked the old lady. “They shine so.”

“Yes, they do shine,” said Karen. They fitted her, and were bought. But the old lady knew nothing of their being red, for she would never have allowed Karen to be confirmed in red shoes, as she was now to be.

Everybody looked at her feet, and the whole of the way from the church door to the choir it seemed to her as if even the ancient figures on the monuments, in their stiff collars and long black robes, had their eyes fixed on her red shoes. It was only of these that she thought when the clergyman laid his hand upon her head and spoke of the holy baptism, of the covenant with God, and told her that she was now to be a grown-up Christian. The organ pealed forth solemnly, and the sweet children’s voices mingled with that of their old leader; but Karen thought only of her red shoes. In the afternoon the old lady heard from everybody that Karen had worn red shoes. She said that it was a shocking thing to do, that it was very improper, and that Karen was always to go to church in future in black shoes, even if they were old.

On the following Sunday there was Communion. Karen looked first at the black shoes, then at the red ones—looked at the red ones again, and put them on.

The sun was shining gloriously, so Karen and the old lady went along the footpath through the corn, where it was rather dusty.

At the church door stood an old crippled soldier leaning on a crutch; he had a wonderfully long beard, more red than white, and he bowed down to the ground and asked the old lady whether he might wipe her shoes. Then Karen put out her little foot too. “Dear me, what pretty dancing-shoes!” said the soldier. “Sit fast, when you dance,” said he, addressing the shoes, and slapping the soles with his hand.

The old lady gave the soldier some money and then went with Karen into the church.

And all the people inside looked at Karen’s red shoes, and all the figures gazed at them; when Karen knelt before the altar and put the golden goblet to her mouth, she thought only of the red shoes. It seemed to her as though they were swimming about in the goblet, and she forgot to sing the psalm, forgot to say the “Lord’s Prayer.”

Now every one came out of church, and the old lady stepped into her carriage. But just as Karen was lifting up her foot to get in too, the old soldier said: “Dear me, what pretty dancing shoes!” and Karen could not help it, she was obliged to dance a few steps; and when she had once begun, her legs continued to dance. It seemed as if the shoes had got power over them. She danced round the church corner, for she could not stop; the coachman had to run after her and seize her. He lifted her into the carriage, but her feet continued to dance, so that she kicked the good old lady violently. At last they took off her shoes, and her legs were at rest.

At home the shoes were put into the cupboard, but Karen could not help looking at them.

Now the old lady fell ill, and it was said that she would not rise from her bed again. She had to be nursed and waited upon, and this was no one’s duty more than Karen’s. But there was a grand ball in the town, and Karen was invited. She looked at the red shoes, saying to herself that there was no sin in doing that; she put the red shoes on, thinking there was no harm in that either; and then she went to the ball; and commenced to dance.

But when she wanted to go to the right, the shoes danced to the left, and when she wanted to dance up the room, the shoes danced down the room, down the stairs through the street, and out through the gates of the town. She danced, and was obliged to dance, far out into the dark wood. Suddenly something shone up among the trees, and she believed it was the moon, for it was a face. But it was the old soldier with the red beard; he sat there nodding his head and said: “Dear me, what pretty dancing shoes!”

She was frightened, and wanted to throw the red shoes away; but they stuck fast. She tore off her stockings, but the shoes had grown fast to her feet. She danced and was obliged to go on dancing over field and meadow, in rain and sunshine, by night and by day—but by night it was most horrible.

She danced out into the open churchyard; but the dead there did not dance. They had something better to do than that. She wanted to sit down on the pauper’s grave where the bitter fern grows; but for her there was neither peace nor rest. And as she danced past the open church door she saw an angel there in long white robes, with wings reaching from his shoulders down to the earth; his face was stern and grave, and in his hand he held a broad shining sword.

“Dance you shall,” said he, “dance in your red shoes till you are pale and cold, till your skin shrivels up and you are a skeleton! Dance you shall, from door to door, and where proud and wicked children live you shall knock, so that they may hear you and fear you! Dance you shall, dance—!”

“Mercy!” cried Karen. But she did not hear what the angel answered, for the shoes carried her through the gate into the fields, along highways and byways, and unceasingly she had to dance.

One morning she danced past a door that she knew well; they were singing a psalm inside, and a coffin was being carried out covered with flowers. Then she knew that she was forsaken by every one and damned by the angel of God.

She danced, and was obliged to go on dancing through the dark night. The shoes bore her away over thorns and stumps till she was all torn and bleeding; she danced away over the heath to a lonely little house. Here, she knew, lived the executioner; and she tapped with her finger at the window and said:

“Come out, come out! I cannot come in, for I must dance.”

And the executioner said: “I don’t suppose you know who I am. I strike off the heads of the wicked, and I notice that my axe is tingling to do so.”

“Don’t cut off my head!” said Karen, “for then I could not repent of my sin. But cut off my feet with the red shoes.”

And then she confessed all her sin, and the executioner struck off her feet with the red shoes; but the shoes danced away with the little feet across the field into the deep forest.

And he carved her a pair of wooden feet and some crutches, and taught her a psalm which is always sung by sinners; she kissed the hand that guided the axe, and went away over the heath.

“Now, I have suffered enough for the red shoes,” she said; “I will go to church, so that people can see me.” And she went quickly up to the church-door; but when she came there, the red shoes were dancing before her, and she was frightened, and turned back.

During the whole week she was sad and wept many bitter tears, but when Sunday came again she said: “Now I have suffered and striven enough. I believe I am quite as good as many of those who sit in church and give themselves airs.” And so she went boldly on; but she had not got farther than the churchyard gate when she saw the red shoes dancing along before her. Then she became terrified, and turned back and repented right heartily of her sin.

She went to the parsonage, and begged that she might be taken into service there. She would be industrious, she said, and do everything that she could; she did not mind about the wages as long as she had a roof over her, and was with good people. The pastor’s wife had pity on her, and took her into service. And she was industrious and thoughtful. She sat quiet and listened when the pastor read aloud from the Bible in the evening. All the children liked her very much, but when they spoke about dress and grandeur and beauty she would shake her head.

On the following Sunday they all went to church, and she was asked whether she wished to go too; but, with tears in her eyes, she looked sadly at her crutches. And then the others went to hear God’s Word, but she went alone into her little room; this was only large enough to hold the bed and a chair. Here she sat down with her hymn-book, and as she was reading it with a pious mind, the wind carried the notes of the organ over to her from the church, and in tears she lifted up her face and said: “O God! help me!”

Then the sun shone so brightly, and right before her stood an angel of God in white robes; it was the same one whom she had seen that night at the church-door. He no longer carried the sharp sword, but a beautiful green branch, full of roses; with this he touched the ceiling, which rose up very high, and where he had touched it there shone a golden star. He touched the walls, which opened wide apart, and she saw the organ which was pealing forth; she saw the pictures of the old pastors and their wives, and the congregation sitting in the polished chairs and singing from their hymn-books. The church itself had come to the poor girl in her narrow room, or the room had gone to the church. She sat in the pew with the rest of the pastor’s household, and when they had finished the hymn and looked up, they nodded and said, “It was right of you to come, Karen.”

“It was mercy,” said she.

The organ played and the children’s voices in the choir sounded soft and lovely. The bright warm sunshine streamed through the window into the pew where Karen sat, and her heart became so filled with it, so filled with peace and joy, that it broke. Her soul flew on the sunbeams to Heaven, and no one was there who asked after the Red Shoes.

THE END

------------

Ah yes. Nothing quite like the angel of the Lord coming to mutilate the limbs of little girls. Thanks for your weird perversions, Hans, they should come in useful when I've got some pride-filled brats of my own whom I'd like to see die of a broken heart.

:)

neuro-praxis -- All About The Grace, Baby

Caught A Lite Sneeze

From One Week by the Barenaked Ladies

It’s been one week since you looked at me
Cocked your head to the side and said I’m angry.

How fitting. And what a bizarre coincidence! It has been exactly one week since the fellow above (noted for taking his shirt off at funerals) had his row with his laydee, and it has been exactly one week too since I posted in my blog, which must be a record.

Not a good record, mind; we're not talking Whatcha Waitin' For by Gwen Stefani kind of good record here. I like to think I'm more in the league of a record like Irish Son by that prodigy Briyiyiyiyiyan McFadden.

I am utterly disgusting and flu-ridden at the moment. My best friend is my dressing gown. A hot anorak came to visit over the weekend and me and my generous housemates passed all of our bacterial diseases onto him - gifts that keep on giving! He left this morning with a horrendous cold and a new appreciation for his disease-free family.

So.

SMAPPY SKANKENTINE'S GHEY!

Today is the day that sucker imbeciles revere (or rather, draw painfully inaccurate pictures of with crayons) the hollow muscular organ located behind the sternum and between the lungs - its rhythmic contractions pumping blood through the body moment after moment. It is also the day of expensive fermented, roasted, shelled and ground cacao seeds, often combined with a sweetener or flavouring agent, not to mention the heaps of children's toy bears, usually stuffed with soft material and covered with fur-like plush. Today is the day men give women Marks and Spencers bestest versions of any numerous shrubs or vines of the genus Rosa, with prickly stems, pinnately compound leaves, and variously coloured (often fragrant) flowers. People also post each other flat, usually rectangular pieces of stiff paper, cardboard, or plastic, folded once and inserted in a thin paper pouch. EVERYTHING IS SO ROSEMANTIC. Personally I will be marking this hallmark holiday in my usual fashion - by frantically smashing both the radio and the television with the meat tenderizing mallet about oooh I'd say halfway through the day.

Quite.

I have had this page open for three hours trying to think of something else to say and I have finally given up.

Back to sucking coal for me, then.

neuro-praxis -- Gone For Good

And Unto Us A Child Is Born

On this date a few years back my mother pushed me out of her. GOE MA GOOD JOB. I was gooey but precious etc. Today is the day we all celebrate that.

Alright, party's over.

So I went for my date with Anonymous and we got regrettably drunk, much to the perplexion of a very sobre K who picked us up and had to contend with our painful unfunniness, while we, incidentally, considered ourselves at the time to be some class of a French and Saunders. Lord bless us and save us all.

I spent Friday night at a party with the delightful Discovery Gospel Choir, for whom I have no link, on Cathal Brugha Street. Much singing and consuming was achieved and I think I am going to join them. I don't have the time but boy do I have the enthusiasm!

Yes.

So today I was a tourist. I donned my baseball cap, checked pants and a conspicuous American accent and located some friends from Venezuela. K and I dragged them round some famous Irish "sights" (and what sights they were!) and fed them local delicacies. A delight, a delight. While exploring the fields around palladian mansion Castletown House, we discovered the base of a rainbow, where a small family of budding, pink leprechauns were nestled, gnawing on chunks (notably chunks and not coins) of pure gold. After some considered debate, we wrapped them in a cotton bag I had bought earlier in Aldi for 39cents, and gently drowned them in the river. It was sad, but we accepted that it was for the best. We could never have given those leprechauns the kind of life they deserved.

So, what with the singing and the walking and the senseless killing, it's been a busy and tiring weekend. Thankfully there are only 24 hours more of free time left to endure before the saving grace of the working week reaches up its cool hands, wrapping them round my throat and strangling me softly into a delirium of deadlines, lectures, presentations and essays.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY NEURO

neuro-praxis -- Sick In The Head And I Think We Can All Blame Religion

A Rebel Without A Clue

My sea of agnostic, atheist and occasional Christian friends: if you've got nine minutes to spare, read this for a little thought-provoking theosophy on why a tsunami wave can kill almost a quarter of a million people and how this does not nullify the possibility of a god, and a good god at that.

My own personal philosophising is over for another term and now, it is the day of the sun: in other words, it is Sunday. In a mere sentence in this paragraph I have thus far provided you with two facts, one useless and inaccurate; the other something you already knew, unless of course you are in a different timezone, or have problems with ascertaining reality. Goe neuro. And your team of isolated and slightly mouldy brain cells.

So. The exams are over and I have been drinking to celebrate. Whisky, beer, Toilet Duck, you name it, I've downed it. The housemates are concerned but as far as I am concerned, they are the MAN, and they are KEEPING ME DOWN. I am having enough trouble keeping the Toilet Duck down as it is, thanks. (This is making no sense, but who am I to judge?) Toilet Duck has more than one use, you know. Today I used it for cleaning the bathroom. In fact, we gave the house a mighty overhaul today, and it feels good: meeting my approval on the zen-master scale. Everyone is so chilled out in the glow of fairy lights and no dust that they're practically comatose, which is useful for me, because I can empty their wallets.

I am increasingly feeling that it is just me writing and reading this blog. I feel as though, instead of vomiting onto a few close friends as is fitting, I am vomiting into the vast expanse of the internet and this puke echoes. I do of course mean brain-vomit, which is kind of nice to think about, because it personifies my brain, as though it were a small entity living inside my skull. If it can vomit, then it must have a mouth, oesaphagus, stomach, etc. And it must eat. Presumably lots of gone off things, as it is always hurling. Not playing hurling the sport now, but hurling up puke. I am sure you understood that but I am a sucker for clarity. Understand me! I cry. And maybe that little brain person has a name, and is mad at me for how I use it to do even the smallest of things, like taking a breath, and I never acknowledge it on National Secretaries Day. I am a bad brain-owner. Would you look at me! Claiming ownership of a brain I don't even know.

Perhaps it is a problem that I think it is nice that a creature lives in my head.

I watched some American Idol pap on television yesterday, and found my personal hero. Perhaps you saw her too? She was blonde, wearing pink, singing atrociously, and was schizophrenic. She told the judges that the voices in her head were telling her that despite what they thought, she was going to be the next American Idol. The footage after her slating outside was even more psychotic: I think it was the eyes. They were beadier than mine. She was devastated. I guess she'd been relying on those voices and they'd been telling her lies. Men, eh! Hmph! Let's just hope Paula Abdul doesn't end up in that young lady's freezer.

It is worth noting that by the time this journal entry was finished, the day had soared onwards into Monday, but we all know how I feel about that.

neuro-praxis -- The Dancing Queen, Young And Sweet, Only Seventeen

Dirty, Dirty Man.

The poor husband has repulsed me with his disturbing and anti-social illness so I'm busy playing nurse...boiling the 7up, wearing the short uniform and what not. He is existing soley on a diet of weak-tasting liquids, the occasional glass sweet and lots of neuro-care. NEURO-CARE. That sounds like some class of brain surgery. Or perhaps the post-op treatment of the the wounded brain.

Ok. Allow me to remove from my bonnet a fat, infertile bee for you. I take issue with things not being called what it is they are. Allow me to take some COMMON EXAMPLES (common like my cousins in Cabra) from everyday life to examine my gripe.

• 1. GLASS SWEETS
  Now, if these little bastards existed, our mouths would be in a right old state. OH MY, THIS LITTLE PIECE OF ATTRACTIVE CONFECTIONARY MIGHT BE RATHER TASTY ALLOW ME TO SAMPLE IT AAAARGH OH NOE MY TONGUE IS CUT UP I CAN'T SPEAK NO ONE SHALL EVER LOVE ME NOW. See? The risks are innumerable.

• 2. THINGS LABELED "INFLAMMABLE"
  This, too, is a great one. Inlfammable eh? I'LL SEE ABOUT THAT says Mister Duh. Fetch me some petrol and a novelty lighter - sounds like a challenge to me!

  Sharply followed by pricey skin grafts for all.

• 3. THE BIG MAC
  Picture the scene. neuro is having a little wander up Grafton Street in search of a new frame for that shrine, when all of a sudden it begins to lash. RAINING HAMSTERS AND GUINEA PIGS. Now desperately in need of shelter (and a hug), neuro ducks into the local McDonalds, briefly assaults the security guard and sees a "BIG MAC" on sale for a low low price. Upon request of said savioural item, neuro is presented with a burger. A DURTY BIG BORGER. The shock is atrocious.

• 4. BOBBY PINS
  Well, you've no idea what they might be at all, and then you google for pictures find out that they're just hair clips. Bloody hell. What's the point.

My life is one trial after another.

A Bite

The kids at my church (who did a splendiferous Nativity play this morning) made us some paper decorations for our tree because we couldn't find our baubles, so I took a picture of the decorations so that I could prove that I used them and wasn't just lying. I actually found my baubles then, but sure, it's a big tree, it can take it. HERE GUYS! (Although I don't want you to be reading this, it will soil your pure little minds. And your parents shouldn't be letting you roam round the wasteland of the internet unsupervised.)

After church, K and I went on a wee adventure to Donadea Forest Park today, and what a wizzo adventure it was!

We were delighted to stumble upon the pet cemetary.

Poor Penny. At least she had no soul.

After kneeling at the graves of the dead animals to have our ham sandwiches, we followed the lake trail until we reached the 9/11 memorial.

K was a bit upset but he drank a lot of whiskey before driving us home. When we arrived home, there were two large sacks of books from Inter-Varsity Press waiting for us and K promptly turned into a book goblin.

I know that it's blurry, but hey, the bastard was jumping around a lot. He gets excited about books. We have, I'd estimate, about a thousand books between us. There's a stack of about forty that have yet to be read (although because of today's delivery, that will increase somewhat). Yes I know, it's a problem.

I saw this last night with friends STIGMUND and A to the N to the D to the Y, and it was a feast for the senses. Watch it.

I am far too happy to be on the internet right now, so I'm off to locate my goblin.

Your Correspondent-- not a Journaller but a Blogger, and NOT WILLING TO CHANGE.

I AM ANGRY

I wrote me a jolly long journal entry just there and then my bastard laptop crashed. FANTASTIC. This kind of occurrence makes me want to gnaw at the wall. I have no husband to listen to me whine about it so here will have to do. Once more he is away, ag obair. Ag déanamh an AIRGEAD MóRA, o sea.

Therefore, I shall paraphrase the contents of the previous journal entry, with gritted teeth, clenched butt cheeks and a WeightWatchers chocolate eclair.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

And now it has happened a second time. I had only saved as far as up there. BLOODY HELL. Deep breaths, neuro, deep breaths.

I shall try again, for the love of my readers. FOR YOU, YOU BITCH.

AS I WAS SAYING: some git informed me yesterday that in order to give my readers bang for their buck, I really should be aiming for a thousand words per entry, and only updating once a week. This is "quality" journalling, unlike the excremental brain vomit you might find here. Well, screw that! Is it really so wrong that I write remarkable unintellectual tripe, sometimes several times a day, and listen to the wrong bananas or simply the fishy song?

Is it so wrong
To long
For the fishy song?

No, it's not wrong, it's right. Right? Affirm me or I may start saying educational things here. Anyway, enough of this idle chatter and on to the important stuff:

I smell like a swimming pool. The ratio of time spent in the pool to out of it would probably be quite high at the moment. It offers relief from my incredible back pain. No amount of scrubbing seems to remove that chlorine smell. Luckily chlorine is a fetish of mine.

Speaking of fetishes, have I ever shared any of my artwork with you guys? I believe that the correct answer is "no", Bob. I have quite a passion for graphic design. Understandably so, I was commissioned today by an acquaintance known as "Ruggiebear" to create a new online signature for him. He says he's interested in computers, rugby and beer, so drawing from that, I've had a few ideas:

This is the first. I really like it; my only issue is that it might lack subtlety. Does it say too much about him? Am I leaving him right out there, naked, for the whole world to see with this one? Possibly.

This next one is more "mysterious":

This says to me - what is Ruggiebear really like? I simply must find out! The colours are striking too, and soulful. Obviously it's a little rough and and might need sharpening here and there, but you get the general idea.

Now, while I was busy with this, I received another request, to create a signature for "Blisterman". I know, a disgusting name. I was very angry that his name was "Blisterman" so I quickly pulled this together for him and sent him a nasty personal message explaining that if he wanted a nice signature he'd need a nice name:

Honestly.

Work over now, and back to my passions.

I may well be falling in love with the curly haired legend Nellie McKay. Seriously. I'd consider leaving K for her if she wanted me. I can't stop listening to her music and forcing all of my friends to listen to it too. Her wit is phenomenal. I am both intimidated by her and in awe of her. Actually that might make for a dodgy marriage. Plus I think she's straight, as am I. This whole Nellie affair just keeps getting more and more complicated.

Perhaps I should just be glad that it was K who introduced me to her. Or does that make it more confusing? Either way, I continue to look forward to K's return tomorrow. He is a very amusing man, if lacking in musical talent. Also, he drives me places, irons my shirts and keeps me warm in the sack. And it's darn cold these nights.

Speaking of curly haired legends, I once had my hair curled up like Nellie's there by a hairdresser who hadn't a blind notion what she was doing. I think she was actually a butcher filling in for her hungover hairdresser friend or summat. Well the great big joke is that she made a dogs dinner of my locks. And it was on my wedding day HA HA HA. Isn't that brilliant. Thankfully, I know how to wash and dry my hair myself (I've done it once or twice) and L had a hair straightener that did the business.

Goddamn it, is this a thousand words yet?!

Screw you guys, I'm going home.

Come Into the Closet With Us

[embee] (yore blog has me laughing)
[embee] "I have smeared the walls with blood in order to make it feel more homey"

[neuro_praxis] HAVE YOU?
[neuro_praxis] FREAK

[embee] HAHA
[embee] I did that once when I was wee. I cut my knee open after falling over, and I went into the kitvhen and started fingerpainting on the front of the fridge with my own blood.

[neuro_praxis] YUM
[neuro_praxis] did your mother make you lick it off?

[embee] No, but as punishment she made me eat carrots.

[neuro_praxis] do you know any good blogs btw?

[embee] embee.blogspot.com

[neuro_praxis] BEEN THERE ITS BRUTAL
[neuro_praxis] http://neuro-praxis.blogspot.com/

[embee] whats this gheyness

[neuro_praxis] WOTSIT LUK LIKE

[embee] ITS GOT DOTS IN TEH bACKGROUND OMG TBH

[neuro_praxis] I'm plugging you all over the gaff lady

[embee] PLugging me? That sounds alarmingly sexual.

[neuro_praxis] Yes :(
[neuro_praxis] anal cramming etc
[neuro_praxis] FANCY A BAG OF HAMMERS?

[embee] I hope all your intellectual chums arent reading my blog and going "Haha! LOOK AT CLAIRES UNEDUCATED DROOLING HICK CHUM FROM THE BOG?!!?!? HOW QUEER! IT WRITES! IT EXHILARATES! IT EXCITES!"
[embee] I am always up for Hammers.
[embee] Apart from Jack hammers.
[embee] Arrogant bastards.

[neuro_praxis] lol
[neuro_praxis] they find your blog hilarious, especially the gerry ryan letters
[neuro_praxis] besides your intelligence obvious-ates itself in your entries

[embee] OBVIOUS-ATES
[embee] HA!¬!!!"!!¬¬!¬!!!!!111111two
[embee] There might be a doomy entry on the waty.
[embee] And Im not talking about anal cramming.

[neuro_praxis] why not
[neuro_praxis] SUCH A TABOO
[neuro_praxis] BE OPEN ABOUT YOUR HAMMER UP THE BUM FETISHES
[neuro_praxis] BE FREE

[embee] Anal cramming it is !
* embee clix New Post :O

[neuro_praxis] hey can I quote this conversation in my blog?

[embee] Absolutely.

[neuro_praxis] not all of it obviously
[neuro_praxis] say something funny for the camera

[embee] I stuck a chip up my nose earlier.

[neuro_praxis] GOLD
[neuro_praxis] PURE GOLD

[embee] A la A Fish Called Wanda.
[embee] But it BROKE IN HALF.
[embee] And there is some TUBER PARTICLE IN MY FACE.

[neuro_praxis] I just checked and there is no blog entry up
[neuro_praxis] YOU LIED
[neuro_praxis] LIAR

[embee] (22:12:12) (embee) There might be a doomy entry on the waty.
[embee] KEYWORDS
[embee] MIGHT

[neuro_praxis] ON THE waty?

[embee] ON THE WAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY

[neuro_praxis] LA LA
[neuro_praxis] sing it sister

[embee] Hello, you stultifyingly stupid bastards.
[embee] FIRST LINE OF MY NEW ENTRY

[neuro_praxis] you talking to me?

[embee] start as I mean to go on tbh

[neuro_praxis] i don't see anybody else here

[embee] PUBLISHEDDDDDDDDDDDDDD
[embee] or... "publishing in progress"
[embee] GHEY

[neuro_praxis] CAN'T WAIT

[embee] done
[embee] it sucks
[embee] but it DOES mention CRAMMING
[embee] OF THE ANAL VARIETY

* neuro_praxis reads journal entry

[embee] its ghay like George Michael

[neuro_praxis] NOT YOUR FINEST WORK I'LL ADMIT
[neuro_praxis] amusing nonetheless
[neuro_praxis] :D

[embee] My brain is empty
[embee] Devoid of wit.
[embee] I would write to Gerry, but I cant think of a TOPIC.
[embee] GIVE me a topic.

* neuro_praxis thinks hard

[embee] Good lassie.
[neuro_praxis] IT HURTS
[neuro_praxis] IT HURTS

[embee] IT BURNS AAAH MY EYES etc

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And so on and so forth.

God bless us, every one.

WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE KIDDING MISTER HITLER, IF YOU THINK OLD ENGLAND'S DONE?

That's the question I asked myself this afternoon.

Actually it's the question that the theme tune of Dad's Army asked itself (or asked me, or asked the nation of us that don't have cable tv and thus cannot watch anything else) this afternoon. I am ALONE in the house, a less than rare occasion. K is off being son-ny with his mother, and the delightful housemates C and M are off getting plastered on hot whiskeys as is their TRADITIONAL SUNDAY TRADITION.

This evening, sans K (he is working tonight - this makes me rageful), I am going to a rather posh and over-rated restaurant in Leixlip to bid a fond farewell to one of Kevin's brother's and his wife and son who are moo-ving far south to the "other capital" (as those insecure bastards say) - Cark!

I AIN'T NEVER BAEN TO CARK I HAER IT'S NACE THOUGH

If you are foreign this journal entry may be hard for you, I'm sorry. NO TIME TO EXPLAIN THOUGH.

People just came in from the pub, and if my eavesdropping is correct, I believe that they are making RICE CRISPIE BUNS down there like some class of happy-go-lucky children. There is a lot of giggling and pot banging.

Speaking of treats, ever noticed those miniature packets of Ferrero Rocher chocolates (they come in fours - a recent development; it used to be in threes) that are at the counter of all newsagents? I never bought any before. It seemed so indulgent.

WELL ALL THAT CHANGED TODAY.

I have eaten two of them and I just can't go on. They ARE too indulgent, I should have listened to myself before this disaster of not being able to finish them befell me.

K and I swapped bedrooms with the other couple in our house last night. SCORE ENSUITE AHOY. Oh boy it's a good room. Cold, but that's how I like it. I have smeared the walls with blood in order to make it feel more homey, as I am wont to do. (A little foible of mine; an idiosyncrasy if you will.)

Now I will go join them and their ridiciulous treat-forming, which I suspect is the result of the presence of M's sister, S, who is about the house at the moment, and being FRIVOLOUS.

DOWN WITH GIGGLING AND FRIVOLITY

UP WITH SOILING THINGS

There's A Cartoon on TV Right Now About A Superhero Who Kills Paedophiles!

It's true!

I'm currently enjoying all the fruits of my church pastor's house. He and his family are off escaping their pastoral responsibilities in Donegal, and me and K get to house sit. OH YEAH. The best bit for K is that they have all the tv channels, not just the four gay Irish ones. (NO DES I DON'T HATE IRISH TELEVISION. SOME OF MY BEST FRIENDS ARE IRISH TELEVISION.) The best bit for me is the wireless internet access (writing this journal entry from BED, I'm digging it) and also the rather excellent wine they left us. Mmm, winey.

The last few days have scored highly on the funscale. I won't give you all the gory details because one man 's fun is another man's skim reading (where I write "man" I do of course mean "person". I don't want any more complaint letters from Marilyn French.)

Basically K and I and two other friends climbed into D's Nissan Micra and went driving round the country with no particular agenda. The aim was to forget about life for a while, a la Billy Joel (which song though?). I think we succeeded. Our adventures involved the Hill of Tara, a funfair, much eating in manky eateries, Galway, my parents house in the northwest, slot machines, beaches, a lot of rain, and a lot of sub par music on random tapes purchased in Eurosaver shops.

All in all...fantastic.

Today though was really rather less fun. Well, no actually, it was a lot of fun. But it was sad.

A dear friend of mine is leaving the country this week, permanently, it seems, because of circumstances she can't affect (nobody can), and we spent a very sad and memorable day together, in that strange state between crying and laughing where either was likely to happen at any moment. She's returning to South America in four days time, which feels to me right now like another planet.

We went for a special lunch in a wonderful restaurant where instead of lamenting her departure, we celebrated having met and become friends. We sat on the steps of one of the buildings on Kildare street in the early evening sunlight, deserted because of the bank holiday and the marathon, and prayed quietly together for the future.

Man, I really love that girl.

Hrm.

If you can excuse my language for once, life really is a fucking bitch.