K8 the GR8

The Wii small hours this morning found TAT, his dodgy Italian friend and me surrounding the TV set, psyching ourselves up for a Wii game of tennis or two.

Various screenshots flashed in front of our eyes as the characters were being set up and the controls configured, the final screenshot advertised that gaming might be made more comfortable with the use of Wii jackets.

“Why’s that?” … I asked…  ”is that so you don’t crack someone’s skull open when it gets in the way of a back-hand shot?”

“Nah, it’s so that when you let go of the controller accidentally, it won’t break when it hits the wall” guessed the dodgy Italian friend.

“Maybe it stops your hand getting sweaty or from cramping up, y’know, ergonomics and all that.  Is that a word?”  I fought with the rubbery cover and dirty thoughts crossed my mind as I did so, but I didn’t voice them.  That’s New Year’s resolution no. 16.

“Nope” said TAT “you’re both wrong.  It’s to prevent S.T.Wiis!”

Groan.

George Foreman grills are great n’all, but you know what gets me?  Their cleaning instructions.

-Do not use abrasive materials when cleaning your grill

-Do not use abrasive detergents

-Clean with damp kitchen towel and dry with a soft polishing cloth.

Yeah.  Right.

What they should say, is:

-Don’t worry about attempting to de-grease this yoke while it’s still hot, because obviously you’re too busy eating at this stage.  Instead, sprinkle a light dusting of baking soda on the surface, come back when the unit has cooled, then scrape the bollix out of it with that rather useless plastic tool we provide for you. 

-Don’t use scouring pads (obviously), but don’t be lured into buying one of those gimmicky Foreman sponges either, unless you like the feeling of listeria infested rasher excrement between your fingers.

-Best of luck degreasing this contraption… hate to be you!

That’s what they should say.

A quiet suburban cul-de-sac.  An old rusty hammer clangs relentlessly against plastic tubing, then drops with a clatter onto concrete below.

‘Bollocks’  I say, fed up with my quota of loose guttering.  I know the plasticky thing here is supposed to just slot neatly back into its home, but it won’t.  Its logic escapes me completely.

A tall man nearby hears my expletive and turns to find me teetering on the edge of a wooden stool and watches as my enthusiasm for DIY grows flaccid.  I pretend not to see him, having been caught in such a delicate moment, but he approaches anyway without a word or a grin.   He reaches with his six foot frame, pushes the plastic guttering far above my reach, and slots it neatly home.

“Thanks!”  I feel stupid.

He follows me inside my home, and I introduce him to TAT.   He sits on a kitchen chair with the familiarity of an old dog, and begins to regale us with local tales… stories flow from him for four hours, and whiskey is poured.  My stomach growls.

Finally he leaves, but warns us that he won’t remember any of this evening’s conversations or occurrences, nor will he know exactly who he’s waving at tomorrow when our neighbourly paths cross again.

“‘Cos of the crash, you see. No short term memory.”   He ambles back to his house and I realise that this is a sweet ticket I’ve inherited.  My imagination goes wild… the paranoia that sometimes applies to some conversations doesn’t apply to this bloke… a kind, hardworking sort of bloke, a walking encyclopedia of local ancient anecdotes with no opinion of me whatsoever because his memory of me will always be hazy.   I like him already.

And besides… he has that prophetic quality, having survived a car collision with seven souls on board, all still walking this earth.  Back in the 80’s when seat-belts and drink-driving were not issues as heavily bet into us as they are today, our new bearded neighbour had attempted to bring his mates home with a skinful under his belt in a Renault Fuego and sorely learned his mistake.

“They gave me thirty six hours” (he told us gravely) “before they would switch off my machines.  I lifted my hand with ten minutes to go.  I can’t remember it though, I can’t remember any of it.”  This chap then had to re-learn every nuance of life that we take for granted, from scratch.  He was given a second chance.  A lucky sod, or a dude with a purpose?  I’m not sure, but pretty intriguing nonetheless.

“If I did come back in the next life” he told us at one stage… “I would come back as a goldfish, to spend my days in a cow’s drinking trough, cleaning the water for them to drink.  That’s a noble profession.”

Indeed.

2009 should be nothing if not interesting!

HAPPY NEW YEAR TO YOU!

I shouldn’t really be here.  I have nothing interesting to say, I packed my brain into a moving box at some stage and I can’t seem to find it, and I’ve looked everywhere.

The whole family seems to have gotten scurvy from my lack of intelligent culinary variations of cheap microwaveable food, for they are all very irritable and vocal and demanding.  I’ve been hiding in Facebook poker on my laptop in the kitchen, hoping I grow so still they can’t see me anymore.

I woke to hear the Christmas tree tumbling to the hard wood floor.  If a tree falls in a sitting room and nobody is there to hear it, let me tell you yes it does make a noise.  A very impressive noise.  Our giant Bob Marley poster had been pushed off the windowsill by the cat, and had thrown the tree off balance without smashing its giant glass face.  Rastafari.

I had a pretty angel on that tree, but she broke her wee porcelain arm in the fall, and her pretty white dove ended up skittering across the floor and under the fridge.  I superglued her back together, then superglued my thumb and index finger together for the craic.  It’ll be a while before that fingerprint grows back.

Just as I was recovering with a strong cup of tea, I heard a knock on my door.  My sitting-room door.

A man… some random neighbour dude walked in, told me he was a friend of Grandad’s which was good enough for me.   We watched The Pink Panther for two hours, then he left without saying anything else.

I like this neighbourhood.

…At least I’m not one of them.

I don’t know her name, the lady that created me, but a part of her is still caught up in my stitching, like a fingerprint, and I liked her a lot.  She bought my bare bones in a woollen mill in Wicklow and brought me home to an old house devoid of heat and life,  but when she stepped through the front door she instantly warmed it with her comforting humming… when she sat down with me, I kept her fingers toasty while she stitched me slowly together.  We kept each other warm for many weeks until the day my button eyes were fixed to my bear-shaped head and I was finally complete.  From a forgotten ball of brown wool in a bargain bin, to a teddy-bear with plush stuffing and a bright blue bow tie.  My smile is wonky like that of my creator, and I have paws made of black embroidery thread.  I noticed straight away that my thumb is coming loose, a detail too fine for bi-focals to catch, I think it shall be my quirk.

It’s dark now.

It has been for several days.  She plopped a wet kiss on my nose and wished me Godspeed before pulling the golden bow taut around my crinkly wrapping, and now here I lie, quiet.

I heard voices multiply this morning.  Different cadences crossed the threshold and I felt the magical suspense as my hour of glory approached.  Smells of cookery and candle-wax wafted through my festive coverings and the clear bell chiming of wine glasses being toasted muffled in my cloth stuffed ears.

“Is it time yet?  Can we open them?” a small voice wheedled.  I hear a subtle grunt of approval and my heart soared.  I’m about to be unwrapped, about to meet my new owner, the person my creator cared so much about.

Gravity shifts suddenly as I’m picked up and squeezed.  I growl a pleased sounding teddy-bear growl which only I can hear.  Daylight.

I see a room lit with flashing lights which hits strands of tinsel and explodes brightly against the walls and the floors and in the eyes of the child that holds me.

“Awww, I have a brown teddy already!” the child’s shoulders slump for a second until he realises there are more gifts to unwrap.  He lets me fall.  I tumble into the pile of discarded wrapping paper below, and come to rest gazing into the eyes of the old lady who made me, I watch as she folds her arthritic hands in her lap and I want to be with her again.  She looks sad.

“Simon! Don’t be so rude!” the mother chastises the child, but does it on a full stomach which weighs her conviction down.  The child ignores her.  I sit where I am for hours, until nightfall.

I’m scooped up and darkness falls again as I land in a moist place that smells like tea-bags and poultry bones.  They can’t see me!  They don’t know I’m here.  I am carried away… I hear a door slam, and I’m cold.

I’m a forgotten bear.  I try to get used to this fact as I sit for a long time in the dustbin outside the front door to the apartment - my black button eyes begin to accumulate frost and people march by, desperate to return to warmth.

Rummaging sounds.

Dirty hands.  A boy in a filthy tweed cap fishes me out and peels greasy tin-foil pieces from my fibres.  I am placed in a satchel, patted with fingerless mittens, and carried away.

Arms.  I am held in two small arms, warm and cosy, periodically extended to be admired by the little sister of my rescuer, as the pair sit beneath an A.T.M. on Christmas Day with their paper cup.  I am loved, I feel the love for the best brother in the world from the happiest girl in the universe.  I’m a happy teddy-bear.

The little girl sings carols as she sits on her plastic bags and cuddles me.  I watch as passers-by throw coins into her cup and I sing along with my teddy bear growl that only I can hear.

I am not forgotten yet!

Joint posting.  You may have seen the fruit of Maxi’s imagination before… a subject is chosen which a number of bloggers take to with gusto, each writing from their point of view at exactly the same time.  Beautifully orchestrated, free for all, all you need to do is ask to be on the mailing list!

It started with this:

Then of course Hallowe’en had to happen:

But it’s Christmas time now.  So much magic.  So much sparkly potential.  So much of a temptation to make a mockery of the whole thing!  Of course it has to be done:

The artistes in question flow as follows in order…

The doctor’s surgery was impressively festive this afternoon, I noted that it’s a shame that Poinsettias don’t own their own smell, there were so many of them dotted around as I manoeuvred Laughingboy into the waiting room.

“So how are we today?” the doctor smiled.

“Ahh not too bad…” I began unbuttoning the child’s many layers. “…I’m concerned about his oxygen saturation levels, since last night I’m guessing they’re hovering somewhere around the 82 mark. Would you have a pulse oxymeter gizmo lying around by any chance?” The doctor began to root, and emerged with a wee box attached to a clothes-peg which he clipped to Laughingboy’s index finger. The digital numbers began to count.

“81.9!” he exclaimed, sticking his lower lip out and making an impressed noise. “Any other symptoms?”

“Difficulty breathing, excessive mucous excretions from pretty much every orifice, restlessness and nausea. I administered a dose of 10ml purified water through his nebuliser last night which seemed to do the job. I reckon the kid has an upper chest infection going on, which seems to be creeping into the lower quadrants. I want to whack it on the head before pleural effusion takes hold. Maybe a dose of Augmentin Duo and a few vials of Combivent would do it?” The doctor mucked about with his stethoscope for a bit and stood back.

“Umm… yes that’s pretty much on the ball, let’s do that then.” He began typing. “Ever thought of entering the nursing career?”

“Yeah, I dunno… I’m just waiting for the right sign I s’pose. And money would help.”

“Here’s your sign right here,” he ruffled Laughingboy’s hair while Laughingboy frowned indignantly. “there’s your prescription, I’m sure you’re well accustomed to the doses and things? I might as well give you some signed prescription pads, sure!”

“Sweet, yeah I’m smashed broke at the moment, that’d be great!” A moment passed as he considered that fact that I might be serious, then he broke into a grin.

“So take care, now.”

“And a Merry Whatever!”

“And a Merry Whatever indeed.” the doctor grinned and went to lunch.

Meanwhile Laughingboy wondered when his ice cream treat was coming to him just as I considered the very same thing.  Ice cream always comes first.

All waded out of the crud I am, and life is suddenly worth living again.  I find it much better to spew all the depressed crap out of the way instead of slowly dribbling it onto these pages… you may thank me for it though you don’t know it, for this last week was hell, best kept for the bottom of a whiskey bottle, if you ask me.  But, sadness is a season and it passes.

In the last week I have done the following:

-Watched Puppychild sled downstairs on flat-packed boxes as I sat smoking a fag in the attic doorway.

-Been interviewed on East Coast FM about Laughingboy’s school without getting nervous because I knew everyone was listening to 2fm or Today FM at the time.

-Stolen the (old) next-door neighbour’s kitten

-Watched the home I was once proud of slowly turn into a shit-hole

-Been offered a job in Puppychild’s playschool

-Fallen down a mountain escaping with a dirty knee and a fellow dog walker’s raised eyebrow

-Argued with the Health Service Executive and won

-Argued with tinsel and blu-tack and lost

-Watched Santa Claus sacrifice my child over his ass as his chair collapsed

-Driven 725km

-Packed 28 boxes and 52 bags

-Watched 84 episodes of Family Guy (that’s 21 episodes 4 times)

-Hated this blog and everything it represents

-Made a cozy fire from nothing but a heated toaster element and an eighth of a bag of wet coal

-Become accustomed to whiskey

-Made 139 mountains out of 14 molehills

-Done absolutely no Christmas shopping apart from blackmailing my new local shop into giving me its last Christmas tree for 10 euros

-Moved into a completely free house which seems to me as big as the Taj Mahal.  This brings me to the following point:

I can’t believe I’m here!  6 years of waiting for some sort of suitable house for Laughingboy and I get this!  A house on the end of a quiet row surrounded by fields full of men in horses and endless tennisball fetching potential.  An electronic device that picks my kid up and carries him into the shower.  Neighbours that don’t pound my windows with footballs and don’t curse like sailors.  Wide doorways.  Wilderness.  My home.

To all you solid taxpayers of Ireland:

THANK YOU

Your money is going to wonderful, amazing places.  If you should ever find yourselves in a position like mine, where you are humbled and find that the housing ladder is but a far-off dream, know that it is grand to live in a country where fellow sufferers will give you a dig-out, as long as you’re prepared to bear the cross of time and red tape.  I owe you so much, I only hope I can return the favour to you one by one, in every walk of life I will repay you.  I will drop tenners outside pubs.  I will pick up your bill in the coffee shop.  I will pack your groceries for you if you’re ahead of me in the queue at the tills at Tescos, I will even pick up my own dog’s shite.  One by one I hope to repay you.  This house rocks.

xxx

me

I’m not so sure I should be posting this, it’s not very entertaining and is cryptic of yawnworthy proportions, but it’s an attempt to give form to this vast confusion, the formation of written word sometimes helps.  Whether it should be published for the world to see or not, that’s another matter, but the void must be filled no matter how ridiculous the content.

I got news today.  It’s not bad news, bad is the wrong word, even tragic is a laughable word in this instance.  I got good news too - we finally got the key to our new house.  What should be a new and exciting time is really a joke, a big joke in the grand scheme of things.  The emptiness of the new house is really the emptiness of the world.  A world that should stop today; it should just stop turning, Christmas should be cancelled for life is too cruel for such nice things to happen.

I can’t say what’s happened, partially for the family that it’s happened to, partially because I just can’t write it down.  I talked to God last night and for the first time in my life he answered.  He really answered and I’m now grouped with the rest of the loonies the cynical world has refused to accept.  God told me to stop praying.  I didn’t hear a voice, instead I felt it.  An unmistakeable block that told me my prayers were pointless, that the answer was already carved out.  I could pray for anything else with the feeling I was being heard, but my true heartfelt request was denied.  You don’t want to know how many tears I shed during that prayer.   Today I understood why.  In the midst of shifting boxes and keeping appointments and talking earnestly to strangers, there was a strange void and soon enough I learned that the inevitable had happened.  Such grief.

It didn’t even happen to me.  It’s a story that you’d hear on the radio or see in a film that would render you senseless with wretched melancholy, the sort you never could be ready for.  It’s anybody’s story, they just don’t know it yet and that’s what hurts.

Things might be quiet around here for a while.  I have said this before, and yet have found the blog addiction too strong to resist despite priorities and have posted anyway.  I don’t feel that pull these days though, things really do need to be taken care of.  This is the best and the worst time of my life and it’ll appear here, when the sweet smell of broadband finally comes into play.  Until then there will be a void, filled with this boring and depressive drivel that nobody will be arsed to read. 

-Knock Knock

-Who’s there?

-Life.

-Fuck off and leave me alone.

-Ok.

Give a thought to the environment this Christmas.

Instead of slagging the cheesy light displays that scourge the national grid every year, it only takes one minute to do the right thing.

Sneak up the driveway and unscrew ONE bulb in each light sequence.  Don’t remove it completely, the source of the problem would be too easy to spot.

One person, one minute, one bulb.  Save the planet and satisfy your inner evil child all at once!

You know you want to.