Posted on Sunday, December 21, 2008
in Family, Jobs, Philosophy, Rantings, Strange and Unusual
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
-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:
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.