Dreadful Nonsense

Rejoice one and all, for it is time to declare that the twenty first century has entered the Nest’O’Love. Not only do I now have a Fancy New Phone What Needs Music Installed And That (more of which tomorrow), we have also had the broadest of bands installed on Mr Computer, and now the world will do my bidding, and I can access as much pornography and internet-based email accounts as my heart desires.

A whole new adventure playground for me to play with, although at the present time I must sit cross-legged on the floor to do so, as the computer sits on the floor until such time as we manage to find a computer table on which it shall sit and reign over the front room.

The installation came with two voice messages from Dr Who himself, telling us that our broadband was ready to be activated, and a CD that talked He Who Only… through every step of the installation process in a slightly condescending manner. What I like best is that FINALLY we can now spend our afternoons watching Chinese television broadcasts IN REAL TIME. I never dreamed this day would come.

I was sitting in my OU class on Saturday, wondering why in the Lord's good name, on one of the only two days I have to call my own during the week, I was sitting not two streets across from my office at 10.00am, clutching a soya mocha and grappling with conciousness.

I found a list of things I had made to blog about and stuffed into my text book, probably at some other point when I supposed to be studying. Most of the stuff on the list I have since covered, or abandoned - for example "hearing horse outside" appeared earlier this month, although you're never going to hear the tale of "irish accent at work", or even "gig - marriage and lesbians" because that was just too long ago, and you should never go back.

That said, item two on the list is particularly intriguing, since at first glance I had no idea what it refers to. It simply says "trying not to hit - CCTV".

I’ve had a think, and it may refer to the uncontrollable rage that occasionally washes over me, but which I haven’t succumbed to just yet, when walking through the areas of this great city where people congregate to get in each other’s way. I’m suddenly visited by voices, who tell me to push a person, kick another person, or to pull the hair of a third person, simply because they aren’t walking quickly enough, or because they’re crossing my path or entering my personal space.

The one thing that thankfully stops me from indulging any of these urges is the thought that at any given time there are about six different CCTV cameras on me. My seemingly unprovoked attack (and the battering I would receive immediately following it) would be captured and available for replay from any number of angles, and since I don’t want to appear on Crimewatch, or Britain Dumbest Criminals, I have so far managed to avoid doing anything more than occasionally making faces (and once a rude gesture) behind people’s backs.

I’ve spent the last week or so staring at trees, trying to see some sign that Spring has arrived, like what the clocks are telling me, but which the sky and the weather are firmly denying. Finally, there’s starting to be evidence that actually, all life on Earth hasn’t just frozen over and we’re not about to enter a new Twilight Age, where it’s always semi-dark, a little bit nippy, going-to-rain-in-a-bit, and all a bit murky. Looking out the window of the train on the way home from work, I noticed something that put a song in my heart and a skip in my step (not to mention the smallest twinkle in my eye) - some blossoms. Blossoms! That means only two things - (1) that Spring Is Officially Here and (2) exams are on the way.

Hoorah to Spring and all it’s flowering glory, hoorah to light in the afternoons, hoorah to foolishly leaving the house in just a t-shirt and cardigan because it looks nice from inside, hoorah to the prospect of beer gardens and wasps and icecream and sun burn and sweating on the tube and dehydration and stinking of sweat and…

… actually I’d quite like the Autumn back, please.

Okay, then, if we must talk about it, let's get it out of the way immediately. Today's post will be entitled THE ONE WHERE SHE GOES ON AND ON ABOUT HER HEALTH and will be, once you've finished reading it, appreciated by all in the form of a polite round of applause, and then will never be spoken of again.

People never used to talk to me about my blog, apart from very possibly the occassional text message denying whatever it was that I'd accused them of doing, but never face to face. Nothing was ever addressed in person and that was the way - uh huh, uh huh - I liked it. But since moving to London and having my blog be the main source of information for m'friends and m'family back in the Auld Country, people have started saying things to me down the telephone. Similarly, people who live in the London Town where I am living feel driven initially to tell me that they are now reading my blog, and then subsequently to tell me that they've read certain posts, and their views follow in great and intimate detail.

A while ago, I posted up a description of a nightmare I had, where He Who Only... dumped me while sitting in the backgarden of my house in Dublin. I don't usually do posts about dreams - in fact I think that was the only one I'd ever written - but I had been carrying it around with me all day, and felt the best way to get it out was to write it down and then make y'all suffer along with me. Anyhoo, a few days later I was at a comedy gig, when one of the performers (HELLO NICK SWIFT!) told me that he had also had that dream. Of being chucked. By He Who Only...

So, it's with trepidation that I continue the rest of this post, because I'm absolutely terrified that someone in real life will say something to me at some point in a social situation, and I'll be forced to blush bright red and then beat them to death with the nearest blunt instrument while sobbing. Deep breath. Here we go.

My back did a spazz last week, when I was bending over in the shower to pick up some shampoo. The feeling was totally indescribable - it didn't "click", it didn't "twinge" or "twitch" or "ache" or "ping" or even leave me screaming in pain. It just "went". My closest comparison to it is the horror that you feel when you've accidentally cut yourself on something, like a piece of paper or a kitchen knife. It doesn't immediately hurt, but you know that very soon in your life there will be blood and pain and ick. It's the dread and the immediate neausea, and worse than that, the knowledge that you didn't appreciate how good your life was up until that moment.

Well, so my back "went" and I lumbered up to the doctor and bawled my eyes out and she prescribed me a MOUNTAIN of valium and some other painkillers, and I lumbered back home and phoned my mother and bawled my eyes out and lay on the floor and bawled my eyes out and so the weekend progressed. The main problem was the fear that I was going back to where I had been before - no job, living at home, immobile and drugged up and filled with misery. But slowly it got better and there was light at the end of the tunnel and I stopped fantasising about suicide plans and got back up off the floor and got on with life.

Pumping myself full of painkillers and anti-inflammatory medication has, however, had two very unpleasant side effects, and this is the crux of the nub of the gist of this post: I am on occasion violently nauseated, and I am also constantly violently constipated. Feel my pain, and admire how brave and wonderful I am. Someone, please, pass me a medal.

Constipation is not a topic that should be blogged outside of dooce.com, and certainly nothing I would have felt comfortable with sharing with the world before about six months ago, but ladies and gentlefolk, having spent the last week lying again on the floor of my flat with plenty of time for reflection, I realised how much my life has changed, and in particular how much my life has changed me. Case in point: last night, in bed, I was overcome with helpless giggles as He Who Only... let rip the most ALMIGHTY fart the world has ever heard.

Ask my siblings - two years ago, I would have been so horrified and so prim about that kind of thing that I would immediately have left the flat, the building, and possibly even the country, so mortified and disgusted was I by this kind of expression and admission of body functions. I could never bear to have people burp around me, and if a belch occured even in an adjoining room, I would immediately fall into a faint. Now, I sit at our dinner table and burp right at He Who Only... and then fall under the table laughing at my own (pathetic) burping abilities.

What I'm saying is, I'm hugely thankful for what I have. My back is still sore, but not debilitatingly so. My bowels are quite clogged up, but I can still party with the rest of you. And yes, sometimes I feel the urge to vomit so strongly I risk crippling myself for life in the dash for the bathroom, but apart from that all is shiny and rosey, and smells slightly flatulent, but in the most amusing kind of way.

Many thanks.

I will post soon. I swear it, I will post soon.

But here -

I cried. And then I cried. And then I cried with the laughing. Crying laughing at work. I nearly put my back out again. I *heart* this blog.

Also, some Jon Ronson for a rainy Monday.

Good day to you.

Hello there now.

How are you, my lovelys? The reason there have been no updates recently are:

1. My back went all gammy again, and I spent the last week either hyperventilating, proclaiming my own doom to anyone who would listen, having panic attacks, bawling crying in public places and lying on the ground in a glaze of valium.

2. I have been off work, doing some, but by no means all, of the above.

3. I am now back at work, all is looking up and better and touch wood and all that jazz, although working under the influence of (minor doses of) valium is an interesting experience.

4. I have an essay due in two weeks time.

5. This of course means that I will update over the weekend. Be prepared for many posts that will mainly be about (a) what a severe amount of pain I've been in and (b) what a brave soldier I am.

Many thanks.

I have found a new hangover cure, one that will change the quality of your life from 7am to 12pm, when you are usually suffering through the worst while struggling to understand why those people wearing suits and ties keep asking you to do things when all you want to do is curl up in a ball and die. Well, no more dehydrated suffering for you. I have found the way, and this way does not involve unhealthy fry-ups, sugar filled caffeine drinks or jumping naked into the nearest large body of water (or indeed simply jumping naked into the nearest large body). This way is a guaranteed winner.

What you will need for this hangover cure:
- A pounding headache, heaving stomach and about 4 hours of sleep the night before.
- You will need to be over anxious and in a hurry to get to a meeting.
- All overland trains must be delayed, with no announcements made or explanations given.
- There must also be a problem with the Central line, and you must be held at the ticket gates by surly Underground staff for up to five minutes.
- You must allow two packed commuter tubes to pass before finally managing to squeeze onto the third, equally packed tube.
- Finally, you will need a middle aged crazy lady to start pushing and yelling for no reason.

And then the hangover cure is ready to begin.

This morning, I tried it for myself, when, one stop into my journey, a crazy middle aged lady squeezed on to the carriage I was packed into, demanding that the entire carriage move up one spot so that she could fit on. When none of us moved, due to the fact that there was absolutely nowhere for us to move, she fixated on me, and started yelling at me that I wasn’t letting her onto the train. I have long since perfected my London Middle Distance Stare and my La La La I Can’t Hear You London Facial Expression, and I immediately put both in place. Crazy Lady kept screaming. The doors then closed behind her, catching her right on her Crazy Lady behind and forcing her even closer to me and the rest of the horrified train.

The train then pulled off, which apparently surprised her more than anything else, because she promptly fell on top of me and two other people, jamming us against the plastic barrier. Crazy Lady then started giving out again, this time seemingly to the powers of gravity and the inventor of the locomotive engine. I would have shaken my head and tutted, but there wasn’t even enough room for me to do that.

However, I noticed when I was finally freed from the crush of people and made my way out of the tube station and towards work that I was feeling considerably better. Remarkably better. Unbelievably better. The weird adrenaline rush that I had experienced when she had first started screaming, the second jolt I got when she landed on top of me, and the third feeling of "maybe she’s going to spontaneously combust through her own powers of anger and self righteousness and take all of us to hell with her" I had for the rest of the journey, with absolutely no way of moving about or shaking it off, had completely expelled the remaining alcohol from my body.

On Sunday, we unexpected found ourselves with hours and hours to waste, since our original plans for Sunday had only recently fallen through. We had nothing to eat in the house, so it was decided that the best idea all round, since we were too tired to schlep around the supermarket, would be to go to the pub for a Sunday roast.

Since we had also neglected to eat anything more than a twix all day, I decided the best idea, while waiting for my nut roast with all the trimmings, would be to leisurely sip on a calming pint of Guinness. By the time the food arrived, it was all gone, and so to help wash down the glorious meal (which was truly glorious - we barely spoke to each other while there was still food on our plates), we thought the best thing to do would be to go around the corner to the lovely pub that we love in order to have another leisurely pint.

"I’m not going to drink too much today," I declared, taking off my coat and settling in while He Who Only… ordered at the bar.

"Of course not," he said, returning with two lovely pints, "neither am I."

"Will we have one more?" I said, not fifteen minutes later, as our two lovely pints came to their inevitable conclusion.

"One more," he agreed, "just one more. I’m not going to drink too much."

"Neither am I," I established, ordering at the bar.

Those two pints also came and went.

"Well… what do you want to do now?" he asked me half an hour later. "Shall we go home, or shall we just have one more?"

I checked my watch.

"Why don’t we have one more, and then call it a day?" I said, "It’s still light outside after all."

"Good idea," he said, heading to the bar, "One more. I’m not going to drink too much."

"GET SOME CRISPS!" I screamed as he stood at the bar, still close enough to hear me whisper.

We were all sitting in the front room of He Who Only…’s brother’s flat in Brighton. There were six of us - me, He Who Only…, He Who Only…’s brother T, He Who Only…’s brother’s fiancée G and He Who Only…’s parents. I had taken my shoes off before the grown ups arrived, and had noticed that, half way through a sentence, He Who Only…’s mother had caught sight of my new tattoo, momentarily lost the capacity for speech, and had then bravely struggled through the end of a suddenly shortened sentence while pretending that nothing was wrong.

I was therefore feeling a little uncomfortable - I want my in-laws to like me, you see, as does every lady who has a vested interest in their gentleman. I moved position on the sofa, so that the offending foot was now hidden underneath me. It is especially important, I think, to win the favour of the maternal parent, as they will hold sway over the opinion of the paternal parent, and once the mother-in-law likes you, it’s difficult for the boyfriend thereafter to dump you quite as quickly and easily as he may like to. He Who Only…’s mother doesn’t approve of tattoos. I would now have to work even harder to impress.

We were talking, as ladies often do, of babies. The wife of a cousin of He Who Only… was about to give birth to a baby at any moment, and there was much speculation as to when it would happen, and would the result would be, gender-wise. He Who Only…’s mother reflected for a moment on her slight sadness at never having had a daughter to call her own, as boys run heavily through their family.

“It’s mainly girls in my family,” G said.

“Me too,” I said, “it’s virtually all girls on both sides of mine.”

He Who Only…’s looked delighted. “So you can both have lots of girls!” she exclaimed, rubbing her hands together.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, aware of the many deep shades of panicked-red I was turning, and changed position. I stared at the floor, and then realised the offending foot was back on show. I moved again, took a gulp of tea that was supposed to look casual and relaxed, and almost choked.

Bright On

Information round up:

This site is the newest, most addictive, most popular thing since the last thing on the internet that everyone liked. Go now, and tell your friends, and then get bored and go somewhere else that has pictures of animals in plastercast. Or something.

Last ten searches the led to my site:
1. "deliberately sabotage a relationship"
2. "London Transport liverpool station escalator accidents"
3. "appropriate responses, when your friends dog dies"
4. "Alistair Barry"
5. "World Cup Fever and Ireland and Robbie Keane and breast"
6. "Swan Swan Hummingbird Hoorah"
7. "you're going to die! so yippe-aye-aye I whooped"
8. "ronni ancona feet"
9. "evil eve porn"
10. "sibling crime"

Firefly game. See how easy it is to crash a space ship.

The dog one is my favourite of all the animalsontheunderground. Please buy me the pants.

And that is all my news now. Why not tell me yours?