Feigning interest

Just seen strange bird-like creature fishing in the channel by the Back Strand! From my own admittedly rudimentary investigations this creature appears to be either a pterodactyl or harpie-type monster from Philip Pullman books. Unfortunately I had neither independent witnesses nor recording devices at hand so I am attempting an artist's reproduction to illustrate what I saw. Since the artist is me, I drew a stick man, added wings and a beak and then screamed 'fuck you, ART!' at the page and walked away.

If you were interested, I completed my round of the Back Strand in 66 minutes flat today. Nothing seems to be able to top my unprecedented 64 minutes of last week. I can only settle on last Thursday being a particularly cold day with few other pedestrians, so I was able to run for a longer portion of it. I am physically unable to run in the presence of others due in part to my ignorance of any official running technique and my non-possession of an exercise bra. According to my lovely and complementary sister, when I run I look like, ahem: "a spa". To save the mortification of others, I run alone. That's fine with me. I'd rather not have anyone present when I asphyxiate myself on my hoodie (again) or scream and fall over when a seagull startles me (for the fourth time in an hour). Those occasions are best saved for alone-time, thank you very much.

Labels: Porty-porty, Sally and Jenny

On Sunday morning I texted my good friend Donna, the obsessive clean freak, the following: 'Can I put any of the following in the dishwasher: Toilet brush, plastic dustpan, non-slip rubbery shower thingy. If not, how does one wash these things?'



Donna promptly rang me back, mainly because she was too hungover to text, and told me that no, noooo, I could not put any of these things in the dishwasher. They would melt, and cause grievous damage to the dishwasher, she said. "Things have to be dishwasher safe to go in the dishwasher," she pointed out, "hence the existence of the phrase 'dishwasher safe'."



"But the scrubbing brushes never melt when I put them in!" I complained. "Similarly, squeegee things are grand, as are flip-flops!"

"... Lucy, don't put any of those things in the dishwasher again" she told me. "Toilet brushes in the dishwasher? With dishes? That is seriously gross."

"Where should one wash one's shoes then, huh? You tell me that, Mrs smart arse!"
"Why do you need to wash your shoes? Shouldn't they, uh, just wipe clean?"
"Well, you tell me how I should get cow shit out of three-year old sandals then!"
With that zinger I hung up on the negative bitch. I don't need nobody telling me how to run my house.



I weighed things up for a little bit, realised I was running late, and fucked the dustpan in the dishwasher along with my scrubbing brushes and portable washing basin, which is handy for a range of things such as cleaning floors, washing me feets, sticking under the chins of inebriated house guests when they look a bit green, and sluicing away dog mess from the front lawn. I fucked the nasty, non-slip, rubbery shower mat in the wheelie bin and put the toilet brush where I couldn't see it, behind the toilet. Then I put three pairs of shoes in the washing machine and got the hell outta the house. If anyone asks, you know nothing about how those things got there, right? JOB DONE.

Labels: Domestic complaints, Modern life unhinges me, What is 'safe'?

I'm writing something at the moment. Who knows what it is. Us artists don't concern ourselves with labels like you little people do. Currently it's held up in a mire of plotting difficulties. Bearing close attention to a quote I read from Joseph O'Neill, I am taking care to 'lie as little as possible, tell as close to the truth as you can'. Why? Because I liked the sentiment. Didn't like Netherland though, unlike Obama. Needless to say, consciously not lying is one of the hardest things I've ever done. Lying, or 'revisionism' as I like to call it, is as necessary to my daily life as breathing. Even recounting anecdotes to friends I find myself, almost unconsciously, sexing things up: flat-sounding dialogue is brought to fruity succinctness, dull circumstances glossed over. It's my hunger for narrative, I tell myself and don't get too concerned.

So I don't lie. Or I try not to. Apparently I don't plot anything I write either as everything frequently takes wild swings away from their starting point without my permission. I like to sketch things out in my head while driving 'round town in the evenings but instead I flash past familiar places and people and they remind me of past events and a new insight occurs to me: I'll use that, I think: that's genuine therefore good. Consequentially my cast change personalities almost daily, my hero's motives alter with my own capriciousness. One day I am forgiving towards all men: relationships prosper, goodness is rewarded, and my heroine gets invited to a party. The next I want them to suffer. Stupidity abounds; all humankind is selfish and cruel; unkind wives leave their pathetic husbands. My comic relief gets more and more violent as my mood gets worse, and I'm finding laughs in pushing people over, having them bump their shins, stub toes, lose wallets. I am honest, burningly honest, letting my temper and occasional torments play with my storyboard, rearrange my written world.

This can't continue. This is how children write, it's immature and inconsistent and pointless. Eventually you're not writing fiction, you're just keeping a diary and changing the names.

Labels: Lies Damned Lies, Ridiculous Pursuits

Did you know that Pluto = not a planet anymore? Seems that theres only eight official planets doing the rounds nowadays, not the nine we all heard about back in the day. Oh, I know, I was flabbergasted to hear the news also. Apparently, this was decided back in 2006. Yeah, I didn't get that memo from NASA either. SOMEBODY is trying to keep me outta the loop. Keep trying, spacemen, I got my methods. Yeah, it takes three years for my methods to come to fruition but still: I'm watchin' you. Be very afraid.

Or just kinda afraid. I got a lot on these days.

Labels: Not a Planet anymore, Relentless pedants, Shocking news

"Good Lord, Loretta: don't look now but the most beautiful man in Tramore just smiled at me."

"Who?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I meant 'The Most Beautiful Man in Tramore'. He's over there, black top, jeans, cheekbones like cliffs you want to tumble off, shoulders like rocks you want to smack into. Eyes full of sex, lips full of sin!"

"Ohhh. Well, he is very nice alright."

"'Nice', she says! What are you drinkin', lady, 'cos you need to give it up! He's the most fabulous man I've ever seen in the flesh. He looks like Clark Gable only better and less facial hair. Brando, before the weight. The body of a cowboy and the face of an angel. He's like-"

"Yeah, I get it, I get it: you've got the sexual fantasies of a seventy-five year old."

"Well! I like that! I-"

"Shhhh!"

"What? WHO JUST SHUSHED ME?? IS THIS A GIG OR AM I AT FUCKING MASS!"

"..."

"Loretta, I think I've gotta blow this joint, these joykills are really wrecking my buzz."

"Yeah, you probably should. We're getting looks. Also maybe stop talking like a gangster from the thirties."

"HA! You really make me laugh, dollface! Laters!"

Labels: Eyes of sex and lips of sin, Most Beautiful Man in Tramore

I'm having a housewarming/birthday party next weekend. Didn't I invite you yet? Shucks. I've invited everybody. Looks like you're nobody. It's going to be MAJOR. I'm making a mix CD for it right now(Oh I know, right? Mix CD? I'm so with it and down with the kids!), featuring all my favourite jammin' party tunes. So far there's four songs on there and only one of them does not feature the musical stylings of Bruce Springsteen. Like, the Nebraska years. That was not a party-time for Brucie. I need to broaden my musical tastes.

Seriously though, it's shaping up to be the most horribly mismatched evening of all our young lives. When your social circle features anyone whose name you know or whose face looks familiar as you scream 'PARTY, MY GAFF!' from your car window, you've gotta be ready for some fireworks. On Sunday I listed off all the people I had spent Saturday evening inviting and Clo and Laura just frowned at me.

'Aw, hells no' Laura said, barely looking up from the evening of card-cutting and laminating that seems to be the yoke of the school teacher's evening. 'Not him. He's a fucking mess.'

'Yeah, he went to Blathnaid's housewarming and vommed in the bathtub and blocked it and Ciara had to scoop out the sick with her hands.' Clo added vigorously.

'Nuh-huh, it was Blathnaid herself did the scooping, as I recall.' Laura pointed out.

'Dude, it was totally fucking Ciara. She made me smell her hands after. I think I would remember that.'

'Well then it must have been Blathnaid's hands and you were obviously going around smelling so many hands that you can't remember whose hands scooped what.'

'As if! I think I can remember my best friend's hands, excuse you.'

'I highly doubt it. Hand-whore'.

I left them to it and sat down on the floor of my shiny new hallway. This socialising thing has me beat.

Labels: Hand-whores, My new family, Porty-porty