FOUND:

ONE LOST BEAR

CORNER OF MAIN STREET AND QUINSBOROUGH ROAD, BRAY CO.WICKLOW, OUTSIDE HILTON’S PHARMACY

WILL BE RETURNED WITH FREE TODDLER

(Photoshop tricks learned HERE)

Men in Bray seem to have a particularly low tolerance of female drivers.  Being a female taxi-driver, my job is therefore quite tricky.  Male drivers can get away with minor fuck-ups, but if a female driver does something slightly amiss, she gets rolling eyes and sentences which usually begin with “Typical…” and end with “… shouldn’t be allowed on the roads”.  It’s pretty annoying.

For this reason, I’ve built up an anti-cynicism wall which prevents me from being irritated by chauvinistic comments.  I’ve also dialled down the ‘pink’, my feminine flair only gets me into trouble in this job, so now I’m bland, nondescript and silent (for the most part).

The most extraordinary thing has happened though.  Conversations with some women in my cab are starting to sound like this;

Miss X: “I have a boyfriend, you know.”

Me: “Good for you, they can be handy to have around, sometimes.”

*Miss X rants for a bit on her boyfriend’s bad habits before falling silent, lost in thought*

Miss X: “I have no friends here in Bray though… no ’special’ friends anyway.  Can I have your number?”

Me: (Taken aback) “Ummm… ok.”

Miss X: (Hands me her phone) “Here, ring your own phone so the numbers show up…”

I’ve dubiously exchanged numbers with four women now.  Two of them text me for mini-conversations quite reguarly and keep asking me out to the pub. 

They seem like nice people, not overly odd or anything, just in need of a friend.  Why me though?  Why a random bland nondescript silent taxi driver?

Then it hit me!

I wear black.  I wear ‘comfortable’ shoes.  I have tattoos, and I don’t wear a whole lot of make-up.  This whole time, I’ve been sending out a message to a group of people I hadn’t even considered before!  It’s 2008, K8.  Jeez.  In this day and age, I’m surprised at myself.  I’ve lost out on some serious tippage just because I reserve my flirts for drunken men, dammit.

I’ve noticed though… in one month I’ve gathered four women’s mobile numbers, but during my entire life I’ve only ever collected two from men.  Isn’t that odd?!?!  Do I have lesbianistic qualities? 

I have conversed many times with myself on the subject of lesbianism, and we both agree that it is not my cup of tea.  I personally don’t understand how four ovaries can co-habit without major storm fronts developing.  I love men.  I need men.  They are the cello to my violin, and I couldn’t live without them.   I mean sure, Denise Richards has amazing hair and Sienna Miller has a smashing set of legs, but they come with a side-helping of maintenance which would bug the hell out of me.

Still, never say never I suppose.  I’ve never done the drunken experimentation as a teenager thing, but I might put lesbianism on my list of ‘things to do before I die’.  I hope The Accidental Terrorist doesn’t mind.

Isn’t this sunshine just the absolute bee’s knees?

Today is my Saturday (being a quiet day on the taxi market) so I get to catch up on ‘puter stuff like designing a t-shirt for the Mini Marathon…

…and writing bloggy things. 

Saturday was excellent.  I and the Accidental Terrorist dumped our chisellers with the family and went to a wedding of epic proportions in Co. Westmeath.  We were a cozy group of about 50, most of whom we knew, but hadn’t seen in about ten years.  I danced the YMCA and played for the crowd on a grand piano which are things I only do when I am extremely happy. 

The reception was held at Middleton House in Castletown Geoghan, which is an old recently renovated house.  It’s only used for group bookings, so we had the entire place to ourselves.  The staff are to be praised from a height… the food was perfect, and they were polite the entire time, even through the many passes they received from various drunken ladies.  It’s an excellent venue, should you need one for whatever purpose. 

The chap in the B&B we stayed in told us that he used to be a Guard who was stationed in that house 25 years ago.  His job was to prevent the house from any damage caused by locals who were itching to burn it down, being that it was built and owned by a Protestant family.  The history of the place was fascinating stuff.

This was our dancing-area, the band were in the gap to the right of the staircase, and there are two bars with comfy couches and fireplaces either side of the picture.

I got to pooch around a few rooms too - each plusher than the last - and met a spectre in one of the basement hallways.  I took a picture of him for you:

 We had a very one-sided conversation briefly before whatever it was buggered off.  I think he wanted me to follow him but I know the rules of horror films, so I didn’t. 

I explained more on Brian’s blog’s comments, with details on why I’m not crazy and didn’t imagine the whole thing.

Bank Holiday Monday should have seen me hackney-cabbing in Bray, but instead I got called to dig Baldeagle out of a hole.  Baldeagle is one of TAT’s most spurious of friends, who works for our Irish version of Fed-Ex.  He had double-booked himself, so we swapped transport and I got to drive a big van from the Quays in Dublin City, all the way up to Belfast and back, while he got to pull donuts and practise his hand-brake turns in a field with my own jam-jar.

It was pretty nice cruising up and down motorways all day like that in the sunshine, apart from the fact that I’ve got a trucker’s tan now.  One white arm just looks odd.

How was your weekend?

There’s something wrong with the way my brain works.  It won’t let me censor the stuff that comes out of my mouth, seriously, here are a few verbal ejaculations that I’ve produced recently to prove that I need help:

To the guy in the pizza house: “Yes, I’m sure I can fit a 9 inch in…”

To a mechanic at a tyre changing shop: “I’m not sure, I haven’t had my fluids checked for a while.”

To a passenger in my cab: “Yes that Parkinson fella is a master debater, isn’t he?”

To a lady who commented on my car-seat covers and recommended leather coverings: “Ah you know… it’s all the same on the whole.”

To a friend who grabs her car-keys and asks me: “Are you coming?!” 
“No, I have a wedgie.  Oh… right… yes.”

To a young lady in my cab who commented on how she liked to see women fighting for male-oriented roles: “Yes, male taxi drivers are a hard bunch to stay on top of, alright…”

(Also on a related note- does anyone know of a good foundation to disguise blushing?)

Tenacious T has memed me with the ‘6 words’ meme again.  Here’s a perfect opportunity to stick it in…

Lack of sleep breeds brain farts.

Our house wasn’t broken into last night thank Jehovah, but instead I was robbed today in broad daylight  at work.

You might be imagining poor K8 the Gr8 wrestling for dear life with a scumbag and a handbag full of takings, but no, I’m learning a more sinister truth lately… it’s the Toffs in the hills surrounding Bray that are the real scoundrels.

I was sent to a large modern house on Nouveau Riche Avenue in the suburbs of Bray to pick up Mr and Mrs Toff.  I was supposed to be bringing them to Blacklyon (in Bray or Greystones or wherever the hell it is), but soon found out that they wanted to go to Knocklyon, which is near Firhouse on the M50.  CHA-CHING!- thinks me, as I radio the correction in.

-o-

Base: Ok, go ahead K8, That’ll be €48.

Mr Toff: (who is sitting beside me) No.  No no no no no.  That’s too much.  That would bring me to the airport! No no no, €30.

I am stuck in a really nasty spot.  I now have to radio in the complaint to see if Base will drop the price, when I know they won’t.  I dither on the CB for a few seconds, then Mr Toff decides to ring the base himself.

He argues loudly and gives Headquarters hell, screaming about rates and distance and time and reports to management, then he orders me to bring him back home.  His wife supports her husband by repeating the last word of each sentence back to him, which bugged the shit out of me.

Mr. Toff: This is absolutely ridiculous (now off the phone) behaviour from a reputable company.  We shall never call this company again besides the call they’ll get from me tomorrow morning with proof that their rates are extortionate.  Blah blah blah blah rant rant rant, all the way home.  In my face, too, which was really bloody distracting.

-o-

When I dropped Mr and Mrs Toff back to their house (may it burn to the ground), they gave me absolutely no money for my time at all, even though I was polite throughout the whole ordeal.  I had just wasted 40 minutes of my workday on two wankers just for the sake of being nice.  I should have kicked them out of the car the second I realised they weren’t going to pay!!! 

Curse this fucking need to please!!!!

I’m absolutely fucking raging that I didn’t kick them out right there on the N11 and get to bask in the image of their angry lost faces getting smaller and smaller in my rear-view mirror as I drove away for a proper fare.

I have most definately learned my lesson for the next time this happens.

“Sorry mate, pay up or stay here.  It’s not personal, it’s business!”

(MOSTLY FOUND AT WARNING LABEL GENERATOR.COM)

I was alone in the house last night, and was doing what I usually do after work… I had let the dog in and fed him, had then turned off all the downstairs lights and toddled on up to the computer room to stare at the screen for a few hours before bed.

Thing is, while I was lost in cyberland, a noise from downstairs entered my consciousness.  The front door handle was rattling.  I froze and listened.  There was silence for about 10 seconds, then suddenly a fierce growling began, followed by ‘RAWR RAR RAR RAR RAWR!!!!’ which was the comforting sound of Wouldye going mental.  I went downstairs, found the door unlocked but closed, had a good look up and down the street, then came back inside to calm the mutt (who I had presumed had seen a cat and had tried to open the front door himself to chase it).

Tonight after work, TAT told me that Mrs. Two Doors Down had been broken into… last night!

He told me that the Gardee had been up earlier that day to take fingerprints, and that they had an eyewitness account of a man looking in MY front window and attempting to enter the premises while I was upstairs.

Atta boy, Wouldye. 

Did I ever tell you I absolutely love my dog?

Yes, I have indeed inserted the sharp contents of my kitchen drawers into many hidden nooks and crevices around the house for easy access, and there is a souvenir police baton hidden under my coat-rack in the hall.   He can fuck right off if he thinks me and my dog are easy victims.

I’ll let you know tomorrow if I was broken into tonight or not, and whether I kicked ass or let Wouldye do all the work.  Stay tuned!

Grandad maimed me elaborately. 

I’ve to describe meself in 6 words, which would be -

Moody; Loyal; Misinterpreted; Lazy; Ditzy; Strange

You know what?  I’m going to save you all the ball-ache of doing this or explaining to me that you’ve already done it, thank you very much, and I’m going to go off and trawl the internet for random blogs as a random curiosity project for myself instead.

Here’s who I found:

My Strange Blog… Rick Gottlieb’s Blog… RealFake… Stalking with the stars… Truckdriver Blog 

(You don’t know me, but I just maimed you.  My dad made me do it.)

I got more hard-earned payment for my webdesign efforts today!  I burned candles from all ends working on Celt Clan Ink, and it’s pretty much finished, barring a few tweaks and a more involved forms page.  There are now some pretty excellent photos in there.

So anyway, back to my payment:

What’s that all about then?

Ogham was carved and read from BOTTOM to TOP.
(Also carved, occasionally, right to left).

Also written as ogam or ogum, it is pronounced “AHG-m” or “OH-ehm.”

Ogham served as an alphabet for one of the ancient Celtic languages. Its origin is uncertain: it may have been adapted from a sign language.
Current understanding is that the names of the main twenty letters are also the names of 20 trees sacred to the druids.
Some authors have suggested the existance of a 13 month calendar which shared some of these names.

A 15th century treatise on Ogham, The Book of Ballymote, confirms that ogham was a secret, ritualistic language.
However, there is no direct evidence that the Ogham alphabet was used [in antiquity] for divination or any other magical purposes.  (Taken from http://ogham.lyberty.com/oghamintro.html)

The first third of the tattoo is the name of my firstborn.  The numbers show the date of his birth, and the infinity symbol represents his place in this world.

The latter part is the name of my little girl, with a smiley face slyly hidden to represent her infectious happiness.

I used the following alphabet (there are many different versions) and added my own tweaks and scribbles to add more information:

I’m aware that I’m going to have to explain all of this many many times during my life, but it’s ok.  It’ll give my taxi punters a good conversation start,  I’m sick of talking about the weather.

The Accidental Terrorist has gone a bit mental regarding the website contract, he is planning a portrait of Wouldye on his shoulderblade, and has already gone for some celtic warrior inking:

Pretty amazing art, innit?

What was that website again?  Oh yeah… Celt Clan Ink!  Great design, isn’t it?  I wonder who wrote that site…

Mr O’Boyle was in his senior years and lived alone in a quiet cul-de-sac in the suburbs of an unforgiving town.  His cupboards were bare, his house was cold, and few lights were lit to burn a hole in his solitude.

Atta had grown up in a different environment, a world apart spoilt by ample means.  Her family lived in an era where their planet was on the brink of a crisis - lords fought for land and fuel and gained neither, for both were being rapidly depleted.  Paranoia sulked on every corner and leaders passed their problems around like viruses, each problem mutating cleverly and rapidly becoming immune to old fashioned common sense.

Mr O’Boyle shivered.  He eyed his coal basket with a similar gaze to that of a lost soul for a bottle of gin.  The old clock by the fridge ticked stubbornly and argued time with each echo that bounced from the cold stone walls.  Mr O’Boyle listened and remained still in the warmth of his decrepid chair.

Several hundred years passed on Atta’s planet.  Her great-great-great grandchildren grew without knowing of the hardships their predecessors had battled through, and were genetically sound, intelligent and resourceful.  Commerce had grown clever in its old age, and had thrown its resources into science and learning.  Tolerance of material value had melted away and revealed bright young tendrils of self-sufficiency underneath. 

Mr O’Boyle slowly stood and his bones (dismissive of his longing for pain relief and warmth) slowed his crossing to the fireplace.  He stooped slowly to pile the tinder and charcoal together into a flammable tent, then reached for a box of matches which he slowly slid open.  His tremors reverberated through the tips of his fingers making the simple act of lighting a match pure torture.

A small child played under an apple tree, turning leaves to pure energy with her new birthday toy; She watched each glow and fizzle with mild amusement while her grandmother still regarded the effect with pure unbridled disbelief.  The third sun was rising rapidly and reminded them of dinner and avoidance of evening heat.  They stretched their hands towards each other and stood up, brushing fibres from their clothes.  They walked home and chatted about the way things were.

The match connected and snapped in half as the last one had done before it.  Mr O’Boyle sighed and removed another, sucking his breath in an attempt to quiet his shuddering hands.  This third match connected and burst into life.  It travelled rapidly to the wood in the fire and was nested underneath, its energy enveloping everything above it so that Mr O’Boyle himself was bathed in a warm pool of flickering heat.

Atta’s world imploded, a fact unknown to its occupants who had by this time grown scarce.  The old world ceased to exist in the blink of a sparrow’s eye, and a new one was born of parallel molecular structure.  Atta’s world soon learned the skills of simple cell creation and began to adapt.

Mr O’Boyle basked in the fiery glow, and decided to make a cup of tea in the spirit of self-indulgence. By the time it was made, Atta’s world had invented the car.

Meanwhile the fire burned incomprehensibly slowly turning it’s dissolving carbon flakes to dust.

Rest easy ladies and gentlemen, for it has arrived:

We all knew it would be created, that it was a matter of inevitability, and now here it is.

Bloggers United

Sign up and take part in what will soon be the biggest blogging forum in the world!

*cue fireworks*

Remember, you heard it from me first.

Thanks Roy