K8 the GR8

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?

I wrote this rather maudlin poem today while stuck between a rock and a hardplace.  Puppychild was outside playing with other children when suddenly a kid pulled a toy out of her hands, causing her to fall over.  Tears followed, with heartrending appeals for a motherly hug which I felt I had to deny her for her own good.  I watched with tears in my eyes as she eventually picked herself up and decided to fight for the toy herself, a fight which she won. 

My pride at her small accomplishment made me realise that sometimes it is selfish to want to protect a child from absolutely everything, so I am trying hard to figure out exactly where the line falls between love and cruelty, nature and nurture. 

For parents everywhere
(Or: A sonnet for softies)

How tough it is to leave the loving room
Where childhood slept wrapped up in tender care
How suddenly the blanket of my womb
Was ripped away to find my child laid bare

Now on her own, the daunting task is nigh-
To let her grow despite the harshest winds
How do I stem the love, my kiss deny,
To ready her for schoolyard streetwise sins?

A greater pain I feel for cuts and scars
Than she, the wounded child who stands alone
Though tears are falling softly through the bars,
My heart must build a prison cell of stone

My freedom waits until the day I see
She’s found her comfort independently

How excellent the Blog Awards were last night!

Best Bud attended, probably expecting a real geekshow, but was so obviously impressed by the crowd, the presenter, and the humourarse George Dubya preludes.  Not to mention her winning a DVD player!  ‘*sigh* I never win anything…’ came from her disillusioned lips just as her numbers were called out.

You know what was the strangest part?

Normally at a party, you’ll find yourself gazing upon a sea of unfamiliar faces.  You look at a person and wonder what their story is, so you talk to them to find out.  Last night, however, I felt like I knew at least half of the people quite well already from reading their blogs, but I had no idea how to tie these personalities to the faces!  Name badges were supplied, but a dry-wipe board in one corner of the room would’ve helped- a blank grid perhaps, with the heading: ‘Who are you and what are you wearing?!?!’   Sincere thanks to the bloggers who came over and chatted to me, for I was painfully shy!

There were, however, some people who had no need for nametags at all at all…

‘Isn’t he sooo pretty?’

I stuck by Hails and her sister and together we gazed at tits at a vague attempt to read the small print, but it was pretty tough going - this would explain my uncharacteristic rapture at recognising Medbh thanks to her patent yellow slingbacks, then my double rapture to find she was chatting to Gimme.  I truly apologise to the poor bloke they were talking to for interrupting their conversation so unbelievably rudely!

I had to split shortly after before my ballgown turned back into a Van Halen t-shirt at the stroke of midnight and TAT turned back into a badger.

I hope there aren’t too many heads suffering from backwards rollercoaster syndrome today.

Me?  I am a little delicat…

(for the record, I swear this picture is not photoshopped!)

Guess who’s birthday it is today!!!

I’ll give you a clue:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY OLD FART!

My life is freaking me out, man.  This taxi lark?  It just keeps sticking it in and breaking it off.  Remember when I was harping on about my disabled vehicle taxi license falling through?  Well, the new application form arrived yesterday, and instead of them charging €270 for a hackney license, guess what?!  They’ve hiked the price up to just over a thousand quid since February 1st.  400% increase!!!  Apparently they weren’t ‘obliged’ to tell us when we were on the phone inquiring about it.  Is this a bad sign?

So what do we now?!  I’m sick of sitting on potential resources and not having a clue what to do with them.  There must be something out there we could be good at, and I’m not talking about buying lottery tickets.  The blue-collar job is looming, but we are two reasonably educated people stuck in council housing due to bad circumstances and can’t think of any other way out.  How tough those baldheads make it for people like us to dig ourselves out of this dependancy hole!

That’s how the bummed-out side of me is talking.

The unbelievably happy side of me is bubbling over at the idea that a lot of you people out there like my blog!  I forgot to breathe for those few seconds after I saw my name on the newcomer shortlist, I was so humbled that I made it through, out of so many excellent writers out there.  Delighted too that Hails is with me!  She’s one of my mostest clicked links.

Thank you so much to my nominators and sponsors (buys cocktail for Deborah), and to the judging readers too.  So much material to read and so little time to do it, with such enormous diversity of reading matter- this cannot make for an easy job.  Thanks most of all to the one dude organising all of this… you’ve given so many bloggers great kicks just to see their names up in lights, just to know their ramblings make a difference - the bloggosphere is electric thanks to you.

I is happy dog with special guest spot on my best friend’s blog I is Wouldye and this is me

Gives us high-fives!

She says she has meme from squirrel on Jefferson Davis’ blog and she give it to me-  I has never seen squirrel before so I has wags to meet one!

I says its difficult to type on keyboard with big paws so I got given Bonio to type with and my best friend sits beside me to tell me how to spell because I has gots no education- she is well clever that way- she also tell me to use fullstops but they are too slow- I use dash- Dash is good fun especially when tennisball is involved

I will tell you now about six quirks that I have-

1- I has wicked sense of humour!  I reads poem once what my mistress wrote about me and I tells her it is doggerel- She not get this joke but youz will because you is cleverer than what she is

2- I is loves cats and I doesn’t understand why dogs has such bad name for chasing cats- I thinks this is racial-  They have ass what smell just as nice as ours and have good skills for climbing so I is jealous- they’s don’t have much sense of humour though

3- My favourite things is sticks and rocks and tennisballs and golfballs- throwing these things makes my best friend very happy so I is glad to oblige- i even fetch from sea which is dangerous but well worth it for the GOOD BOY I gets shouted to.

4- I has had my balls cut off when I was puppy which is ruff but I don’ts remember what they were for so I is sure is for the best- it still all taste the same down there anyways-  My master says balls are for puppies but my mistress has two puppies already so that is plenty to guard for me

5- I don’t like bridges I think sticks are there to be fetched and not to walk on because it is well scary- I don’t see why youz two-legs don’t just swim across rivers cos this is way more fun and saves baths I don’t like baths either

6- I is notice that people don’t understand my name like the nasty ladies in the vets place- I is called Wouldye because I has clever master- He say ‘Wouldye fuck off’ so off I fucks with no needs for namby pamby middle names- like dog next door is called Fluffy because it is fluffy but any fools can sees that- Is funny too when mistress shouts ‘Wouldye get the ball!’ and strangers run to get my ball because they thinks she is angry with them and I laughs because they is so thick because I know she is talking to me

Best friend tells me I has to links to other animals for to see what their quirks is so I is choose:

Sandy (She is very shy so youz has to be nice to her)
Kat (See I told youz i is not racial)
Derby (Youz clicks the ads on his masters blog and it buyz him more Bonios- see?)