K8 the GR8

Puppychild likes to watch DVDs as she falls alseep, it’s a wicked habit, I know that.  I plan to put a stop to it as soon as I can figure out how…

…anyway normally she’d ask for Cinderella or the Care Bears or some Godawful crud like that but tonight she impressed me no end;

“Mommy?” (shouted from the top of the stairs)

“Yes-see?”

“Wanna watch?”

“What you wanna watch?”

“King Arthur.  King of the Brittins!”

Now you’d expect a child of three years of age to produce many clear words relating to stuff she knows through endless practice, but these knocked me for six altogether - turns out she watches this film sometimes with her dad while I’m at work and is well impressed with the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog.   I went to the bookshelf and found it - Monty Python’s The Holy Grail. 

She loves this film a little bit too much.

I’m waiting for that day though… that day when I find myself having to man-handle her in the supermarket for wanting to trolleyseat-surf, and for her to shout for all to hear…

“Help! Help! I’m being repressed! Come see the violence inherent in the system!”

Ahh.  It’s good to see the apple hasn’t fallen far from the nnNi.

I don’t like the circus.

Apart from the fact that they let clowns run around willy-nilly all un-restrained like that and the whipped animals that look like they could use a year’s timeout in St. John o’ Gods, it’s the lack of eye contact, the feeling that you’ve been robbed of something - part of your soul perhaps - as you walk out of the tent at the end.

So, thusfar in my kid’ses life, the circus is the Accidental Terrorist’s department.  I got a text earlier on today while I was skulking on the streets of Bray;

“We’re at d fossett circus rathnew.  Ringside for free!  Lovin it”

I called him up to find out what the craic was with the word ‘free’, and learned that TAT had tried to pay entrance for himself and the kids, only to be ushered through straight to the ring-side seats without any payment at all!  They spoiled my family rotten.  They dragged TAT into the ring with some other unsuspecting audience folk and performed a levitation trick that left Puppychild in awe of her daddy, and had excellent escapades with motorbikes in cages, apparently. 

Best of all?  Not an animal in sight, apart from one or two Shetland Ponies (which are only mythical creatures anyway…) so no animals harmed here then.

I was so impressed with the sound of it all. 

Fossett’s circus is run by an Irish family, who are now the proud recipients of a grant from the National Lottery and Arts or something like that, being that they’ve recently been bumped to the bonafide ‘artists’ category, so they’re the real deal and stuff.

They’re in Rathnew for a bit.  Might even pop in meself which would be a berry big deal for me.

Here’s a happy picture of some crazy people.  Please ignore the weird colouring, photoshop hates me.  Also please ignore the VPL.

It occurred to me tonight how very similar blogging is to brushing my toddler’s hair.

I keep meaning to approach it but end up having to put it off until such a time as I know I’ve left it too long, by which stage it’s time to either launch into the knarliness until it’s done, or just cut the whole lot off altogether.

So, I get all my bits together and begin the job.  Roughly fifteen minutes in I then realise that it’s a bigger job than I thought and that it’ll be a long session, usually with much objection from the hardware in question which complicates matters even further.

Then I realise that my problems are probably due to length, at which point the scissors come out and the subject matter is shortened but not quite in the fashion I’d imagined… to avoid further damage I quit while the going’s good, knowing that I’m probably going to get some very strange comments indeed, but hey, maybe it’ll work out better the next time.

Most of the time I just sit and stare at it, wondering how other people manage to incorporate plaits and twists and pretty pink bows not just occassionally, but every single bloody day!

I stopped outside the Boomerang in Bray and he slid into my car.  He looked at me dubiously and then broke out into a sickly leer.

“I’fe nenner sheela wooni taxinirver befowar” he slurred.

“Come again?”  I strained to hear intelligeable words in the drunken murmers that followed.

“I’fe.  Never.  Seen.  A. Woman. Taxi driver. Before.” he said as though I was a deaf simpleton.  “Areyiz deaf or wha?”

“Cheeky.  Where would you like to go?”

“Your houshe.”

“Nice one.  You can babysit while me and the fella go to the pub…”

“Ah bollix.  Roigh… Ceemartnoad.”

“Sorry?”

“Sheertinapuck” he hiccuped.

My pulse raced as I got him to pronounce his address again and again, each word sounding completely different from the last.  I glance at him to find he’s gazing at my cleavage. 

“Oi!!” I shout.  “Look, it’s pissing rain out there… you sure you want to walk, sunshine?”

“Sorry, sorry…”  he winks and tells me the name of the pub he lives above.  I pull out of my parking spot and then jam on the brakes just a smidge so that he lurches forward.

“Belt up”  I suggest kindly.

“Heh heh.  Crazy bitch.  Heyy hurryup der, I have to geh home for a kip before me wankxin’.”

“Ugh.  That’s too much information, thanks.”

“Wax-in, I sed!”

“You’re getting waxed?”

“Yeah I’f ta get me chest waxed a’ half-eigh.  For chari-ee.”

“Seriously?  Fair play!  Ow  though.  What’s the charity?”

“Sain’ Cat’rins.  It’s gona hurt, I’m a hairy cunt I am…  so hairy I…”

“…Did you say Saint Catherines?!?”  I interrupted, hardly believing the irony. 

From a letter I recently got from my son’s school:

“Dear All.
St Catherines is in urgent discussions with the H S E about finance.  We are hugely in the red at the moment and both the H S E and the Department of Education are slow to come to our assistance.

We are fortunate that several fund raising events are being undertaken for us and while these cannot take the place of proper funding by the H S E and the Dept, we are greatly dependent on voluntary funds to assist in the short term.  I am appealing for your support…”

“Yeah, I’m aneeejih, I know.”

“You’re no eejit”  I give him my most loving smile. ‘You’re my hero.  My kid goes to that school.”

“Yeah?!?”  He looked pleased.  He gazed at my boobs all the way to Greystones and I didn’t mind a jot, because it occured to me that maybe the image will help soothe his dire agony later on.  Maybe when he gets to see his own nipples which have been just ripped off his chest by an over-zealous drunken waxer, my boobs will be the happy place he goes to.  It’s the least I could do.

What a nice chap…

I was kind of nervous at the prospect of meeting Jefferson Davis, I’ve heard his podcasts with BrianF and Dad and by the sounds of it, he is one intelligent guy.  I tend to steer clear of intelligent people as a rule, they have a habit of showing me up.  My half of the conversation seems to fill up with potholes of confused space, making life difficult for the other person who soon gets tired of prompting and goes in search of something more titillating.

This was not so with Jefferson though.  We hooked up at Headrambles Manor and I watched as Grandad slowly emptied can after can of Guinness into his and Jefferson’s belly and banter flowed free.  We skyped BrianF to make him jealous, spoke about things that are and things that should be, and watched Dustin honour Ireland in his own special way and it was good.  Jefferson’s a quiet bloke with an accepting presence and the skill of throwing out honesty that makes you feel like an old friend.  Seriously great company to be in, innit?

I brought him to Johnny Fox’s for five minutes because circumstances were unfavourable (this pub has seriously lost it’s people skills), then to Barracuda in Bray where we got some grub and got to watch the sky turn from purple to brown by the sea-shore. 

Today I dragged him all over the place, or at least to as many aesthetically interesting places in Wicklow as I could within reason.  We went to Lough Dan at the brink of the Sally Gap to gaze down into the valley for a bit, then strolled around Victoria’s Way to meditate and admire the statues (I was worried about bringing Puppychild to this as some of Victoria’s art is disturbing to say the least, but as it turned out, the butterfly season is here which kept her busy enough!).  Jefferson and I admired the statues, books and craftwork in the shop which was empty of any other living soul. He watched as I helped myself to some jewellery and left money under the brass monkey on the counter, and appreciated how truly Zen-like this Victoria character is.

We got an Avoca take-away (Avoca Foccaccia is the yummiest Foccaccia there is) and drove home to eat and wait for Laughingboy to return home from school.  I was dissapointed that the neighbours behaved themselves and denied Jefforson any scandal, but there you go.

I thought Powerscourt deserved a bit of a mooch, but we got there just as the gardens were closing which was a crying shame, so I brought him to Powerscourt waterfall instead.  Jefferson farted about with his camera over towards the waterfall itself while I brought the kids to the playground.

I say ‘I brought the kids’, but ashamedly I got pretty excited when I saw it and almost forgot to bring the children with me…  it’s one of those highly-sophisticated jobs with lever-controlled sand diggers and climbing towers and a most excellent roundabout with central controlling.  I -  sorry - we… had a ball and Jefferson had to drag the lot of us away kicking and screaming when it was time to go home.  It was quite embarrasing in hindsight.  To give an example of it’s excellence, I noticed that the entire bus of (adult) Croatian toursits were not over by the waterfall farting about with their cameras,  instead they were clambering all over the rope-bridges and photographing each other making tits of themselves by the monkey-bars, giggling away like four-year-olds.  It was quite amazing to watch.

Today was the best tourism epic since Gwen the French student of ‘03.  Thanks Jeffo

Once again, K8’s faith in humanity is given a massive whack across the face with an iron crowbar. 

I have defended the travelling community before (being that I live amongst them and kind of feel I should give it a shot)… I think I said something about them deserving the right to fight for respect within an unforgiving settled community?

What complete bollocks this is.

Here’s the scene:

-0-

I’m parked up at a garage in Bray, looking for a lady who wants to go to Arklow as per instructions from the taxi base.  I’m scanning the area which is deserted apart from a young lad aged eleven or twelve who sits by himself on a window-sill with his head resting on his knees.  Being that I am a girl who tends to think outside her box, I approach the kid.

“Hey kid… you looking for a taxi?”

The kid looks up and seems somewhat relieved.  “Yeah, I want to go home to Arklow” he says.

I convey my successful pick up over the CB and am informed that the fare would be €65.  I turn around to the kid.  “Do you think you can handle €65?”

The kid looks panicky and says; “Oh no I have no money with me, my mammy said she’d pay for me when I get home.  She’ll give you the money then.”

Fishy, but still highly likely. 

“What’s the address?” I ask.

“I dunno” the kid says apologetically; “we only just moved in.  It’s near the main street”.

Something smelled funny, and I don’t mean metaphorically.  The child was scruffy, and smelled very faintly of urine (as many children do) but also had an unmistakeable accent.  He looked nervous, and was hugging a bottle of orange soda.  He had intelligent eyes, and looked me directly in the pupils when he spoke to me.

My instinct roared.  It warned me that I was about to be swindled, but I wondered if I had the right to refuse a child safe passage to his parent?  What if he was speaking the truth?  I’m a mother, I can’t do that to a kid!  Besides (more truthfully), €65 is a lot to turn down.

I take off.  The kid asks me how far it was to Arklow, but apart from that one question he is silent for the entire journey.  When we arrive at the town, he directs me into a small housing estate on the outskirts. 

“It’s that house on the corner, I’ll be back in a second”

I let him out, scolding my instinct for being such a cynical bitch.  Then I watch as the kid passes the house in question at high speed, and dissappears around the corner on to the main road.  I fire the ignition and fly after him in first gear.  The main road is deserted.  I crawl up and down for a few minutes knowing well that the little fucker is hiding somewhere.

I drive back to the housing estate and call the taxi base to see if there is any protocol for this type of thing.  Apparently the union doesn’t have an insurance policy against runners, because there is no union.  I ring the accidental terrorist who tells me to come home (seeing as I happily live near Arklow anyway) and informs me that he regrettably has no secret ninja techniques for dealing with this situation.  The Police are dreadfully under-funded and would probably appreciate my not informing them of this misdemeanour. 

I couldn’t go home.  I wanted to find him and run him over.

I drive very quietly until I get back to the road the kid would be walking.  I shift into neutral and slink along with my eyes peeled.

About 200m ahead of me, I spot an old man.  There’s someone else too, who briefly flashes a face, then hops over the 6ft wall beside him.  I toy with the idea of scaling the wall to chase the kid, but thought better being that my trousers cost a few bob.  Anyway, what use would there be in catching him?  Sure, I could beat him up a bit to calm the anger, but I’d still be broke.

I stop to speak to the old man who does indeed identify a young boy holding a bottle of orange soda.  He also tells me that the field over the wall beside us could be used as a shortcut to get to the traveller’s quarters ‘over the way’ as he puts it.

End of pathetic sodding scene.

-0-

I knew that kid was a knacker.  I still drove him ‘home’ because it was the end of my shift and I was heading that way anyway.  I was aware of the kid’s movements the whole time, but he gave me no cause for concern whatsoever.  He just sat back with his arms crossed and gazed out the window silently which is refreshing for someone with my job. 

I’m not angry about the money, I’m angry that I was so fucking naive to think that it’s possible that there is such a thing as an honest traveller. 

They are a crafty race who have plenty of scruples and plenty of cash, so do not take your eyes off a traveller for one fucking second if you find yourself near one, for they would have the eyes sold out of your head soon as look at you, no matter what age they are.  Kudos to them, they had me fooled… but not anymore. 

They’re in a great position… they don’t pay taxes, and it’s well known that they enjoy the fruits of ill-gotten gains, yet the gardaí won’t go anywhere near them.  They demand respect from the community and free land from the council, then fleece them as soon as their backs are turned!

Where’s the honour in that, though?!  Why is it that the only events warranting shop and pub shut-down around here are Christmas day, and a knacker’s funeral?  They live by skimming money off tax paying citizens… so why are we respecting that again?

If they’re so great, then why aren’t we all travellers?  I’m already halfway there, sure.  We’re scrounging a house off the council, but at least we’re trying to get back on this bastard of a housing ladder… we were almost on it too, once, but slipped off again when Laughingboy was born.  Circumstance kicked us in the nuts and now here we are, still trying to crawl out of the dependancy pit seven years later.  It sucks!  Yet, there the knackers smugly sit in their dingy halting sites, knowing that their head-men and women of the family are worth literally millions of euros.

Here’s an insane question: If you had millions of euros would you squat in a dingy piss-stinking commune in the clogged pores of the Irish countryside, or would you bugger off to Thailand? 

Answers on a postcard to:

One pissed off taxi driver
28 Shithole View
Dunfoundusaplacetohousethescumbags
Co. Wicklow
Ireland

(What?!  What do you mean this post is too long?  It’s not!  My blog is too narrow!)

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?

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!

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…

I have another problem.

You might read the following and advise me to pull the silver spoon out of my sphincter.  Part of me wouldn’t blame you.  This subject just disturbs the hell out of me.

“Fuck, man.  I just fell off the fuckin’ wall again and it fuckin’ hurts like a cunt.  Jesus Christ.  Arrgh.. Fuck.  Fuckin’ cunt.”

This is a direct quote from an eight year old kid on my road.  I happen to like this kid, and I’ve had pretty interesting conversations with him in the past.  The problem is though, that his dear old mum is apparently completely useless at her job.  She’s the hoop-earring shiny tracksuit type who loves to flirt loudly with anything possessing a penis over the age of 18.  She can be heard screaming phrases like;

“Jason, get off that fucking wall or I’ll fucking beat the shit out of you… no no, don’t even try to be a fuckin’ smartarse with me, sunshine!” 

Charming, isn’t it?  Medbh wrote a post today about how goddamn inappropriate this sort of street-theatre is.

I think I know why Jason curses so much; obviously because he hasn’t learned any better from his mother, but I clearly get the impression that it’s the only way he’ll get attention or love from anybody.  He was absolutely delighted when I yelled at him for teaching Puppychild the word ‘cunt’ which she sang loudly to us for several days.  He apologised, and said he wouldn’t curse again in front of the smallest kids.  He now warns me when he sees me, and advises me to close my ears.  What a thoughtful little smartarse.

I’m past the stage of wanting to teach him a lesson he’ll never forget.  Tying the child to a lamp-post and writing his most commonly used words in indelible marker all over his face wouldn’t solve anything.  Neither would accidentally running him over.  I respect the kid far too much to hurt him, but I can’t take it anymore.  The blind white rage I feel when I hear him echo his hapless mother’s favourite expressions is too much to bear.

Then of course comes the torture I have to put Puppychild through every time this Jason kid leaves his house.  To avoid my kid getting wet from the blue rain, I have to drag her kicking and screaming away from her cute little friends.  If I’m lazy about this, I get to hear little gems like ‘Mommy, I fuckin’ hungry’ for the rest of the evening. 

I want to take the kid aside and talk to him, reach him somehow in some way that his mum certainly isn’t.  I want him to know that I think he’s a cool kid, that I haven’t written him off as a budding scumbag like everyone else has.  I want to scrape the filth off the surface of this kid and find the strong, friendly and funny kid that lies underneath.

How in the name of Marilyn Manson am I supposed to do this though?  Kids like these are like time-bombs.  If I set him off, that’s him screwed forever, he hasn’t a chance at a straight life.  What do I say to him?!?  How do I show him my respect without looking like a total fucking muppet?

Why do I care anyway?  Because nobody else will, and it’s in my path.  Maybe Karma has it set in stone that I have to solve this problem before I get to move out.  I don’t know.  I do know that this place is driving me nuts, and not in a character building way… it’s more like a soul-implosion.

Why haven’t they written a ‘Humanity Restoration for Dummies’ book yet?