I found this over at Betty the Sheep:

So that’s Christmas over then.  We’re in that awqward space between celebrations, the end of year limbo, when Ireland’s liver is given a generous one week break.  The incoming New Year threatens a lot of sensible living and hard work for me, for it’s time to stop being a gobshite I fear.  Oh well.  RIP path of self-destruction.

Here are a few random things that happened over the last few days.  I don’t think any lessons can be learned from them really.

- I was interrogated by the police for being furtive on a quiet country lane with The Accidental Terrorist’s big yellow van.

- I almost caused my dad to have a minor cardiac infarction when I failed to guess his wild gesturings during a game of charades.   So would you if you had to guess ‘Eternal Enemies of Lions and Hyenas’ within 2 minutes.

- I made two small Children cry on Christmas day because I felt like it.

- I crashed a party and overdosed on Mickey Finn’s due to lowest-card drawn shot drinking contest.

- I started Assassin’s Creed but a space continuum has created a rip which has prevented me from playing it since.  I need to invent a cloning machine in the new year.

- I lost three games of poker

- I’ve discovered that the combined weight of all my children’s toys is causing foundation subsidence.

- I’ve discovered that time doesn’t exist, and my liver hates me.

That’s all.  My brain is a reheated boiled sprout and my body is one big sugar crash.  See you when I’m me again!

Blog action day… I’m all for it, and I hope it’s effects are felt.

I’m a bit squished for time today, however, and though I’d love to go into my thoughts on environmental issues, instead I thought I’d dedicate this post to a wonderful woman that I met at a ‘Clean Coast’ seminar recently.

Corey Bateman is both litter and traffic warden in Arklow, Co. Wicklow.  She is one of the most overworked and underpaid people I know, but this doesn’t seem to bother her.  Her enthusiasm for local issues, especially pertaining to the environmental stuff is truly inspirational.  In the brief time I got to speak to her, I learned of the following projects undertaken by her for the benefit of her home town:

- She organised a clean-up lately and invited the residents of Sunbeam house (a local respite center for people with learning disabilities) who were, by all accounts, a forgotten group in the community.  She gave them a chance to hang out together and have a laugh while contributing to the community in a very admirable way.  The photographs of this litter collection effort are wonderful, a great day was had by everyone involved.

- She found that there were certain ‘run-down’ areas in Arklow which needed cheering up.  She initiated an effort to have beautiful and elaborate wall-murals painted which depict various scenes from history, thus creating a pride in the community and a wonderful tourist attraction.  She also got her hands on a beat-up rotting boat, painted it, and erected it as a monument.  She approached the local prison and asked them for any spare flowers or plants they may have from their garden nurseries.  They supplied so many plants, that she and her volunteer collegues had to work late into the night so that by morning, the grounds were awash with colour and beauty, completely transforming this previously depressing empty patch of land.

- She tackles dumping issues… she showed me before and after photographs of a small green in the centre of a housing estate.  With very little funding, she managed to have the green cleared, then mangaged to (bravely!) travel from house to house and rally enthusiasm for a clean living area.  Very dishearteningly, when the area was cleaned, more junk arrived pretty much immediately.  This didn’t deter Corey, she asked the local residents for their help, and community awareness flourished. 

-She organises treasure hunts for children, with no personal motivation other than the fact that she feels that kids need to feel more of a connection with their natural environment.  Her last effort drew more than 200 people, and the day became an enormous success.  It’s a wonderful thing to have a child tell you in excited tones that he can show you a squirrel’s house in a tree, or to have him show off his knowledge of tree names and duck species!

- Corey is a lady who loves to spread enthusiasm.  She gave me amazing ideas for fundraising, and explained that a person’s living area can be dolled up with very little funding needed.  She told me how to approach garden centres and local community figures to ask for freebies, and to feel no shame in doing so.  She told me that an effort only seems complicated because community spirits are low.  Once their enthusiasm is burning, there are no ends to what can be achieved.  She can be regularily heard on the local radio station doing just this… advertising local efforts and instilling a pride in the community.

- She regularly visits schools and involves them in various environmental issues, cleverly knowing that educating the children of this world is the best way to nurture an environmentally cleaner future.

Kudos to you, Corey, and to the volunteers and Council members who work with you to make your town a better and prouder place to live in.  The world needs more people like you, and I hope your enthusiasm infects all who cross your path. 

What to do at a party when you’re on your own and you don’t know any other sinner in the place.

(Image robbed from Clone Industries)

Not saying that you yourself are a billy-no-mates type of person, but you most likely will find yourself in this situation at some time or other, if you already haven’t. 

I was invited to an engagement party (no, apparently it’s not just an American thing…) by a bloke I know who’s son was the condemned.  I went last night, alone as a result of my poor babysitter-finding skills.  The whole extended family was there, and seeing as it was a local gig, you’d think odds were I’d see at least one other person I’d know, but not in this case.

I went straight to the bar, as you do.  Pint in hand, I went through my options.

1.  Find the one person I do know and stick to him like a fly on poo.

2.  Stand very very still and admire the ceiling until someone comes over and asks me who the hell I am.

3.  Stand by the door and pretend I’m waiting staff.

4.  Sit outside in the smoking area where all the cool people are.

5.  Stand by the bar and occasionally wave at wall paintings in the hope that people will think I’m popular but too cool to actually talk to anyone.

6.  Ply alcohol into myself to ward off the self-consciousness.  (Not an option seeing as I had to drive home, sadly.)

7.  Search for an empty chair and ask it’s nearby occupants if it’s ok to sit with them.

I tried option one, but sadly this man was the most sought-after person there, being the Godfather.  Option 4 tided me over until I realised that out of maybe 80 people, only 5 of them were smokers, two of them were BMW driving golfer types, the remaining three were hardened grannies who were looking for medals for all the hardships they’d suffered.

Options 2 and 3 were unsuccessful as I’d decided to wear high heels and stood at over 6 foot tall in a crowd of exceptionally short people.   There’s only so much ‘Ma, who’s she?’ you can overhear without getting overheated paranoia syndrome.

Option 7 was my last resort, and very limited.  I scanned the crowd for some younger heads, to find that the only youthful table was occupied by tangoed fake blondes with serious overhang issues who’s conversation (I had to evesdrop a little of course..) was limited to knock-off handbags and boring Ibiza anecdotes.  In the end, I targeted a big momma with a load of children hovering around her like midges.  She had a free chair opposite, so I went for it.  I chose my approach carefully, and decided that honesty was the best policy- ‘Hi, I’m a saddo who doesn’t know anyone here… can I sit with you?’ worked a charm.  She even offered me a highly coveted plate of sandwiches and made small talk until I managed a sneaky escape.

The moral of the story perhaps, is that you have to be born with the ability to attract people with your mysterious aloofness.  The far easier approach is honesty, which happily (depending on how pathetic your story is) is great for breaking the ice.

I really have to ajolopise from the heart of my bottom for my quietness lately.  I’m not being antisocial, I promise!

TAT has a sciatic nerve thing going on and he keeps complaining about pains in his arse.  I presumed he meant having to go out and clean windows with a dodgy leg, so I stupidly offered to work one or two days for him.  As it turns out, this gig is pretty much full time, and by God, if there ever was a physically demanding job, it’s gotta be window cleaning.  I’ve discovered that peanuts are the best path to physical endurance, not coffee, and that spiders are no longer a threat.  A moment of clarity occured when I found one negotiating it’s way around my cleavage leading to my briefly flashing the lads in order to evict it.  After that incident, my phobia was cured.  So that was nice.

I’m also getting quite nifty in the big yellow LDV window cleaning van, and have discovered that pulling hand-brake turns in a vehicle with a low center of gravity is great craic altogether.

The upside to all this is that window cleaning, although very monotonous, enables a girl to zone out and think about all the stuff she could be blogging about.  So if I can remember it all, there’ll be plenty of reading on this ‘ere site to come!  Hold tight, my pretties, I’ll be back in the normal flow of things within a week or two.

(Still no Smudge.  RIP cat.)

There’s a row of houses on the bend of our quiet council housing estate which were built at the beginning of this year.  Our residents have been wondering why it is that people haven’t moved into them yet, and have come to the conclusion that said unknown residents are simply too scared to move in.  They’re most likely waiting for the travellers at no.’s 2, 5, and 7 to move out first.  Between you and me, I don’t reckon on this happening too soon.  They’ve made themselves a nice little niche in the neighbourhood, and are sitting pretty.

Today, however, I decided to go on a wee jaunt to the local shops with my children, and noticed some new arrivals.  Laughing boy was loaded into his wheelchair, his shoes left off and his hair unbrushed and ruffled.  Puppychild wore her gingham blouse and dungarees, true hillbilly style.  She sat on laughing boy’s lap with her trusted blankent for emotional support, and off we went.

As I passed the virgin houses, I noticed not one, but two families pooching around investigating their new homes.  As I continued to the bottom of the housing estate, I saw that travellerville was in full swing.  A group of young men were huddled by the fence discussing their fortunes while small children raced around in circles with their greyhound.  An old traveller woman was washing the cabin of a HGV, and an ice-cream van hovered nervously near the entrance to the estate, presumably gathering his marbles.

Our housing estate seems to have a very bad reputation.  I have absolutely no idea why, as I’m not aware of any trouble connected to our residents, though I know how people’s imaginations can invent scandals with no help at all from true fact, as I discovered the last time I got a taxi home.  Not only did he not want to drive into the estate, but he almost refused to let me out of his car.  After I had convinced him that I was fine to walk home in the dark, that it really is an o.k. place to live, he told me I was the bravest young lady he’d ever met, which was nice.

The travellers around here remind me of bees.  They go about their business, and won’t bother you if you don’t bother them.  Today I got a few waves and nods, probably because the sun brings out the friendliness in folks, and these particular folks are well used to the sight of me pushing my scraggly kids up and down their road.  I’d even go as far as to say that this is the safest place I’ve ever lived in, that if anyone wanted to choose a good house to break into, it would definately NOT be one of ours.  We are protected by the most affluent, most influential minority group in Ireland.  If you’re Irish, and you recognise the word ‘Moorehouse’, you’ll know why. 

On my way back uphill from the shops, I reached the virgin house corner hot, red-faced and tired.  A few of the new heads turned to look at this odd sight, and just as they did, something made me yell ‘Wahaya lookanah?!’ at the top of my voice in my best traveller accent.  I then winked and moved on.

These people need to be broken in.  We can’t have them increasing the tone of the neighbourhood.

Speaking of creepy stuff,  I thought I’d let you in to another of my weird fascinations.  This is your official warning.  If you’re squeamish about enclosed spaces or being buried alive, you really don’t need to read the following.

* * *

I’ve never been to Paris.  When I do someday get a chance, one of the first places I’ll be visiting will be “les carrières de Paris” or “the quarries of Paris.”  I saw a programme once (Scariest Places on Earth) which highlighted the immensity of the area underneath the city.  From their sensationalist point of view, they aired a tape which was found deep inside the vast warren of catacombs and crypts, apparently belonging to some poor schmuck who had long before dissapeared.  The footage was of the panicked journey undertaken by this amateur explorer.  You watched this chap wander further and further through small chambers, breathing quickly, obviously very spooked by the crunching of bones underfoot, macabre skulls decorating the walls and obscure graffiti.  You watched him walk faster and faster, facing too many turns and crevices which may or may not lead him back to the surface.  You see him arranging arrows made from bones, only to find minutes later that he was circling and utterly lost. 

The empathy you feel for this chap is overpowering.  The last few seconds on the tape show our man finally losing the plot.  He panics, screams, and drops the camera.  An ominous thud is heard, and we are left with nothing but a brief flash of a creature of some sort screeching past the lens.  We jump as we have never jumped before.

This is the only thing I’ve ever watched (and I’ve seen them all – Saw I, II, III, bah!) that has left me with nightmares.

Have I lost you?  Let me give you a brief history of this sordid tourist attraction.

In the first century BC, limestone was quarried from the site of Paris City, and used to make sarcophagi, and later the buildings of Paris. The Romans, being the resourceful type, constructed 300 km of tunnels and caverns.  In the 1700s, excavation ceased, and Paris began to have problems.  Cemeteries became overcrowded.  Waste was dumped into the Seine causing epidemics.  So, it was decided that the cemetaries would have to go, and all exhumed bodies would be placed in this underground tunnel system.  All 6 million bodies, representing 30 generations of Parisians.

 ”The remains of some six million people are collected here, and although individuals can’t be identified, it’s ironic that members of the French nobility have ended up side by side with the revolutionaries who exterminated them. The catacombs are said to house victims of the Reign of Terror, including Robespierre himself,executed on 27 July 1795, and Louis XVI’s sister, Mme Elisabeth, who went to the guillotine exactly a year earlier. Other illustrious inhabitants include comedian Scaramouche, and poet and academician Jean de la Fontaine, who both died in 1694, and Madame de Pompadour, courtesan to Louis XV and friend of Voltaire, who died in1764.” (ref)

Louis-Etienne Héricart de Thury, engineer-in-chief of the mines from 1776 to 1854, had the bones arranged in a ‘decorative way’, so that the catacombs could be opened to tourists in 1804.  Several brave people went to explore the tunnels to try to map the place, but so many people dissapeared, that in 1955 access was limited to just a small portion of the tombs.  There are however so many entrances to this warren, it is impossible to stop people wandering in to host weird parties, or to do a spot of cataphilia.  The tourist entrance in Montparnasse was once dubbed ‘Hells Gate’, and leads to a staircase which brings you down 130 steps, spiralling 20 feet into the caverns.

Arête! C’est ici l’Empire de la Mort – Stop! This is The Kingdom of the Dead.

* * *

The idea of getting lost in the miles of tunnels down there gives me night terrors, but it’s still a morbid fascination of mine.  It’s like a dark secret harboured by a well-loved city, full of legend, horror and ghoulishness.   Who wouldn’t want to brick themselves on a nice romantic holiday?

A ‘snot gobbler’ is a phrase coined by my father, to describe any young lad/gurrier, the type of kid who has a perpetual stream of green goo running from nose to upper lip.

This particular snot-gobbler is aged 7, and was sitting on a wall, watching me unpack groceries from the car. 

S.G.: “D’you want a turtle?”

Me: “Say what?”

SG: “I have two turtles buh I’m givin them away ‘cos one bit me.  Me uncle gave them to me for free but I’ll sell them to you for 60 euros.”

Me: “You have a lot to learn about marketing, son.  Why did the turtle bite you?”

SG: *shrugs*  after a long pause; “I was poking its nose.  I wanted to see if its face turned inside out.”

Me: “Did it?”

SG: “Nah, it bit me.  I don’t want it anymore.”

Me: “I’m sure the feeling is mutual.”

SG: “Wha?”

Me: “So have you nothing better to be doing with yourself on a nice day like today?”

SG: ”I’m grounded outside.”

Me: “That’s an oxymoron kid.  What did you do to deserve that?”

SG: “Me mammy went shopping in Tescos and dropped me and me friend into a building site nearby until she was finished.  We were there for ages and got bored so we broke loads o’ windows in the buildings.  Nobody seen us though,  ‘xept mammy.”

Me: “That was kind of stupid, wasn’t it?  A lot of people are going to be very angry about the amount of money they’re going to have to fork out to repair those windows.”

SG: “Don’t care.”

Me: “I would if I were you.  Your fingerprints will be all over that building site.  The police’ll be able to catch you in no time at all, then it’s jail-time for you, kiddo.  You’ll get 25 years for that.”

SG: *wide-eyed*  Shoiyh!!!

This blog’s been on hiatus this weekend, sacrificed for a rare peak in an otherwise quiet social-life.  When it rains it pours!

First of all, Friday night was to be dedicated to my Accidental Terrorist, as I’d spent the week before housesitting for me auld pair.  I was all set to spoil him with some needed attention, when I got a rather forlorn text from my friend, hinting at serious mopeage at being stuck at home with her kids on her birthday.  So, I felt it my duty to arrive at her house with a chinese, a few chickie DVDs and an impressive stash of Bacardi Breezers.  We got suitably inebriated and she became a very happy little duck.

Saturday night was cocktail night in the Accidental Terrorist’s best friend’s house.  We left our children on the doorstep of his mother’s house with a little note attatched, and ran away.  Minutes later, the five of us spent about 150 quid on alcohol and basket loads of fruit, wandering aimlessly around Tescos wondering what else would give an alcoholic smoothy a good kick… Spinach?  Going a bit too far.  Nuts?  Drain cleaner?

Settled back in the batchelor pad, the lads made a weird concoction which involved more eating than drinking, then stuck into their pool tournaments.  No bachelor pad seems to be complete without a pool table and an xbox.  We girlies then began to let the creative juices flow with the dodgy juicer gizmo. 

We made the following concoction:

Half bottle of Bacardi Ice, Half bottle of Bacardi breezer (pineapple flavour), 4 shots of white rum, 4 shots of vodka, Juice of 4 oranges, Juice of 1 lemon, Juice of half a lime, 4 tbsp brown sugar, 1 decent handful of ice, 1 handful of strawberries.

This, poured into a pint glass, is so delicious, it dissapears within about 2 minutes. And the added bonus was the hangovers this morning were non-existent on account of all the lovely vitamin C consumed!! 

The night then progressed into silly status, dancing around the pool table to ‘The Cure’, making silly drunken gestures during the inevitable game of ‘Charades’, you know the rest I’m sure.  The party was crashed by a number of complete wankers who managed to quash the happy spirits flat and start a fight within 10 minutes of their arrival, so we buggered off at that stage.

I’m just about ready for a gallon of tea and a soft couch right now.  The kids can put themselves to bed.