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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

Ah, this flying thing. It's a fecking piece of cheese. It's easy peasy. It's a sinch, people. Who's frightened of flying? Not me, for sures. It's as easy as stepping on to a perfectly fine bit of reinforced steel and placing your life in to the fickle hands of the gods. It's actually just that easy. No hassle. No bother. No way I'd do it without valium.

The thing I still can't quite cope with is the timing of the whole process. The two ways I go are: (1) I turn up at the airport ridiculously early, and then have to hang about looking at things I can't afford, being jostled by other passengers and occasionally getting to stare at a famous for so long that they think I'm probably going to kill them. Or (2) I arrive incredibly late, am rushed through the check in and then have to half walk half jog my way to the OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD where they keep the second class passengers flying to Ireland (as a tribute to the days of the famine ships, I assume), and then barely get the valium in on time before we're boarding and the panic sets in good and proper.

Of course, now that flying is so darned easy for me, I'm no longer in such dire need of the old tablets. That's the theory, anyway. I've not tried it without them. It'd be in interesting, but I think ultimately unrewarding experience. What I'm trying to say here is that the flight home tonight was darned easy, piece of cake, I even slept for a little bit of it, that's how relaxed and in my stride I took it. However, it was accompanied by a good 10mg dose of the old housewife's choice, so really it's got nothing to do with my increased confidence. I'm a slave to the drugs. The drugs make me cool.

Dad picked me up from the air coach, with a glowing plastic snowman perched happily in the passenger seat of his car. My Dad is legendary for his collection of ridiculous Christmas tack, and I arrived home to find the house totally transformed. It's brilliant. We've the most decorated house in the street with: fairy lights in every tree, a string of santas and snowmen across the window, and stickers on the front door. Not the tack fest that you'll get in the colonies, I'll grant you, but it's might OTT for the Blackrock area.

Inside the house, the collection is growing. This year we've a bungee jumping Santa who screams in terror and then giggles "Merry Christmas"; the Santa that blows bubbles; the Santa in a sleigh that sings a never ending irritating song in a heavy American accent; the dancing Christmas tree that puns like no one's business; the Santa hat that suddenly comes alive and starts dancing when you walk past; the reindeer that sings; the secret mat under the welcome mat that wishes you a "Mewwy Kwismass" (it's got a speech impediment) when you step on it; the penguin who skis across the floor; and completely unrelated, a duck that dances.

The puppy is gobsmacked by it all.


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