Property.

While I was sleeping and working and going out and buying shoes and so on a whole boom has gone on-relatively unnoticed by me-in the property market of Ireland. I mean of course I knew of it-Christ, it is all some people have spoken of for years- but I just never paid too much attention to it.
But the BOI ( bank of Ireland) said yesterday that the average price of a house in Ireland now is 400,000 Euros! Rising to 530,000 Euros in Dublin!!! It seems now that even a two up two down in Crumlin can cost this astronomical price.
I know this because in my haste to find another house before the paramour buys that death trap I have decided on direct action. My action consists of dealing with David, a very slick property type chappie online and over the phone, see how direct I am?
'You'll definitely like this one.' He emailed me yesterday.
The words, 'you'll like it' are starting to make me feel very nervous, every time someone says it I definitely don't like what I'm about to see.
Click click. Up pops a tiny terraced house with a white alumimium door.
Okay, I'm not going to disparage the house, it was very clean and well maintained, but it had a tiny sitting room, an even tinier kitchen and two wardobes that David swore blind were bedrooms. And a downstairs bathroom, just one of those. The garden was bare, grass and two hedges. There was no patio and a crumbly looking shed lay against the back wall. There was a lots of carpet and patterned wallpaper.
'She needs a bit of a face lift but basically it's your perfect investment home.' Slick David mailed.
I mailed back. 'I don't want an investment home. I want a house where I can have an office and actual bedrooms, I would really like a dressing room too, and two bathrooms, at least.Look David I wouldn't even get my desk into that house.' (I'm not joking, the desk is a monster, it took two men hours to get it in here)
David lost none of his gloss. 'Well, we can get you exactly what you want, but you're talking serious money.'
'How much money?'
He quoted a figure. When I came round, I read it again.

Erm...perhaps I should go back and have a look at that rambling death trap again.

The passion of Mel Gibson or in vino veritas

Poor old Mel, off the wagon and under the cosh. And as batty as a fruitcake to boot.

Mel Gibson appears to have abandoned his policy of elevating Jewish-Christian dialogue to a "constructive new level," reverting to the unhelpful old level and voicing his convictions with a somewhat furry tongue.

Arrested on suspicion of DUI in Malibu, Gibson did not go gently into the squad car. Less than overcome with contrition, he conducted his own browbeating interrogation of the arresting officers.

"Once inside the car, a source directly connected with the case says Gibson began banging himself against the seat. The report says Gibson told the deputy, 'You mother f****r. I'm going to f*** you.' The report also says 'Gibson almost continually [sic] threatened me saying he 'owns Malibu' and will spend all of his money to 'get even' with me.

"The report says Gibson then launched into a barrage of anti-Semitic statements: 'F*****g Jews... The Jews are responsible for all the wars in the world.' Gibson then asked the deputy, 'Are you a Jew?'"


Yes, when arrested for drink driving screaming blue murder about Jews is bound to save you. I've been following this one for a few days, initially the report says he was arrested without incident, but it appears not. There is other stuff about him trying to rip the phone off the jail wall and so on, but it's the screaming about 'owning ' places and anti-semite ranting that make me wonder is everyone in hollywood just pain nuts.
He has since apologised for his 'off colour' remarks.

He said. “After drinking alcohol on Thursday night, I did a number of things that were very wrong and for which I am ashamed," the statement read. "(After) I was stopped by the L.A. County Sheriffs ... I acted like a person completely out of control when I was arrested, and said things that I do not believe to be true and which are despicable. I am deeply ashamed of everything I said, and I apologize to anyone who I have offended."

Gibson, 50, added in the statement, "I have battled the disease of alcoholism for all of my adult life and profoundly regret my horrific relapse."

Breasts, once more into the beach..

I may have spoken to soon about how Europeans are so relaxed at the mere sight of a breast.

A THREAT to impose spot fines on women who sunbathe topless or in thongs on Paris Plage, a summer beach on the banks of the Seine, has left the city's mayor struggling to maintain his image as a modern civic chief.

In a country where going topless on real beaches is almost de rigueur, incredulity has greeted news that city hall officials and police have been moving among sunbathers, warning them of the ban on "indecent" dress.

What is embarrassing for Bertrand Delanoe, Paris's openly gay mayor, is that Paris Plage, now in its fifth year, is intended to reproduce the ambience of an Atlantic or Mediterranean beach.

"Sand, sunbeds, parasols," sighed the tabloid daily Le Parisien.

"But beware, it is a beach only in name and those who want sun-bronzed bottoms are unwelcome."

The major proudly describes Paris Plage as an attraction not only for tourists, but for Parisians too poor to join the summer exodus to the coast.

The riverside highway is closed to traffic, covered by 2,000 tons of sand. The beach is more than two miles long and is dotted with palm trees and cafes.

Topless

But the order forbidding the exposure of flesh declares: "Behaviour must conform to good morals, tranquillity, safety and public order."

The penalty for going nude, topless or in a thong is €38.

One assistant mayor, Pascal Cherki, was ridiculed by Le Parisien for suggesting that inappropriate clothing worn so close to a river "could provoke dangerous temptations and behaviour".

If he does introduce this stupid ban I hope he also does something about large men wearing very small speedos. What should that charge be?

Last night...

actually started innocently enough at about 6 pm when the paramour dragged me off to see Superman. The reason? 'Let's go to the movies, if we don't we'll just end up in some bar or other.'
Many many hours of wishing Kate Bosworth would eat a sandwich later, we fled the cinema, swiftly downed two beers and a martini and considered what we might like to eat.
And this folks is where the evening slithered into the weekend.
'I fancy something noodley and nice.'
'I fancy sea food.'
'I know, let's go to **********!'
'Avast, a splendid idea.'
First of all, waiters who claim their sea food platters to be velly gud are bare faced liars and probably eat their own young.
The platter when it arrived, was hu-ge. But some of the prawns were probably old enough to legally drive and the vast squid which quivered and flibbered in squid like fashion was so bouncy I needed a steak knife to cut it. Not velly gud at all.
'I can't eat any more of this.' The paramour said, rather helplessly, as he struggled in vain to get a prawn's shell off.
I looked at the enormous mound of untouched food. 'I wouldn't worry love, it won't go to waste, I'd imagine someone next Tuesday might get to try this lot again.'
'This isn't hake either. he said prodding a lump of something grey with the tip of his knife. 'I'm not even sure it's fish.'
We moved the food about like kids hoping it would look like we had at least tried. But to no avail. Defeated we resorted to drinking wine.
'Let's go somewhere and get a proper drink.' The paramour suggested.
'Excellent idea. Just let me run home and change first.'
'Why?'
'I'm not wearing proper drink attire.'
So I ran home, left a garbled message on Andraste's site, changed my clothes into much better drinking apparel, checked that Puddy was still breathing and raced off out into the night. EEEEEeeeeeee!
Hello darkness my old friend.
Bar 1- small, select, free flowing 7 year old rum. Blah blah blah, say, I don't know you do I? No? How strange that we are chatting about John Constantine and the Hellblazer strips. Yeds (intentional spelling) I ammm vell velly cool to know about such things. Your own website, well I never. You have badges too? Of course I'll wear one my newest and bestest friend. Give me more I'll give them to people in the industry. Blah Blah, M Night Shymalan, oh dear, well Hitchcock graced the screen, he certainly didn't award himself a pivotal role? Hum Darling? 'nother one? Don't mind if I do, tell Rosa a slice of lime, that's some necklace she's wearing, eeeee, French gay, look here this is...what's your name again? He has a website for photography, look darling badges. Oh right, well this here is French Gay. He's at the bar darling, oh darling that awful restaurant*********. So anyway, oh really you always carry a camera? Even in the bath? Oh snarf snarf. Yes, I'd love to have a look, oh here's my drink...'
Bar-2. 'Er? How come so quiet tonight dearie?'
'I don't know?' Gloomy owners says.
Paramour buys bottle of cava. We drink it, and flee.
Bar3- Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
Nightclub. 'last night a DJ saved my life! last night a DJ saved my life, coz I was sitting there bored to death and then in one breath he said gotta get down gota get dowm gotta get down girl.....'Weeeeeeeeee. Hey, Tara vot are you doink here? He's at the bar. Why yes I'd love one...... Who? Yes but where's the house? Sure, sounds like fun.'
House of friend of a friend. 'Vodka and Orange? No Rum? Never mind, Vodka and Orange will be dandy. No No, that's fine. Oh, it that Moloko? I love Moloko, oh no darling I met him before, he's from Argentina....really? When did that happen? Poor guy, tsk, hic.'
Finally, 'You know paramour.' I said as we waited for the elevator to arrive at 7:20 this morning. 'Superman was really not velly gud either.'
'Hic.' He said.

I am...

too old to be coming home at 7:30 in the morning. That is all...for now. Must find pain killers.

PC Bollocks, call the breast police!

I am not the most PC person in the whole world, I'm fond of calling something bullshit if I think it is bullshit. The following is bullshit of the stinkiest order. Please look at today's photo.


"I was SHOCKED to see a giant breast on the cover of your magazine," one person wrote. "I immediately turned the magazine face down," wrote another. "Gross," said a third.

These readers weren't complaining about a sexually explicit cover, but rather one of a baby nursing, on a wholesome parenting magazine — yet another sign that Americans are squeamish over the sight of a nursing breast, even as breast-feeding itself gains greater support from the government and medical community.

Babytalk is a free magazine whose readership is overwhelmingly mothers of babies. Yet in a poll of more than 4,000 readers, a quarter of responses to the cover were negative, calling the photo — a baby and part of a woman's breast, in profile — inappropriate.ne mother who didn't like the cover explains she was concerned about her 13-year-old son seeing it.

"I shredded it," said Gayle Ash, of Belton, Texas, in a telephone interview. "A breast is a breast — it's a sexual thing. He didn't need to see that."

It's the same reason that Ash, 41, who nursed all three of her children, is cautious about breast-feeding in public — a subject of enormous debate among women, which has even spawned a new term: "lactivists," meaning those who advocate for a woman's right to nurse wherever she needs to.

"I'm totally supportive of it — I just don't like the flashing," she says. "I don't want my son or husband to accidentally see a breast they didn't want to see."

Another mother, Kelly Wheatley, wrote Babytalk to applaud the cover, precisely because, she says, it helps educate people that breasts are more than sex objects. And yet Wheatley, 40, who's still nursing her 3-year-old daughter, rarely breast-feeds in public, partly because it's more comfortable in the car, and partly because her husband is uncomfortable with other men seeing her breast.

"Men are very visual," says Wheatley, 40, of Amarillo, Texas. "When they see a woman's breast, they see a breast — regardless of what it's being used for."

Babytalk editor Susan Kane says the mixed response to the cover clearly echoes the larger debate over breast-feeding in public. "There's a huge Puritanical streak in Americans," she says, "and there's a squeamishness about seeing a body part — even part of a body part."

Puritanical? Puritanical? This kind of bullshit makes me weak at the knees it really does. Look at that baby's little face. For Christ sake it's a BREAST FEEDING MAGAZINE!
If I was a breatfeeding mother and some one told me I was being offensive by feeding-in a most natural way- my child, I would yank my boob out and jet spray that preson straight in the chops.

And then he went and spoiled it all....

by saying something stupid like....
"I've got no issue with cruising. I've talked about it many times. It's never been an issue between us.

"We had a lovely tenth anniversary party. My present to him was a million quid so I think I should get away with so-called fooling around with 'Bernard Manning'. I've no idea who that guy was but thank-you very much, whoever he was."
"We knew with all the rubbish between us that we couldn't get a private wedding, so we have postponed it.

"I don't want people to think my life is troubled when it's not. I'm a man who has been successful for 25 years."

Good old George, first he makes Kenny a cuckold and in the next breath a whore. What will he say or do next I wonder.

Andrea Yates

Andrea Yates has been found not guilty of the murder of her children by reason of insanity.
The case here
was something I watched at the time with real horror and revulsion. I remember sitting bolt upright in bed listening with horror to Dan Rather recount the death of those poor children, staring open mouthed at the sight of Andrew Yates been led into jail. What kind of mother would do such a thing? I thought at the time. She was a monster, her poor husband, that poor family...those beautiful children and so on.
But over the years my attitude to this case has changed somewhat.And my opinion is Andrea yates received the right verdict.

Andrea Yates had attempted suicide twice, she had severe psychosis (for which she was prescribed more than twice the recommended maximum dosage of Effexor, an anti-depressant/anti-psychotic). She suffered from very severe post partum depression after each pregnancy, so severe in fact that her psychiatrist, Dr. Eileen Starbranch, testified that she urged the couple not to have more children, to prevent future psychotic depression. Unfortuntely the procreative plan taught by the Yates' spiritual mentor, Michael Peter Woroniecki, a doctrine to which Rusty Yates, Andrea's husband, subscribed, insisted she should continue to have "as many children as nature allows"

It has also come to light that Rusty Yates was vehemently against his wife having any form of support from ether her own mother or family during the time she was struggling to raise her children-who were home schooled. He felt she would have to learn to cope and not shirk her maternal duties.
Andrea did not 'learn to cope' she drowned her children one day shortly after her husband left for work, covered their bodies in a sheet and phoned the emergency services.
You would have to ask the questions: why was this disturbed woman with a serious mental condition left to struggle alone? Where were her family and friends? Why did they not insist on treatment, on providing support? Why did her husband ignore medical advice?
It is no use finger pointing now, but mayby there are lessons to be learned here. Post Partum Depression-despite what Tom Cruise thinks- is a very real and very serious condition and one that should be closely studied and recognised.
The world does not need another tragedy like this one.

Contrite-shite

OOhh, I love it, I just love it.

"Christie Brinkley's estranged husband has been silent about recent reports that he had an affair with an 18-year-old employee while married to the supermodel. Now his reportedly desperate apology is receiving a very public airing.

"This is an aberration," Peter Cook, 47, said through a lawyer, according to a column by Cindy Adams published today in the New York Post. "I'm sorry. I'm contrite. I'm stupid. Foolish. No excuse."

Adams wrote that Cook's words were provided to her by his attorney, Norman Sheresky.

"I love my wife. ... For a lifetime I've tried to prove how much I love her," Cook said, according to the article.

Sheresky said Cook, the model's fourth husband, is hoping for a reconciliation with Brinkley, 52. He defended Cook as a "man who loves his wife and who lives for his children."

Loves his wife, lives to prove his love, lives for his children, but has been banging the eighteen year Diana Bianchi for a year.
This man got up every day knowing he was cheating on his wife -FOR A YEAR. He probably kissed Christie, slept with her, went shopping with her, held her hand, went to diner, went on holidays together. He probably told her he loved her, patted her on the arse when walking past her in the kitchen, made her coffee, kissed the top of her head with affection, read in bed together, worried about the kids, made vet appointments, laughed with her, loved and was loved by her.
If I was Christie Brinkley I would be questioning every moment of my life for the last year. This was not an aberration, this was not a one-night stand, a moment of madness. This man had a realtionship for a year. He was able to live and lie so expertly that Christie-his wife, a smart lady- never twigged or sensed he had a second life.
For that I would never forgive him.

Raw foods, I'm against it!

God all mighty. French gay dragged me to another of his awful 'exhibitions' last night. Two hours of shuffling around gawping at disinterested folk looking at dispiriting art. Normally at these things you can at least get relatively drunk, but the artist is one of those people who worry a lot about other folks' colons. So she served 'raw living food' and 'wheat grass shots.'
I could have wept. FG was ashen-faced when he realised there was no wine. We pounced on the artist to find out what was going on and were astounded to hear that she didn't eat cooked foods.
'I don't understand.' I said. 'What do you mean?'
'I mean I don't eat cooked food, only raw.'
'Raw?'
Fruits, nuts, vegetables, seeds. You know, raw.'
'No mashed potato? No gravy? No sausages?' I said, hand clasped against my heart.
'No,no no.' She waved an arm, bangles jangled. 'Cooking destroys the enzymes. We don't need to cook food to enjoy it.'
'Don't we?' I stared at her sunken cheeks and clutched French Gay's hand. 'But what about roast chicken? What about roast beef?'
The artist frowned at me, probably wondering how many times she would have to say 'uncooked' before it sunk into my thick head.
'We need to heat some zings.' French Gay leaned in. 'What about café?'
'I never touch the stuff.' She said pulling a disgusted face.
'Shepherds pie, pasta?' I said, my voice now a horrified whisper.
She ignored me-probably best.
'I live by a principle, it's in my work, my art, my being. I do not destroy, I live in harmony, as we were intended to do.'
'Oooooff, zat iz not wat I would call living.' French gay sniffed.
'Toast?' I whimpered.
The artist excused herself and walked away.
'Steak? Chips? Fried eggs?' I cried after her. 'How can you? What's wrong with you?'
French gay shook me. 'Stop zat. Get ze 'old of yourself.
'OH French gay, you have to stop making me come to these things. I can't- take me away from here, take me away.'
He did, he took me to the nearest pub where we had two packets of cheese and onion crisps and two rum and cokes.
Thus the natural balance of the universe was restored.

Until this morning when I read the following........


Peta claims a meat-free diet can help bulging pets.

ANIMAL rights activists have gone barking mad - they want pet owners to feed their cats and dogs vegetarian meals.

Peta (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) is trying to persuade owners that a meat-free diet is best for their pet's health and will help them fight the flab.

It is launching a web page outlining why cats and dogs should go veggie - or even vegan.

The group cites rising levels of obesity-related illnesses in pets as a reason to cut out meat - despite the fact such animals' metabolism is best suited to a meat based diet.

Its new advice page says some canned pet foods contain "ground up parts of animals that you or I would never consider eating".

It adds: "Making vegetarian food for dogs is easy because dogs, like people, are omnivorous and usually hearty eaters."

But it warns: "Cats are often more finicky than dogs, and their nutritional requirements are more complicated."

Peta advises owners to start mixing vegetarian food in with their animals' usual meals and gradually phase out the meat.

Adding ingredients such as soya milk, olive oil and tomato sauce can help tempt unconvinced pets, it says.

Peta campaign co-ordinator Anita Singh said: "Given a well-balanced vegetarian diet, cats and dogs can win the battle of the bulge., The group advises pet owners to monitor their animals' health after making changes to their diet.

And it lists retailers which sell ready-made vegetarian and vegan pet food on the new advice page, which will launch today at www.peta.org.uk

It remains to be seen if it will detail how much more expensive vegan food for pets is.



AIIEEEEEEEE! It's like waking up from a nightmare only to find the nightmare is seeping into the real world.

Intervention...

needed. Seriously, some kind of clothing intervention is needed here. Someone needs to sit her down and say 'Look missy, crotch high cuts offs are yuccky even on the very slender. Step away from the tini-tiny clothes Missy, step the fuck away.'

Great line.

I read this yesterday and I laughed out loud. I think it is simply the most lovely expression I have heard in some time.
'She was not an alcoholic by any means, but she was a devoted drinker.'
Considering the last expression I learned was 'camel toe' this one is pure class and is a perfect description of any number of people- myself included- I know.

super sexy...

shoes. Or rather I should have posted, For Shebah and Fatmammycat to drool over - 'cept I'd rather not start talking about myself in the third person.

Lourdes!

My mother has returned from Lourdes with not one, but two plastic Holy Mary mother of God's style holy water containers for my apartment.I am so stunned I have almost forgotten about my shitty morning. She got Etheline blue earrings. But only I get the juice.
'But what do I do with them?'
'Hang one just inside your front door.'
'And the other?'
'I'd have it in the bedroom if I were you, keep you safe.'
'Safe?'
But she would not be drawn and I really didn't want to know what she thought I got up to that would require the Mother of God's strong arm to keep me 'safe'

I"m too flabbergasted for words. I've hung one inside the door as requested. It has a little light and everything. Wait 'til French Gay catches sight of it. He has a creeping horror of religious stuff and this will surely send him clean over the edge.

Bad morning.

Is it just bloody bad karma or does everyone else have mornings like this?
I woke up, went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, knocked the toothpaste into the wicker basket under the sink, bent to pick it up and cracked my head on the sink. Ow. Some cursing and head holding ensued.
In a bit of a teary eyed temper I snatch kimono from the hook on the back of the door and -rrrrrriiiippppppp- I tear most of the left sleeve off.
Much much more cursing ensued.
Feeling aggrieved, I made my way to the kitchen, put on the kettle, ignored cats, made coffee, drank coffee, spat coffee into sink, checked date on milk, hum, no wonder, it went off yesterday.
Some more cursing.
Get hastily dressed, go downstairs, down street, buy fresh milk and paper, go to pay, discover no money, curse very viciously at this. Fortunately kindly lady in shop takes pity on spitting cat and allows her to take milk and paper. Either that or she just wanted me out of her shop.
Go home, make more coffee. Clean litter trays, put in fresh litter, pick up bag of old litter and ZZZZZRRRRPPP, bag splits along the bottom. Ammonia fumes and pieces of smelly cat shit all over kitchen floor.
Pitch hissy fit.
Finally get that cleaned up. Come in here, coffee is gone cold, but I don't care I'm going to drink it anyway. I'm going to sit here and drink cold coffee and grumble and grouch until the cows come home.
Thank God it is Friday.

Age appropiate clothing.

I had a meeting this morning with a company across town. I grabbed a cab over-enduring a never ending rant from my taxi driver about polish drivers. Apparently one pranged his other cab the night before and drove off.
'How did you know he was polish then?' I asked.
'Becasue I know the cunt that did it.' he replied.
Fair enough.
Anhoo I eventually reached my destination and let myself into one of those smotheringly bland new office type building that are popping up all over the place like liver spots on the back of Hugh Hefner's hands.
I trotted up to the reception desk and said ' Ah Good morning, I'm here to see-'
And then I stopped talking and said 'Snarf' Not actually snarf, but a choked laugh nonetheless.
Behold oh receptionist evoking the great spirits of Patsy and Eddie.
It was mutton carefully disguised as lamb.
Before I continue with this most minor of rants, I should point out that I realise I might come off a bit snobby but...
She was forty if she was a day. She wore her red/blonde/orange hair in two bunches high on her head. She wore a sparkly boob tube red top with the words 'angel' printed acoss her chest in diamante, over her shoulders a shrug cardi, you know the tpye, only covers the shoulder. Her glases were square and red. Her makeup, well a drag queen should have been writing it down.
'Yes?'
'I'm fatmammycat, I have an appointment with-----.'
'Oh right, just take a seat there' she pointed at a comfy looking leather couch with a much bejewelled finger. Her nail varnish was vermillion, except for the tips which were sparkly.
While I sat she carried on with her work, but I was at one point able to catch a glimpse of the rest of her ensemble.
She wore-and I shit you not- a mini kilt in reds and greens. It just about covered her saggy arse and orange peel thighs. Her wooden mules finished it all off.
I was bewitched, I was bewildered, I was awestruck. I was wondering why any company would let this lady be the first thing a client sees coming through the door.
(yes I know how that sounds like I am a terrible snob- well no I'm not, there has to be a line)
Fortunately the person I was to meet wore black, she being PR and so on, so I was almost able to put the whole ghastly sight out of my mind.
Almost, but not quite.
There has been a proliferation of these woman in the last few years. Women in their thirties and forties dressing like japanese school girls, or, at the very least, their teenage daughters. Saturday night is rife with mutton tops and overly tanned bodies squished into dresses that display every lump and bulge. Ironed straight hair and sparkly alice bands. Eurgh. Enough.
It's time to reclaim the night!
The whole point of being a teenager is that you can get away with wearing the most god awful stuff and you still look cute and happening, you buy cheap tat because tha's all you can afford and you make it work, you create a sort of style-even if it's like every other teenager on the planet.
But there is something awfully tragic about grown women clinging to the vestiges of youth by dressing so utterly inappropriately. Unless you're a singer or an actress you can't really get away with it. And I know I know, the world would be a sad place if all the individuals were gone, but this woman wasn't being individual at all. I know a few artists that have a very distinct style, I myself am a very fussy dresser, Etheline has a very preppy style. But we are all in our thirties, and not a single one of us would charge into Miss Selfridges, wave our credit cards about, copy a look amimed at seventeen year old girls and even hope to pull it off. And if we could we probably wouldn't. Why? because we had our day of hanging around town in day glo pants and over the knee socks, we wore crop tops and pleather and thousands of bangles. We dyed out hair ridiculous colours and stretched our eyeliner half way out to our ears. We did it when it was our time to do it. Then we got a little older and our style evolved.
I guarantee you that receptionest probably has a teenage daughter of her own and they are 'best friends'. Well sorry Oldie spice, no best friend would ever let their mother out the door looking like that.

Warmongering Gays.

I should have known! Wait until I see that fucker French gay, and Country gay is going to get a slap too. Apparently the whole trouble between Israel and the Leb was nothing to do with land and religion at all. It was the queers that done it.

Have you ever read anything so stupid in your whole life? The mind boggles, it really really does. I"m boggling right this very second, boggling I tell you!

Home Improvements...

or as the paramour says, 'it's a bit of a fixer upper' and I like to call it, 'get the bulldozer and a tetanus shot.'

'What do you think? It's great isn't it?'
I was standing hip high in weeds and carparts. A fetching collection of rusted pots of paint and a three legged chair blocked my path from venturing further into the 'garden'. I tapped the nearest can with my foot and a slew of earwigs charged out to protect their home. Don't worry fellas I mentally squealed at them in wiggulionics-their common language, she's all yours.
'It's so quiet here, don't you think?' The paramour said rather hysterically. 'And even though we're just half an hour from the city centre it feels like we're in the middle of the country.'
'It feels like we're in the middle of something all right.' I said.
'So what do you think?'
Having shouldered open the gate, walked through a derelict house filled with junk, filthy carpets, greasy lino, -half burnt from some recent fire- stacks and stack of mouldy papers, yellowed doors-some with broken panals- and actual rat droppings,(which the paramour tried to deny but I'm a country girl I know rat dropping when I see them) I was pretty much ready to go home and have a long hot shower. But for some reason the paramour had that feverish light in his greeney/browney eyes. I glanced back at the house. The one remaining gutter hung down held there no doubt by cobwebs and birds nests and two of the upstairs windows were boarded up. I shuddered, remembering the brief look of the bathroom. The old man had decided to paint the tiles at some stage a deep indigo blue. Unfortunately he had used matt wall paint to do this and it had bubbled up and slithered off in strips over the years. Still it was nice that he thought blue would go with the deep pink toilet and bath. The sink was green. The paramour said there was another bathroom downstairs, but if he meant that room with the planks of half rotted timber stacked up against the wall is a 'downstairs loo' he's got to be madder than I thought. I'm not going to describe the kitchen, except to say that was where the fire was.
'Er...'
'I mean look at that view.' The paramour swept his arm towards some enormous leyland trees that all but blocked out the sun.
'It is big.' I said carefully.
'Isn't it though.' He beamed at me.
'You'd have to gut the entire place.'
'Sure.'
'And the roof-'
We both gazed upwards,
'-it needs one.'
'Right right.'The paramour nodded.'But even with all that it's still a bargain.
Something scurried to my left.'Let's go get a drink.'
We left. But the gleam in the paramour's eye did not grow dimmer.
I have a bad feeling ladies and gentlemen, a very bad feeling about this one.

Shifty goings on.

'What are you doing later on?' The paramour asked me at the crack of dawn this morning.
'Mmmphhh.' I replied.
'Mumf?'
'MMuuuffufuf.'I buried myself further under the duvet hoping he might get the message. The message being stop talking and go to work.
But he persisted.
'I want you to come look at a house with me.'
I gave up trying to remain asleep and poked my head over the top. 'What? What are you talking about?'
He pulled on his socks. 'A house. I want you to come look at it.'
'A house?' (I really am that slow in the am)
'Yep.'
'Why?'
He pulled on his shoes carefully avoiding eye contact.'I'm thinking about buying it. It hasn't even gone on the market but I know the old boy who owns it. He's talking about selling, he says it's too much for him to look after.'
'And you're thinking of buying it...as an investment?'
'It would make a good family home. Needs some work but-where did I put my watch?'
He located the watch. I blinked. He snapped on his watch and stretched, all natural. 'So will you come?'
'Okay, sure.'
He smiled at me and kissed the top of my head. 'You'll like it.'
After he left the bigger of the cats joined me for a snooze, but I couldn't get back to sleep.
House? I'll like it?
'Men are so sneaky aren't they?' I said to the bigger of the cats.
He regarded me sleepily and closed his eyes. Moments later he was asleep.

Back Home.

Got in late Satdee night. I've put on about five pounds in a week, I feel kinda bloated and tetchy and grouchy and out of sorts, a grumpy fatmammycat if you will, so normal services will return tomorrow. Am sick to the back teeth of travel and living out of a suitcase.
Puddy got her funnel off and looks remarkably like a skinny necked turkey. Etheline is a star and loved her present. I'm off now to drink coffee, answer emails and wash a mountain of clothes, because naturally I used four weeks worth of clothing in one week.

MacDara, if you get a chance to read this, I tried to post on your site and couldn't, but I'm glad you are being evacuated and I"m really glad you're safe.

Puddy's results.

I got the result of puddy's biopsy, and as I suspected it's not good news. The tumours she had removed are malignant and will most likely grow back or spread elsewhere. My vet and I agree that with such a poor prognosis cutting her ears off to prolong the inevitable would be a cruel and rather pointless choice. So, when her funnel come off next Friday, I'm going to spoil that cat stupid, well spoil her more since she lives rather a lazy life already. And until I see any sign that she is in distress she can snooze and scoff and be rubbed to her heart's contentment.
Even though I had already guessed this would be the outcome I am very upset. I can't stop bursting into tears. I feel slightly stupid, but I can't help it. I burst into tears today in a restaurant because one of the Italians asked how she was.
I know some of you non-animal folk might not get it, but I've had puddy fifteen years, that's fifteen years of companionship. I've cried into puddy's fur over boyfriends, I've ranted to puddy about work/friends/family and puddy would cheep and purr and kneed in total agreement.
I told her today I'd look after her, after I'd read the results. She sat on my lap, with that stupid funnel on her head, and purred and cooed at me while I dribbled snot and tears on her. She has absolute faith in me. .
I got Puddy from a mad woman called Ginch. She came down to where I was working, with puddy in a restaurant sized mayonnaise bucket, with holes punched in the top for air. She asked me did I want a cat. I opened it up and there she was, a black and white ball of fuzz, only a few weeks old, scared senseless. It was love at first sight-that and I wasn't sure what Ginch would have done if I hadn't said yes.
When she was younger she used to stalk my friends when they came over to my old place, and Country Gay was pounced on on more than on ocassion. I used to roar laughing as he shrieked in terror. She never hurt him, but it was a great game for a while.
She's lived with me abroad and here, houses and apartments and never cared where we were as long as she knew I was with her. She has her first litter of kittens all those years ago in the shoe closet of my bedroom, I used to cart her to the vets back in the day in a record box, while she yowled the place down. She was thinner then and actually managed to get out through a hole in the corner of it one time.
Her favourite thing in the world is turkey. She is the only one that knows how to ask for food. The smaller of the cats has never mastered it, and the bigger of them doesn't really care if he gets fed or not. The small one usually waits with her while she does all the work, and then they run to feed bowl side by side like huskies once I've worked out what all the meowing and cheeping is over. I don't know what he's going to do without her since he only goes around in circles silently, expecting me to understand this means 'get the food woman' (I do get it, but I can ignore silent circles, Puddy would actually drive you nuts if you don't feed her on time)
I have to fucking travel tomorrow for work and I will be away all week, Etheline, who I give out and complain about so much is going to stay here and mind puddy and bring her to the vets next Friday to get her stitches out.
I think I've changed my mind about getting any more pets, including a French bulldog. Getting so unbearably attached to something that cannot live as long as me does not strike me as a good thing.
Anyhoo, sorry for the eulogy-esque piece. But some times it's just easier to write than to speak, and you lot can't see the state of me. Believe me it ain't pretty.
Have a good weekend y'all, catch you when I'm back.

Bomb alert.

Dublin arport has been evacuated for the second time this week. A suspicious package has been found in arrivals and the bomb squad have been called. Of course it's Friday, busiest traveling day of the week. Twenty planes are sitting on the tarmac, passengers on board, waiting to disembark. Some of them have been there since 7:30.
Poor people. I hope it is a hoax, like earlier in the week.
Across the water our closest neighbours are also remembering the terrible events of last year, when 52 people were killed when four suicide bombers detonated devices on three underground trains and on a double-decker bus.

A day of commemoration is taking place in London as the city remembers those who died and were injured in the 7 July bombings in the city last year.

An act of remembrance will be held at St Paul's Cathedral at 8.50am this morning to coincide with the time when three of the bombs were detonated on underground trains at the height of the rush hour.
I will be thinking of them and their families today.

X+Y= Pete Burns?

Now, since I've been whinging all week and I'm tired of myself, I decided to have a look about me and see what's going on in the world. War, polictics, the drug cartels, corrupt governments, North Korea, yep check check...all is as it should be...
THEN, screech, stop, what's this? What strange goings on is this? Some strange sights to be sure to be sure. So strange that I feel the need to go shopping so that all is right with the world again.
Exibit 1- Pete Burns. In trouble and in court and ordered to stay in at night. The ghoul won't like that. And does anyone else think he looks rather like Faye Dunaway?

Exibit 2- Brigitte Neilson 48 has married hubby number 5, 33 year old -and very clearly friend of dorothy-Mattia Dessi, and took lots of photos, to which I can only say Bleeeecccchhhh. But turns out she 'forgot' she was still married to hubby number 4, so the wedding will now be next week. No No No.
I'm going out, catch y'all later. Shoes, I need shoes.

Alternative medicine...

MY mother called last night to ask about puddy. The conversation went something like this.
'How is she?'
'A bit groggy, she's asleep here beside me. Poor old thing has to wear one of those funnels on her head for ten days, I think she's more upset about that than the actual surgery.'
'Etheline tells me they found a tumour in her other ear too.'
'They did, but they removed both.'
'And were they malignant?'
'I don't know yet, I"m waiting for the biopsy results.'
'If they are you should bring her to the faith healer. I can give you his number.'
Now....screech, hold it right there. Turn off the lights, there is no one home.
'I don't think so.'
'Oh?' My mother says in her most irritating voice.'Why not?'
'I"ve not bringing puddy to a faith healer.'
'Well you should. This man, he's amazing, his speciality is animals. He can communicate with them.'
'I don't need anyone to communicate with puddy, I know what's wrong with her. Faith healers, pfft, I don't believe in them, you know that. Puddy probably doesn't either.'
'You'd think with her being as sick as she is you'd want to be sure.'
'Sure of what?'
'Sure that you're doing everything for her.'
Pprepare for...
'Oh for fuck's sake! With her being as sick as she is? I brought her to the vet, that's what people do with sick animals.'
'There is no need to take that tone with me.'
'Mam, I"m tired, I'm also worried about her and-'
'That's why you should-'
'NO, you can spend as much money with that quack as you like, I don't care it's your money, but I'm not adding a single cent to his coffers.'
'He's had some great results you know.'
'Yeah? Like what?'
'Violet Shaw went to him for those headaches and she doesn't get them any more.'
'Good for her.'
I scratch puddy's bald head, wondering how it is that I cannot get through a week without a row with my mother. I want to tell her that I"m afraid puddy is not long for this world, that the vet actually said that if the tumour returns I have the option to cut poor puddy's ears off, putting her through further surgery -rendering her deaf and even then if might not work- or making the choice ever responsible pet owner must make. If she begins to suffer I must end her life, a creature I've had for fifteen years. I want to cry, but I can't because it's my mother on the line.
'You know your problem-'
Ah, here it is, the great delievery from on high, do I know my problem, hummm shoe fetish? Drink? Fear of cabbage? let's hear it oh wise one.
'No.'
'You've no faith in anything.'
'I putting a lot of faith in my vet at the moment.'
She doesn't answer. And presently she rings off, doubtless to call Etheline back and complain about my 'faithlessness/rudeness'
And you know what it's not true. I just don't believe in new age bollocks.

Reiki, what a load of hooey. Laying of hands, faith healers, bollocks bollocks bollocks to that. I don't believe in Chinese herbs, cranial realignment, diet pills, homeopathy, chiropractors, astrologists, or fortune tellers. Quackery of the highest order.
Recently-while mildy inebriated- I got into a ferocious debate with a girl I know and admire, over reiki. She's a yoga buff and very good at it. But she takes it very seriously, so okay then. I'm not going to snarf at her. I too take things seriously, admittedly there isn't a whole lot of theory to kick boxing, hurt them before they hurt you, but hey we all have our thing. But when she started on about reiki and negative energy, the red mist come down.
Reiki, bollocks be upon it, is another fancy dan money making scheme by our good friend the travelling snake oil salesman. Other wise known as Alternative Health practioners. Other wise known in this house hold as money sucking frauds who prey on the weak and needy.
I despise them, with gusto.
Puddy is fast asleep on my bed now. I'm going to kick boxing, where I won't worry about my eternal soul or a higher plain of being, but I will worry about Memnoch kicking me half way across the room. What does it say about me that I almost wish he'd pair me with the Canadian?

Shared bathrooms...

I'm against it!
It was muggy here last night so I didn't sleep well, and the gentle snoring of the paramour didn't help much either. I pinched him, poked him, and eventually held his nose closed until he turned over-and then I discovered he can snore on his side.
Because I was awake of course I needed to go to the bathroom. So-muttering darkly about snoring folk - I trundled off to the bathroom and promptly fell down the toilet.
'Arrrghh!'
I managed to wiggle my way free. I stomped back into the bedroom and snapped the light on. 'Put the bloody seat down!'
'What what?' He replied blearily sitting up. 'What's going on?'
'The toilet seat paramour, you-just put it down. Or use the other bathroom, why don't you?'
'Bathroom?'
'Aw forget it.'
No point shouting at a man in the middle of the night. And within minutes the room was filled with the not at all infuriating sound of deep rummbly snores.
GAH. I made my way to the sitting room and sat at my desk for a while, thinking sulking, thulking.
I blame boarding school (for so many things). I was soured by boarding school, the horror of sharing a bathroom with fifty other girls-if you were lucky to be on that floor- has caused my very real dslike of sharing a bathroom. Years of picking clumps of hair out of the drain, hoping to God pee-pee paula hit the spot, wondering why that girl from Carlow kept stealing the toilet paper and discovering there wasn't even the faintest dribble of hot water left to rinse the stinging shampoo from my hair, has completely scuppered my views on shared bathrooms. Peraps my many years 'abroad' also added to my toilet whimsy. Toilets, I mean they're personal aren't they? Either way, I cannot stand sharing a bathroom with another person, even the paramour. I have two bathrooms here, mine, and the guest. Mine is attached to my room. The other is across the hall. Both have a shower, a toilet and bidet, although mine also has a bath. Now, before anyone accuses me of being a Polly Pissy Pants, I should point out that I'm not all weird about sharing, but I don't really see the point if you don't have to.
It all makes perfect sense.
Eg. I take a while to get ready to go out, there are primpings, some preenings, hair removal, tweezings, buffing, moisturing, drying, hair stuff, make up stuff, more hair stuff...it takes a while.
He, on the other hand, has a shower, a shave, sprays deodorant, slaps on aftershave and voila, he's hot to trot. Naturally it makes sense that he might like the use of the other bathroom to, you know, do his thing.
He doesn't hang the damp towels on the towel rails, he flings them over the shower rail. I don't know why he does this. I don't know why it annoys me.
But it does.
So, shared bathrooms, I'm against it. Now I just have to convince the paramour that he wants to use the other bathroom and that it's got nothing to do with me at all.

Oh and Puddy's on the operating table right about now. All her blood work came back normal. She's in good shape, so hopefully all will go well and I'll get her back this afternoon. I wonder will they put one of those funnel things on her head. I hope so, that will scare the pants of the bigger of the cats.

Poor Puddy.

The oldest of the cats had her poor neck shaved this morning and two vials of blood removed from her old body. That wasn't the worst part-although she wasn't really fond of either action, nor of being shoved into her crate and hauled to the vet's office, she yowled like a car alarm the whole way there and the whole way back. No, the real trauma for the old dear was not being fed this morning and not having her usual bowl of milk (the vet insisted no food or drink for at least eight hours).
Now she is sprawled behind me on the foor, stuffed full of turkey and milk with a big bald patch and a very puzzled expression on her chops.
She's going back tomorrow for removal of an huge tumour that has developed in her inner ear in under two weeks and last night I found another lump in her neck-which is also being removed tomorrow. I am more than a little concerned. She is 15 after all, and I don't like the mysterious arrival of lumps, I also don't like the fact that she will be knocked out for some time tomorrow. So for the next twenty-four hours, whatever Puddy wants Puddy gets.
And despite my even tone, I'm a fucking mess in case she dies on me. Stupid animals making us stupid love them.

Cocaine.

As well as beng a drug that can turn even the most mild mannered fool into a loud opinionated jaw clenching sweating pontificating twat, it can also make previously posh pieces of totty look like an ex bare knuckle queen called Gloria.
"Years of cocaine abuse appears to have finally caught up with Tara Palmer-Tomkinson, after shocking photographs revealed her once perfect nose to be on the brink of collapse.

Appearing at the Grazia Lifetime Achievement awards Saturday night, guests were horrified to see a large dent on the bridge of her nose.

One guest said: "Tara was dressed up and looked terrific, but her nose was in a terrible state. I couldn't stop staring at it because it had such a strange indentation. It was the talk of the party."

Friends of the I'm A Celebrity star, who has been clean for more than six years, now fear her former £400-a-day drug habit may have left her scarred for life."
That and I spent the best part of an hour on Saturday listening to some chap tell me all about his relationship with his sort of estranged dad, his sort of estranged brother and his -by proxy- sort of estranged nieces and nephews, all while he gurned and clenched and sweated his pointy head off. OOOOOhhh yes. Worra lorra fun.