My husband of the Accidental Terrorism variety has suffered from a degenerative spine condition for a handful of years now. He’s had surgery before that followed pain of the most extremist type, the type that had him crawling in agony on hands and knees to the bathroom, the type that had him passing out at Christmas dinner tables, a pain that left me wretched with helplessness. Surgery eased the problem, but there came a warning with it; a warning to follow a strict routine of exercise and back care in the years to follow. The warning was forgotten, as were the exercises… and taxi driving took over.

Now, today, The Accidental Terrorist has gone to have operation number two. Laughingboy had been booked into respite. Puppychild and Sir Fartsalot were due to spend a spell in my friend’s house so that I could properly see TAT to his hospital bed and settle him in my wifey ways, but the planets didn’t want it to pass that way for some reason.

Instead Laughingboy suffers a bowel infection, Puppychild a virus and Sir Fartsalot a lung infection. All at the same time do the healthiest children in the world become sick. I find that pretty strange.

And so I waved bye-bye and stifled emotions for the benefit of the children and the heating-engineers and I stuffed it away into a container at the arse end of my soul for later consideration. I hope TAT’s friend is as good a hand-holder as I’d hoped to be, I wonder if TAT feels as lonely as I do despite being surrounded by plenty of people.

Here comes the good part:

I’m a scatty person. As is my mother, and her family… scattiness is most definitely hereditary, I don’t care what anyone says. This means that my mother’s sister’s child is bound to be the same way, doesn’t it?

She stayed with me before, my cousin Diddles. Then she moved far beyond the pale and vowed to visit again but never quite got around to it and time got away from us. It was pointed out to me that it was bad play to keep booking visits and never turn up, but I pointed it out that in the grand scheme of things, scatty people mean well because I know at first hand how it is and I understand and bear no such cancerous Irish grudge on the girl, I’ve got no time for that sorta thing.

We spoke two days ago, she and I. We giggled about willies and spoke of sickness and before I knew it, she had booked herself on the train. She’s trundling her way cross-country to me right now as I write, to come and share the burden and slap the sense of humour back into me, right exactly when I need her, because that’s what matters, right there.

Now all that’s left are the antibiotics, and the waiting…

…

…

Right, that’s it. I’m sitting down to write something, anything, on this poor blog. I’m sick of being afraid of it and feeling the nausea surge in close proximity to anything socially computer-related, much like that old friend or relative that needs calling upon, the longer you leave it the worse that feeling gets.

All I want to do is to be invisible, dammit! I want to stay indoors at all times and answer the door by cracking it ajar to give strangers the beady eye before yelling at them to get off my territory ’til I release the rabid cats. I don’t want facebook or twitter, don’t want people to know what I’m doing, what I like or dislike, or where I’m hovering. I just want to be a non-K8. Healthy it isn’t, but oh-so familiar, comforting and predictable it most definitely is.

And yet now a corner has turned in our lives as TAT drops out of the workforce and hangs up his taxi plate… driving was probably not the best profession for a man with a dodgy back to partake in, but surgery looms nonetheless and disability has been claimed so I must take over and get a job.

Get a job?!? Ahhh! You mean I have to go out into the scrutinous public eye and do stuff and be bubbly and interesting all of a sudden? Somebody pass the bucket… I’m not at all sure about this, don’t feel well all of a sudden at all at all. Normal people scare the bejeesus out of me.

But, you’da bin so proud… I did get a job as a bar-wench in a local pub and it was almost fun, that one day I worked. Shame the pub closed down four days later, hey.

So what now? Prostitution? Dog pedicures? Getting this blog out of the darkness might be a good start.

So how have you been?

There’s an Aviation Day in Newcastle happening right about now, I had meself all geared up to bring the kids for a bit of face-painting, flight simulating and skydiver admireage, but it just wasn’t meant to happen I reckon.

Nope, it just so happens that our eight-seater taxi is also Laughingboy’s only mode of transport so one whiff of the pen in that taxi when I opened her up was enough to convinve me to make other plans.  The heat of the sun had warmed her insides up a little, see, so the vomitus belch of stench that erupted was so strong it just wasn’t worth tolerating for the sake of an interview with the Irish Air Corps.

Fuuuck.

AND I’ve lost my rubber gloves.

Anyway… he memed me with the 100 things meme (in which all the truths that apply to me are in BLUE, all the shit I haven’t gotten around to doing yet is in BLACK) which sounds like too much fun to ignore.  Also, if you have the patience to sit through it, I’ve a wee present for you at the end.

1. Started my own blog
2. Slept under the stars
3. I have played in a band
4. Visited Hawaii
5. Watched a meteor shower
6. Given more than I can afford to charity
7. Been to Disneyland
8. Climbed a mountain
9. Held a praying mantis
10. Sung a solo
11. Bungee jumped
12. Visited Paris
13. Watched lightning at sea
14. Taught myself an art from scratch
15. Adopted a child
16. Had food poisoning
17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty
18. Grown my own vegetables
19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France
20. Slept on an overnight train
21. Had a pillow fight
22. Hitchhiked
23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill
24. Built a snow fort
25. Held a lamb Killed it, Butchered it and Ate it too
26. Gone skinny dipping
27. Run a Marathon
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice
29. Seen a total eclipse
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset (both)
31. Hit a home run
32. Been on a cruise
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person
34. Visited the birthplace of my ancestors
35. Seen an Amish community
36. Taught myself a new language
37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied
38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person
39. Gone rock climbing
40. Seen Michelangelo’s David
41. Sung karaoke
42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt
43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant
44. Visited Africa
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight
46. Been transported in an ambulance
47. Had my portrait painted
48. Gone deep sea fishing
49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling
52. Kissed in the rain
53. Played in the mud
54. Gone to a drive-in
55. Been in a movie
56. Visited the Great Wall of China
57. Started a business
58. Taken a martial arts class
59. Visited Russia
60. Served at a soup kitchen
61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies
62.Gone whale watching
63. Got flowers for no reason
64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma.
65. Gone sky diving
66. Visited a Nazi Concentration Camp
67. Bounced a check/cheque
68. Flown in a helicopter
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy
70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial
71. Eaten caviar
72. Pieced a quilt
73. Stood in Times Square
74. Toured the Everglades
75. Been fired from a job
76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London
77. Broken a bone
78. Been on a speeding motorcycle
79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person
80. Published a book
81. Visited the Vatican
82. Bought a brand new car
83. Walked in Jerusalem
84. Had my picture in the newspaper
85. Read the entire Bible
86. Visited the White House
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
88. Had chickenpox
89. Saved someone’s life
90. Sat on a jury
91. Met someone famous
92. Joined a book club
93. Lost a loved one
94. Had a baby
95. Seen the Alamo in person
96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake
97. Been involved in a law suit
98. Owned a cell phone
99. Been stung by a bee
100. Ridden an elephant

For shits and giggles, I pass this meme to The Jelly Monster

Now for your present!  This is a most highly coveted ring-tone, as kindly donated by a random passenger in TAT’s taxi:

Download this bad-boy

“I ordered a tank of oil, the cat’s been fed, and I’ve left the ESB bills out for sorting.  They’re over there.”  He gestured with his cigarette.

“Umm.”  I mumbled into my coffee cup while half-tuned to CNN.

“Oh, and there’s an Xbox over there”

“Umm?” My attention reefed from the telly, I looked over my shoulder and sure enough there was indeed an Xbox console sitting on the kitchen table.  “What the…”

TAT regaled the tale of a rather ostentatious young man who’d been kicked out of a bar at silly o’clock this morning for being a pillock.  No other driver would take him, given that he was pretty belligerent and was whingeing about wanting to be let back in.  He got into the cab, and by the time he’d finished moaning and ranting about the bouncers they were almost at his destination, at which point he confided in TAT that he had no money, that he’d left his jacket behind in the pub.

Potentially €30 down, TAT began to grow pretty belligerent himself and told the kid that in no uncertain terms was he getting away with a free ride, that collateral would do until funds became available.

The kid disappeared into his house, and returned cradling his Xbox.

“This is my baby, man, I’ll be wanting this back, ok?  Seriously.  It’s the love of my life.”

“That’s up to you, mate.”  TAT supplied receipts and did everything but write his number on the kid’s forehead.  He drove away, baby on board.

Oh don’t look at me like that.   If that’s not a Call of Duty then what is?!

January’s Dog’s Bollocks award goes to Mr. Rick O’Shea.

Dog’s Bollocks?  What the F….?

Rick’s radio show has been my touchstone for humanity for the longest time.  He saw me through freezing weather in my forlorn days of window cleaning… his banter kept my soul nice and toasty.  It also broke the ice somewhat given my situation – a bunch of belligerent blokes with a female driver, my territory here (you understand) was somewhat ‘spurious, but Rick levelled us to the same domain with perfection.

Then came my taxi driving boredom.  From hackney to cabbie, the lost hours… those spent biting nails and scanning newspapers, waiting desperately for someone to fancy the thought of being driven anywhere… somewhere… the suspense of the next fare was healed by Rick O’Shea and his inane questions – questions that levelled Ireland to the same base instincts, the same issues, the same mistakes.  I felt so at home, so entertained… I actually cursed fares that interrupted my concentration on Rick’s show between 2pm and 5pm.

Now it’s gone.

This is the facebook protest if you’re into that sort of thing. (I hope the link works!)

2fm have seen it fit to call a halt to chat radio.  They seem to think that they’re the only radio station playing pop music, that they have the edge on popular radio, but the sad thing is (from my point of view), is that the only thing they have going for them is Rick, and Nikki Hayes, the popculture guru that can be heard before Rick’s slot.  These are the shows that determine real entertainment, something worth listening to.  They call out to the general public, they hand the day’s subject matter to us, to you and me, and in my opinion it’s genius. 

“What’s the last thing you tore up?”

“When’s the last time you told someone you loved them?”

“What’s the most embarrasing thing you’ve ever done?”

It’s the closest thing to a radio blog… inviting the public to create an atmosphere that nobody else can match… it grounds us all and lets us know that we’re not alone, that we’re all human underneath.  I miss it so.

Rick’s slot is not gone yet, but his show is now lacklustre.  He has no more questions, he plays music that everyone else plays, his voice carries dampened undertones as though his baby has left home for good.  I hope he doesn’t mind me saying this, but his show (since he returned from New York) has joined the ranks of banality and I sense that this isn’t his fault.  He’s been shot down.

Why?

Fuck knows.

Cut Gerry (perve) Ryan’s salary, bring back Rick.  Oh ok, I love Gerry too, but seriously… he’s not worth that much.  Ray D’Arcy fills my slot far more adequately most of the morning time, so to speak.

Long live Rick O’Shea, he is indeed the Dog’s Bollocks.

Goodbye 2fm, you’ve lost a listener.

8% wage increase eh?

So to get this increase, a taxi driver must first drive into the city, pay an arm and a leg to re-calibrate the machine, then drive back to an NCT/SGS place and get the meter ‘fixed’ or ‘sealed’ or whatever it is they do to get the machine legitimized, forking out the end of the hard-earned penny-jar to do so. 

TAT embarked on this increadible journey last week.  He took time off work to drive to Rialto to have the wheels tested and re-timed, and to have the meter re-calibrated.  He pulled his plumb for a whole four hours while they did their thing, then he returned to Dunlaoghaire to get the meter tested and sealed, only to be told that our car had failed.

TAT called Rialto to question their obligations quite firmly, but they claimed innocence.  Apparently SGS had a widespread problem which meant that “shit loads” of drivers were calling up to rant about their cars having failed, legally meaning that they can’t go to work.

Can’t go to work?  On halloween night?  Sod that, so it seemed to TAT and countless other drivers.  This meant that all over Ireland last night, A fleece of cabs found that at midnight, 31st October 2008 (the witching hour?) their meters began to talk gibberish and cease to work.  Bray certainly suffered the scourge anyway, with countless drivers reverting to hackney status instead of admitting defeat and going home to their beds.  TAT certainly didn’t mind, but that’s because he’s an opportunist.  It *ahem* opened many doors for him, as it were.  If he’d have been caught by the regulation vultures he’d have been absolutely screwed, but I suppose they didn’t foresee this disaster.

Apparently the system is fixed now, so they’re inviting TAT back out for a re-test.  Happy days.

What a ballache.  What a wage increase!

That’s like your boss telling you that you are entitled to a minimum raise, but only if you travel to Thailand, climb Mount Wannahockaloogie* at midnight (in your bare feet) and pick a flower that only blooms when the moon is waxing over the third mystical stone.  Wouldn’t you tell your boss where to stick his raise?  If only we could!!!

Speaking of ‘we’, technically this is now the Royal We, for K8 the Gr8 has now officially been forced to quit taxi driving.  Booooo.

I loved that job so much, its perks were bountiful.  It gave me a sense of purpose, a reason to wear make-up and fine clothing, and an endless source of material for this here blog, to name just a few.

Roy’s going to be pissed off, but not as much as I am.

So why quit?

- My insurance alone cost €900(ish)/year.

- My radio rental was €60 a week (special offer ‘coz I was a girrrl)

- The ‘session had dropped my daily earnings to a quarter of what they were when I first started.

- My leaving the house at lunchtime left a severely sleep-deprived TAT with an endless chorus of ‘DADDY WAKE UP DADDY WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP’ no matter how many sleeping pills I’d put in the child’s cereal that morning.  He was suffering from perputual ‘flu because of this, as three hours sleep a night just isn’t enough for some people.  So selfish, but there you go.

- Puppychild’s attending playschool 28 miles away was playing havoc with our diesel costs, which was a large enough problem without me further adding to it by driving almost as far to work and not earning any money.

- I wasn’t being entirely honest with my earnings (SHHH!) and I get cranky at the prospect of losing my Carer’s Allowance etc…  by the way, did I mention I never charged for fares?

There may still be some strange and wonderful taxi-driving tales to be told on this blog, but they will henceforth be written vicariously through me from The Accidental Terrorist who tends to have a memory like a sieve and may be keeping one or two stories from me for fear I’ll collapse in horror.

Guest-blogging is right out.  I tried.

So, I’m back to being house-bound.  A domestic engineer.  The crazy cat lady.

PANTS

*Yes, I do get most of my material from Finding Nemo.  Sue me.

I waited until he had stepped over the threshold to leave my stakeout position, closing the door of the seemingly innocent taxi cab quietly so as not to attract attention.  Slinking unseen to the front door, I pushed it a little to find its lock engaged, but this didn’t matter, for I’d been given a key.  They had almost made it too easy for me… I was privy to names, addresses, alarm codes, times of expected visitations… the plans had been laid out in detail with the omission of the actual reason for it all, but I didn’t care.  At a price of €20,000 per head for these people, I didn’t ask questions for fear the job would be given to another taxi driver because hey, I have a wedding to pay for.

I pressed my ear to the door and waited as voices receded before inserting the key into the lock.  I opened the door slowly and a warm smell leaked out; pine and perfume mingled with a feint suggestion of home cooking and guilt twinged again, but was quickly squished underfoot as I inched into the first available empty room and waited behind the door-jamb.  Dusk was approaching, my timing was perfect.  I waited.

As night fell, I heard laughter, sometimes nervous but mostly warm and interested; the cadence of conversation rose and fell and I was getting bored. The time had come… I had to separate them, only to have them re-join in un-imaginably unpleasant circumstances, the details of which only my boss had knowledge of.  He was probably welcome to them given his reputation as a twisted gang-lord who seemed to have his filthy hands dipped into more pots than I care to imagine and I knew I was just as bad, but nobody needed to know except for a random few other taxi drivers who had the ability to slink through the night in such obvious disguise… the chosen ones… such a strange honour.  I tapped on the radiator with an unnatural urgency.

“What was that?” I heard the question, deliciously predictable.

Footsteps approached as I fished in my pocket for the first syringe with my gloved hand.  A shadow darkened the doorway and I sucked in my breath.  A man entered the room and I instinctively knew he was reaching for the light-switch by my head, so quickly grabbed his mouth from behind and emptied the contents of the syringe into his jugular - he collapsed like a popped balloon and I dragged his limp form silently to the couch with little effort.  Far too easy.

She however proved to be a tougher target, for I sensed immediately that her natural instinct had whispered to her that something was amiss – I heard the silvery sound of a kitchen knife as it was slyly removed from its housing block and suddenly the house was far too quiet for my liking.  I edged toward the fireplace and stole the poker from its hook and primed it for reckless damage… the suspense was fun.

I heard her.  A creak, a tell-tale sound of nervous intent.  We stood for a second, back-to-back, separated by the section of wall adjacent to the doorway, each aware of the other’s position by sheer logic alone.  The blade suddenly flashed as an arm appeared, the knife flailing in a random fashion as I almost realized too late what was happening.  I ducked as the knife caught my arm; the sharp pain awakened my instinct as fresh warm blood began to ooze into the fibres of my work shirt.  Shit.  I ducked and crouched, swinging the poker a full 360 degrees around the door jamb.  I connected with soft tissue and heard a shriek as I rounded the corner to face my victim, then heard a sickening whistle as the blade passed too close to my ear.  I grabbed the opportunity while her balance was off.  The syringe sank into her neck and she fell, the knife clattering to the hard-wood floor with alarming volume.

Careful not to contaminate the scene, I removed my sock and tied it tightly around my wound, then checked the floor for spilled blood to find nothing… lucky.  Satisfied that my work was almost done, I began to prepare the limp bodies for transit.  He fitted nicely into the boot and she, well she did an excellent impression of a drunken innocent.

The journey to the drop-off point was uneventful.  I played Beethoven’s 9th symphony over and over to inspire the madness… sometimes I fear the truth that A Clockwork Orange may have had more of an effect on my soul than I’d first realized… good old Ludwig Van.  I was empowered by the fact that the deed had run smoothly, laughed my way through a police-check along the way as I gushed through the tired old phrases… ‘Yeah, a little worse for wear I’m afraid’ and ‘I bet she’ll feel that in the morning!’  They didn’t give me a second glance.

I spotted the white van at the address I’d been given… a quiet by-road near an unsuspecting village.  I fished for the second key I’d been given and checked for passers-by as I opened the rear doors of the van and transferred the unsuspecting couple with speedy stealth, right on time.  I approached the driver’s door of the van and waited.  The man inside rolled down his window and nodded subtly. 

“Not bad for your first job… good timing.  He’ll be happy with that.”  He noticed the bloody patch on my arm and the ridiculous looking bandage.  “Small price to pay, hey.  I’ve seen worse.  Here’s your consolation prize…”  He fished a small briefcase from the passenger seat and handed it over with a wink.

Neat bundles of notes lay inside to the tune of €40,000 and I smiled.  A small white envelope lay on top of the piles which I opened as I sat back into my taxi cab, but I paused before reading the name.  Do I really want to do this all over again?  I have a reputation for being a soft-head, a do-gooder… if they only knew.  Is it worth throwing all that away for dirty cash?

Hell yes.

I opened the envelope and read the name of my next target, then frowned, placing the paper on the seat beside me.  What does it mean?  Who cares?  I fired the engine up for its second job of the night and glanced once again at the mystery name of my next victim.

I’m coming for you, English Mum.

The side-effects of these additives are damage to the engine, less mileage per gallon, and I was told that there were even a few incidents of cars blowing up in the UK, but I’m sceptical.

So, my tip to all drivers out there is: Avoid Tesco, Applegreen and Topaz pumps like the plague, and stick to Esso.  It may feel more expensive to fill a tank, but at least your car won’t explode.

Be careful what you wish for.

I got home from my driving to find TAT had just woken up… he showed off his new phone straight away like a child on Christmas morning.  It’s a pretty nifty model, a Nokia NSeries N95 with an 8GB memory card, and a whopping 5 megapixels worth of camera stuff. 

It’s not as nice as mine what I won, but far superior to TAT’s.  He was delighted with himself, and told me his account of the night before with glee.  The conversation ran somewhat as follows;

-o0o-

TAT – So where are we going?

Drunkard – Uhhh… somewhere in Kilmac.  Anywhere there, I dunno… yeah.

TAT drives to Kilmacanogue and announces that the fare will be nine euros

Drunkard – Oh.  Wait.  No.  That’s not right.  There’s something wrong, uhhh…. wait.

Drunkard sits with a confused look on his face and shuffles slowly in his pockets for some invisible money.  After a while, he turns to get out of the car.

TAT – Oi!  Where are you off to?  Are you settling this bill or what?

Drunkard – Uhh… I’ve to go to the cash machine, I’ll be right back.

TAT – Well here you may as well leave your phone as collateral, sunshine – I didn’t come down in the last one y’know.

Drunkard hands his phone to TAT and stumbles away to the cash-machine where he spends an eternity.  He returns to the car eventually, sits in, and closes the door.  He stares into space again, saying nothing.

TAT – So… hate to be a bore, but how’s the cash situation looking?

Drunkard looks confused, then disappears back to the cash-machine for a further eternity.  TAT is on the edge of his rag, losing money by the second during busy hour, and is definitely not amused.  The drunkard finally re-appears, and mumbles over and over to himself as he sits back in.

Drunkard – No, it’s not right, not right… something’s wrong.

TAT growls softly

Drunkard – How about I give you twenty euros and we’ll call it quits?

TAT – Ok!!!

Drunkard – Or we could leave it at nine euros and you could bring me home?

TAT – No mate, the meter goes back on for that, but twenty euros will cover it nicely, no worries!

Drunkard – Ahh for ff… Ok fine, I’ll get out here so.

???

TAT – *amused* Ok so, here’s your phone.

Drunkard – NO I TOLD YOU I DON’T WANT IT!!!!

Drunkard gets out and walks away, waving and shouting thanks to TAT, minus his swish phone.

-o0o-

Upon hearing this story, I instantly felt pity for the dude.  I’ve been in rag order before, and have stupidly had to rely on the kindness of strangers to guide me to safety, and it’s not a good situation to find yourself in – especially if you’ve lost a nice new phone.  I’d be gutted.  Ok, so it’s his own fault for getting himself into that situation, but there could be any number of reasons as to why he was discombobulated like that.

ME – You have to give it back.

TAT – What?!?!  Are you crazy?  He was a muppet – a muppet with a nice phone!  It’s mine now!

ME – But it’s the right thing to do!!  He might be lost without it… besides, doing the right thing comes back to you.

TAT – Me bollocks!

I searched through the contacts on the phone and found an entry that said ‘Mam’.  I called it.  The cow was in Spain, so I paid through the nose to inform her that her son’s phone was in our possession, and could she pass on my number?  She seemed confused.  It must be a confusing family they have there.

About ten minutes later, I got a call from the drunkard, now severely sober and extremely embarrassed.  I relayed the story to him and he cringed and apologised, again and again.  I know that feeling.  He was a pretty nice guy, maybe about thirty or so… we had a laugh for about fifteen minutes and I agreed to leave the phone in my cab-company’s base, which he was extremely grateful for.

“It’s ok, though,” he laughed – “the phone was insured so I have another one now.”

I paled.

Shite!!!  No, seriously, SHITE!!!!  Now I have to give the phone back… a seriously nice and un-wanted phone!!!  Where’s the justice in that?

I poured TAT a strong whiskey and broke the news to him.

He hates me now.

It’s not my fault though!  I have morals!  I’m the sort of stupid cow that finds two hundred quid on a pavement and hands it in, the sort who gives away beautiful pieces of mobile phone kit, just because it’s right.  I’ve called Karma, but its phone is ringing out and now I just feel really, really stupid.

And then do you know what happened?

My cat chased a mouse into a coal-bag so I reached in to grab its blackened little scared body and save it’s tiny life, but the little fucker bit me.  Hard.  It dug it’s teeth into the quick of my thumbnail all the way to the back field so now I have a very sore thumb.  And possibly rabies.  Tetanus at least.

What’s happening?  Who is testing me, and why?

*sulk*