Feb, 1, 2010 (forgot to post)

If there is one book you deem worthy of reading this month, year or decade I would lobby it to be Schindler's Ark. You stomach it without tasting metal in your mouth at every injustice over every leaf and I don't think I want you reading what I write.


Today I spent much of my time in solitude. I have not been sleeping due to weird dreams that I refuse to have, in my refusal it seems sleep and the occasional nap has been taken away from me. I can deal with it so long as I get my five to six hours of quiet time every 24 hours.

Perhaps change is the key Watson...

If there is one book you deem worthy of reading this month, year or decade I would lobby it to be Schindler's Ark. You stomach it without tasting metal in your mouth at every injustice over every leaf and I don't think I want you reading what I write.


Today I spent much of my time in solitude. I have not been sleeping due to weird dreams that I refuse to have, in my refusal it seems sleep and the occasional nap has been taken away from me. I can deal with it so long as I get my five to six hours of quiet time every 24 hours.

So I toook the time today to set up a new blog (ooooh shiney) I hear you say. I will add the link onto this page as soon as I have a little archive together.

The mish mash of nevertoolate is all well and good but it doesn't sit well with me when I want to have a tudy and clean piece put together.

I also had a brilliant idea today- not going to actually tell anyone about it just yet, but just know... it's great.

Have you ever...

Had what you thought was a really good idea and then be told it is on fact terrible? And have that person, the bringer of reality, be a paid medical profession type person??

Yeah, me neither.

I write it better than you ever felt it.

My resolution bit the dust five days in. FIVE DAYS. That cannot be a good omen for the rest of the year surely? However I am far too good a mood to let it thwart me. Today is good. I spent the entire night writing- all night long the only sounds were me typing, swearing when I needed to spell check or look something up, pacing a little and sighing contently when it was all out of my head and printed before me. 12,000 words later (give or take syntax.... and grammmmmmar) I am lighter than I have been in weeks. I will never show anyone what it was that made me feel heavier. It's for me, but the fact that I had the follow through to start what I began at 11pm last night gives me hope for this year. Writing in a blog daily will not give me the satisfaction that is desired if I am not writing what I want to be read.

Today I spend it reading and doing exactly what I want to do. Selfish? Almost certainly. Necessary? More so than breathing!

I have spent far too long being concerned with others; friends, family, random peers. They don't care for my opinion, and that isn't being deprecating in anyway, that's just fact. I will try to worry less. Reduce the stress somewhat. Talk to who I want to, be with who i want to see and then see where I feel I am standing after this is somewhat continuous.

No more annual resolutions- who is to say I don't try something for a month and then pick up something new after that? Far more productive and useful for the restless person in me.

The irony of this good feeling.... my internet just died... COUGH. Fear not I copy, I paste, I save...

Sigh.

Definition of a bad day:

While walking to work this morning I trundled across an open and used pregnancy test at the bus stop, it was positive. Beside it was a half eaten bag of crisps. Made me sad...

Jude Law has a bad hair line.

For the first time in our relationship Law's face didn't annoy me.

There I said it.

This isn't a blog, more so a confession, but I have no more to say this evening....

There's nothing on television...

Therefore I am deleting rubbishing from my email... and the lazy blogger in me was grateful to find some ramblings....

Hopeless travel writing attempt.

18th November, 2009.
Krakow, Lesser Poland.
After very little sleep, more than a healthy serving of childish
excitement and far too much hand luggage we have arrived. Katowice
Airport is cold, sterile, overly bright with florescent lighting and
seemingly completely devoid of anykind of polite social interaction.
Tired, cold and a little bit lost in a foreign country we were
released from the airport and found ourselves crammed into the back of
a small blacked out mini bus with the good fortune to be driven by a
man who was more than capable of conversing in Russian. Without a word
of polish we were dropped at Krakow bus station and pointed in the
direction if the nearest taxi. The most important thing to remember
about taxi drivers in a foreign country is that they are more than
happy to help the stranded but they know the longer it will take the
more money they will make. Therefore at 2am this morning we were
privvy to the fast paced conversation of how best to get us to the
main Market square. It took too much time, a bit of money and brute
strength to get us up the three flights of stairs to our ryjneck7
hostel. Ironically we can be found in room 7....

Gasping

With a head held high above water;
proud, stiff and arched.

Blurred by the black spots blinding the vision
the wait would not be long.

The cold waves lapped and splashed off the surrounding walls
the only sound in the place.

Except your breaths.

The darkness was as iced as the water clouding the space.

Your feet are frozen weights fighting your pull,
your fingers,hands and arms as numb as the fear that is holding you there.

Bobbing like a hopeless cork.

It won't be long now.

Day 1...

When people get married I imagine it will last forever. The happily ever after idea. Today I learnt that some married couples aren't like my parents. They may fight at times, my mother may scream at my timid father and he will concede almost immediately and they will make up as if they had never had a disagreement in the first place. They aren't overly affectionate, but it's clear she has no intention of killing him in his sleep which is comforting.

So far my new years resolutions have taken a hit- I haven't, as far as I can see, lost a million pounds, I haven't written my Pulitzer prose today, I didn't walk from town home and I most certainly haven't looked up anything educational online to benefit me...

So far onto a winner.

New Years.... uh oh.

Everyone attempts to think of and keep up a resolution- lose weight, gain weight, exercise more, eat less, read more, watch less television, listen to classical music, swear less... etc.

Mine is to write in this thing everyday, more importantly to make sure it's readable.

I also vow to lose/gain weight, exercise more, eat less, read better books, listen to Chopin.... but I am not telling you that.

An Apple a day...

To say that I am unfortunately clumsy would be considered an understatement by most. I fall, trip, bang into things and drop items more than should be deemed acceptable in social surroundings.

Recently I lost my Itouch to my clumsy fate and decided to torture myself by pricing a new personal music player (that is what the fancy kids call it...).

The man behind the counter, whose name was Ger- so said his plastic name tag, seemed uncaring by the fact that Apple products cost a BEZILLION euro.

So I will now remortgage the house, I will sell one kidney and I believe my youngest brother could make a pretty penny.

So Ger- I will be back....

Nasty Neighbours.... added notes

Reader,

Please be advised that the aforementioned neighbours found previously in this weblog were in fact extremely attractive.

Think sexiest people you know going at it on a table which holds you favourite meal, with your favourite music playing in the background and a winning lottery ticket on the table beside the condoms...

Transfor...meh

Because I am a good friend I recently endured the CGI "delight" that was Transformers- the Revenge of the Fallen. I just wish that in the first five minutes the vengeful had thought about falling on Shia LeBeouf's face.

Megan Fox is ok.... but if anyone else calls her a "talented actress" I may have a problem.

Very Nasty Neighbours

Once Upon a Time...

I accidentally saw my neighbours "at it". Since then I have been very aware of what can be seen from my window and, more importantly, what I have to endure if I look out at the wrong time of day.

This morning while changing my bed clothes I was foolish enough to open my window, straighten the curtain and wipe the dust off window sill... then BAM...

and they are at it again.

I'm moving.

What's your wpm?

I have become slightly obsessed with typing speed tests online. It all began last night at some ungodly hour when I had decided that reading wasn't going to help me sleep. I started with the rather respectable speed of 48wpm and have now with, considerable endurance and a seeming less talent achieved 62 wpm. I will not stop until I have obtained the ultimate goal- 80wpm. Some woman on television gloated about that being her average wpm and I decided that if she can do it, why not me...

Oh Now...

Having watched the polite delight that was The Commons this morning I find myself looking at the Oireachtas Report... what a leap back down.

"Semi detached" was a description used during a... rant about our relationship with the rest of Europe. Why is no one saying pleasant things? Why are they not calling each other friends and gentlemen etc...

It's pretty much like 50 business study teachers all sitting in a room, kinda mad at each other cause the longer they spend talking about silly things, like our economy, they will miss last call in the pub.

When the going gets tough: avoid daytime TV

Having just turned on the television to find out what is going on in the world I have started to follow the live feed of "the commons" on Sky News.

What I love about this is how very conservative and proper the entire affair is! They call each other "honourable gentlemen" and "honourable friends" all the while they snipe and threaten each other... and then there are the constant heckles from the other sleepy people sitting on the green leather seats. It's English repression without the nice scones...

Also it seems there was some sort of massive sale on navy pinstriped three piece suits lately...

My other aims of today are to conduct a survey of sorts. I need to make up some sort of lovely and delightful hen party invitation for my sisters impending matrimonial leap. I must also send off her mass booklet information to the printers and I have to wait patiently by the phone in the hopes that it will ring and a nice lady/gentleman at the end of the line will offer me a hugely exciting job.

All these things will get done, bar the job offer... if I was to hold my breath on that front I would make a very attractive smurf by the end of the day...

Because I have listened to it 400 times...

If you're not up before 5am I don't want to hear about it...

When one wakes from a slumber heavily induced by painkillers it is not best to deal with anything human for at least 24 hours... that is the motto I have now decided to run along beside. I won't actually do that, I;ll just watch that unfold while I hurt myself lefting heavy things.

I do plan on posting a blog up here... any minute now... however, I have just completed more before 12pm than you wil achieve all day. You wanna challenge me?... I've read a book, cleaned out a kitchen, defrosted a freezer and "fixed" the clothes line (I fashioned some sort of "staying upright" device...)...

Oh yeah.. the recession+arts degree= probably best not to leave any firearms in the house...

Chipped nail varnish and alot of cold water later...

Waking up in a bad mood is counter productive. Just makes me more cranky. So what does one do in the fit of unhelping hormones? Wash windows. My mother and any living Stepford Wife would be proud. Bar Nicole Kidman, but that's only because she's hungry all the time and Australia was shit.

"Men fear death as children fear to go in the dark."

I lie in bed clutching the bed sheet which is tucked under my chin. I curse everyone that has abandoned me, as far as I am concerned in my time of need. I curse my parents for allowing me to act this way as a child, I curse my best friends for being at hand during a serious bout of self resolve but most of all I curse all the fictional misgivings that could be going on in my room at this very moment. The bogie man in the wardrobe, the troll under the bed, the witch behind the curtain. All of these demons were more real to me even after I passed the age of believing in Santa Clause and considering the tooth fairy as my main source of income.

My imagination has always been the key to my life, since as far back as I could remember I have been more than dutifully entertained by my own company than can be considered adequate.

I slept in a tiny box room with my older sister; we spent much of our time discussing certain aspects of our busy days. Who got picked in sports, who read the most interesting thing in class, which boy we married during break... it was all very valuable stuff swirling around the room, in the atmosphere of night that was safely shrouded with the nightlight my father had installed when he realised his youngest daughter would not overcome irrational fears in a hurry.

At five it was endearing, a quirky characteristic of a child that would be something her parents would fondly look back on once she had grown out of. The teddy bears were lined up in the bed ready to attack any enemy that penetrated the perimeter of the bed. Their watchful eyes helped me recover from any hiccup that occured once it was time for lights out. A gush of wind, a stray animal growl outside, a creak from the attic; all these things could make any five year old uneasy, this one particularly was not fond of the unexplained. An overactive imagination had a lot to answer for.

By ten it was a slight concern, a nuisance at a slumber party and the plight of my relationship with the aforementioned sister. It was time to embrace the night time. To become comfortable with my own thoughts when they were in the dark. No matter how logical the noises around me were made, the fact that I could not see the source was causing the problems; therefore a nightlight was the only way through. There was no reasonable explanation for such a fear of the dark.

I was not beaten as a child. I was not brought up in a rough shod house where I feared the superior, cried at the entrance of the alpha male. Where I shuddered at the discourse of going against the trend of anything. I was comfortable in my own skin as a toddler and as I grew I found comfort in my own fantasies. My mother encouraged, my father knowingly smiled and my siblings on occasion took the time to jeer in a somewhat comradely way, but more often than not they left their sister to her own devices. As God knows what would happen if she joined in any activity they were lobbying for. An adventure in my mind as a child was wherever my imagination felt like taking me that day. Where would I soldier- fight the dragon? What princess would I watch enviously being saved by the masterful and magnificent Prince? Where in the world was there a damsel in distress trapped in a tower and how could I read about her being saved in some wonderfully romantic fashion that would end happily ever after.

I had no problems in fiction or in reality, yet the idea of being left alone in a darkened room causes an uprooted emotion of fear. Even now, at the age of 22, it is a difficult to task to sleep in a room that has no flickering of reassurance.

They never came home.

Each article written about the Stardust disaster has been taken from the angle of a nation that had to suffer the emotional scars from the aftermath. Parents crushed as they buried their children, one baby left orphaned as a result and a community so strained under the pressure of seeking justice that it leads to the ruination of many families. Having read so many reports it has become blatantly clear that the nightclub should never have been opened in the first place. The Stardust Nightclub was dangerous places that ultimately lead to the death of 48 innocent young people.


In the early 70’s budding entrepreneur Patrick Butterly began his long battle in the North Dublin area with the city’s planning authority to have a once productive jam factory be converted into a thriving entertainment complex comprising of a pub, function rooms and cabaret venue. Throughout the 70’s Butterly would apply many time to the local authorities and he would be declined due to blatant lack of safety regulations on the premises. This however, all changed in 1975 when the local planning authorities granted him permission to create a somewhat social district, Butterly claimed that this would play a pivotal role in creating morale among the community and bringing about a social chnge in time for the city to raise above the economical lull it can been victim to throughout the early 70’s. Political change was already a foot with local Politician Charles Haughey taking over as Taoiseach from Jack Lynch in 1979.


It would seem that Patrick Butterly’s dream of creating some kind of social buzz would be welcomed by all. The ”Stardust” night club opened in However, prior and during the opening of the Butterly premises it would seem that things were not up to the standard hoped by the corporation inspectors, who paid the night clubs up to 24 visits in 1980 alone. With each inspection worrying results to be found; loose tables obstructing the exits, fire exit doors that did not open the appropriate amount and defective light bulbs in the emergency lighting system. However, bizarrely enough none of these problems led to the Stardust being shut down. Patrick Butterly claims he was not aware that all the exits must be unlocked at all times, but he also claimed that as soon as every regulatory lack was brought to his attention they were rectified immediately.


Mr. Butterly’s business savvy and community loyalty was not the reason that the Stardust remained open to the public, it was perhaps convenient at the time of each safety investigation that he was canvassing for local politicians during the pre-election events. It has to be said that his involvement in the political rallies in the area were probably highly beneficial to each of the inspections being ignored by the local authorities.


The buzz outside the Stardust on the eve of Valentines Day was contagious for each of the young people waiting to get inside. As they waited to pay they did not pay heed to the chain fire exit doors or the steel plates covering every single toilet window in the building. They were looking forward to the romantic encounters that would be found inside and the ensuing excitement of maybe meeting someone special before midnight. However, it seems none of these people would forget their night, all for the wrong reasons.

Where in the world?

In 2004 The Missing Person Association (MPA) recorded that 5,060 people were reported missing in Ireland and 83 of which were never found. With a population just shy of 4 million this is a statistic that is growing alarmingly. Due to this ongoing crisis the MPA have established three categories to help them assist as many people as possible. A Category ‘A’ missing person requires immediate action this person is at high risk, usually someone who has been abducted or a possible suicide threat. A Category ‘B’ missing person may be an individual who has left voluntarily and has notified a family member. A Category ‘C’ missing person is someone who is of absolutely no threat, a person who more than likely just wishes to begin a new life. Sadly not all missing persons in this country disappear willingly; many vanish without a trace and leave behind a heartbroken family desperate to find out what happened to their loved ones.

Philip Cairns had just started at Colaiste Eanna secondary school. On the 23rd of October in 1986 he was walking from his home on Ballyroan Road in Rathfarnham back to school after his lunch break, however he never arrived. To this day no trace of the young teenager has been found, despite countless heartfelt pleas made by the local Gardai and the Cairns Family. It seems that the school boy simply disappeared on this busy and seemingly harmless stretch of road. Even more mysterious was that seven days after his disappearance two teenage girls found his school-bag in a dark, curvy laneway close to his home the had been searched extensively just hours after Mr. and Mrs. Cairns had called the authorities to report their sons disappearance. This can only mean that some one planted the bag in that laneway shortly before the girls came upon it. This person could probably be of great assistance to the Rathfarnham Gardai who investigated Philips case. To this day no answers have been given to Alice Cairns who has lost her eldest son.

Mary Boyle was a pretty and curious six year old girl in 1977 who liked nothing more than to play with her brother and sister. Tragically she is Ireland’s youngest missing person, having vanished in March 18th 1977 near Ballyshannon in Southern Donegal. On that day Mary had been playing with her twin sister and older brother Patrick in the back garden while her parents were in the house preparing dinner. When Mary complained of being bored the other two children were not ready to finish their game and so continued without paying much attention to their sibling. Her parents Charlie and Ann did not see the little girl wander out of the garden. Mary’s uncle and godfather Gerry Gallagher is the last known person to have seen her. At about 3.30 that afternoon he was carrying a ladder back to house of his neighbour. Mary followed him from a distance chatting idly to her uncle. Just before reaching the house Gerry made his way through six inches of mud. Mary hesitated and decided to turn back home. She would never be seen again.
No evidence was ever found to suggest that Mary was abducted. Two theories remain dominant in the case of Mary Boyle. One is that she encountered some marshy bog land that had been an undetected sink-hole, and being less than four foot tall she would not have been able to pull herself back up if she had lost her footing. If Mary had been wearing boots then it is very likely that the little girl would have been walking awkwardly through the marshy land and so if she had fallen over the likely scenario is that she would have become stuck in the mud, if she were to struggle it would have resulted in her becoming further embedded in the reeds and shallow waters. Being such a slight build the little girl could very easily have sunk into the bogland completely unnoticed and sadly her body would never be recovered, although it would remain perfectly preserved. The other, far more sinister theory is that Mary was abducted after she left her uncles company and before she had reached the safety of home. Unfortunately both theories have been entertained for almost thirty years and have shed no light in this tragic mystery.

Without the information and help of the public it has become painstakingly clear to the authorities that many of the missing people of Ireland will remain under that label. The sad truth of the matter is that people like Fiona Sinnot, Jo Jo Dullard and Ciara Breen all remain unsolved mysterious filed away until someone can help unravel, perhaps the last moments of their lives.

The lost child

Every time the name Kennedy is uttered amongst a group of people the conversation will usually lead onto a discussion about the political inauguration of Jack, the assassination of Bobby, the drunken disasters of Ted and the shame Jackie brought on the family name when she wanted out of the Camelot dynasty. The entire world knows who the Kennedy’s are and what they have become in American political history. Well, at least the Kennedy history that people were allowed to hear and speculate about.
Born on the 13th September 1918 she was the first daughter for Joe and Rose Kennedy and their third child. Rosemary wasn’t like her other seven siblings; she was shy and passive and spent as much time on her own while growing up. Her reaction to public outings that the family took was often to cower in the corner and hide behind her big brother Jack (JFK).

Anthony Summers, a non-fiction writer based in Ireland has researched the Kennedy family intensively for his two non fiction works “The Kennedy Conspiracy” and “Not in Your Life Time”, has spoken to the Express about the faux pas that was Rosemary Kennedy’s “mental instability” within the realms of the American royal family.
“Rosemary’s IQ”, Summers says, “was somewhere in the range of 80-85, which is by no means fantastic, but it doesn’t suggest anything remotely mind altering. However, with the rest of siblings reaching IQ’s of somewhere between 120 and 130, she had no way to compete with them. Therefore Joe had no problem bringing it down to a certain mark, where it reached mild retardation.”
In “The Kennedy Conspiracy” Summers suggests that once Jack was no longer around to deal with Rosemary‘s nervous mood swings would have to take things into his own hands.

“It was clear that Rosemary had a nervous disposition, was depressed and had concerns about the way in which she was perceived by others. Would I call that a mental health issue which warranted such a drastic solution? Most certainly not” was the response Summers gave when asked about how he felt about Rosemary’s treatment.

Joe Kennedy started speaking to doctors about his daughter when she was in her early twenties and spent the majority of her time hidden away from the world. Neuro-surgeon Walter Freeman was called upon to assess the girl and make a decision that would lead to the ruination of a young life. He along with his assistant James Watts came to the conclusion if 1941 that a pre frontal lobotomy would be the best thing for the young daughter of the progressive Kennedy.
The following excerpt is a brief account from James Watts’ medical notes on what procedure they undertook with Rosemary:
We went through the top of the head, I think she was awake. She had a mild tranquilizer. I made a surgical incision in the brain through the skull. It was near the front. It was on both sides. "We put an instrument inside," he said. As Dr. Watts cut, Dr. Freeman put questions to Rosemary. For example, he asked her to recite the Lord's Prayer or sing "God Bless America" or count backwards. ... "We made an estimate on how far to cut based on how she responded." ... When she began to become incoherent, they stopped.

It was the 61st surgery for both men and was considered a success by them both. However Summers says the overall result of the young mind that was left in disarray is considered the fist of the Kennedy tragedies.

Left in a darkened room during her post op care Rosemary Kennedy was not the girl she had been prior to the invasive operation. She now had no attention span, rarely converse with others, even her beloved Bobby and Jack found it difficult to keep her distracted long enough for nurses to check on her stitches in the days that followed the surgery.
In ’47 Rose was moved to St. Colleta School for Exceptional Children where she would live out the rest of life and would pass away quietly on the 7th of January 2005. She stared vacantly while being told the sudden deaths of her siblings, the timely passing of her parents and the tragedy that ended her nephew’s life. She, like them was no longer on this earth.


“Mental health was the taboo of 1940’s America and that would not help anyone make their way to Camelot. Joe Kennedy was advised wrongly during the consultations about his daughter’s health, unfortunately she is a statistic of someone “lost” while neuro- surgery was still massively experimental.

Eunice Kennedy, Rosemary’s younger sister suffered greatly from losing her older sister and spent much of her adult life dedicated to the sufferers of mental health, so much so that she founded the Special Olympics which was all “for Rosie” she told Summers during an interview in the early 90s.

The Express did attempt to make contact with Eunice Kennedy but the response was a generic tone explaining that Ms Kennedy had multiple commitments at this moment in time but would ask that any information written about her sister’s medical history be treated with the privacy and dignity she deserved. She never appreciated the lime light before or after her illness in 1940.

The irony of that response is that although she didn’t enjoy the lime light like the rest of her family she ended up in the darkness, alone.

My mother had a sewing box with patterns on the side

With pins on the top that sparkled
when kept beside the fire.

It healed the wounded-
badged the brave
and put excitement back into the dull.

My little hands were prohibited from touching such treasure,
but I watched from a distnace as it transformed a critical daily
garment k into an ensemble worthy of Milan.

It fixed the torn, it helped the ripped and held together the most
stubborn of fabrics.

I believed in magic then.

When I grow up I want to be...

When I was a child after school my two younger brothers and I would spend hours outside on adventures; we were pirates, pilots, thieves, statesmen and villains. We left the bored ed realms of reality and donned our imaginations for an afternoon. It was during this time that I first realised that the world of make believe was the best place for someone who dreamed as Peter and Wendy did of Never land.

Playing dress up and being on stage was the easiest way to fun that I could think of, we wrote stories as kids and we then spent hours going through the gruelling tasks of casting, production and eventually executing our written plots.

My parents always humoured and applauded such tasks, occasionally making eye contact no doubt dreaming of a child that would be content on a football field or in front of a computer screen, they had four other off springs to fulfill that duty. I was to be their one ping pong ball amongst the rest.

My brothers and sister occasionally took part in my games and stories, but after a number of failed efforts they realised that they had outgrown the pixie dust. It was strange for me. We were five kids very similar in eyes and noses- yet we were so different in our minds it would be difficult to find the family gene amongst the thoughts.

As we grew older it was an "each to their own" mind frame. My parents encouraged each child on our paths and met us half way when times tough, easy and joyful. They smiled in triumph, wept when fruits spoiled and most importantly of all they were there to see it all.

In case of emergency.... run hysterically from the burning building running over whoever is in your path.

There shouldn't be a limit to the length of a blog title- I should have the same artistic freedom of Fall Out Boy when it comes to these things. If I want my blog to have a title of essay proportion then no one should stand in my way. Yeah you heard me blogger.com. I'm talking to you.

The sad thing is I had a blog all lined up in my head, but this has ruined the train of thought.

You've no one to blame but yourself.

I am oh so very...

Normal is synonymous with "usual" in all the physical sciences, and in much of non-human biology. It is thus normal for bears to sleep continuously during winter, for female spiders to eat the males that mate with them, and for rabbits to eat their own faeces.
In Human Biology normal is sometimes also defined as the usual. Thus the normal height of young men is the range of heights that includes 95% of men. It is also normal for newborn babies to sleep for more than 20 hours per day. It is similarly normal for non-pregnant young women to experience intermittent uterine bleeding.
In broad terms, the unusualness of a symptom is possibly the single most important determinant of whether a patient seeks medical advice or not. Thus, it is normal to feel short of breath after climbing 5 flights of stairs. But shortness of breath after brushing one's teeth is unusual, and therefore a persuasive reason to consult a physician.
This usage of the term normal is based on strict observation. It is rigorous and acultural. It dispassionately describes the species exactly as it is. The 95% probability limits constitute the most widely accepted normal range. This coincides with the internationally accepted limits of statistical significance (i.e. extra-normality is denoted by P<0.05). As such, it constitutes an indispensable tool in the diagnostic industry........

See that's what I said about it......

Pure genius

Watching the women work.

During the weekend I went homeward for the simple fact that I missed it and I felt that I needed to check in with the parental unit.

On Saturday evening I watched my sister and mother meticulously weigh out, list off and prepare their ingredient for Christmas puddings. The raw materials were found from the stray cupboard in our kitchen which deals solely with dried seeds, berries and nuts.My brothers and I have never felt inclined to actually check this cupboard out as it seemed far to healthy. I imagine if it were to be opened for extended periods of time it would be part of that five-a-day all the people who fear fat children have been hammering on about.

I helped my sister open the bag of flour, I cracked open the can of Guinness and I went and found the special whiskey for the "soaking"- I say special, what I mean to say is, the only bottle of whiskey to be found in a house with pioneers as the leaders.

Once all the ingredients had been captured and brought to the kitchen table it was time to assemble the mess into something that would look adequate on a Rachel Allen's cookery time slot of RTE.My mother stood at the head of the table, my sister appropriately took place to her right and I stayed put in the far corner away from anything that required the tender loving knowledge of domesticity.

They worked quietly for a number of minutes- which was a surprise in itself given the fact that I am almost certain these two women breathe through their ears in order to get the last word in a conversation, and then they started to debate the instructions that was hand written by my grandmother.

This might not sound very unusual to the untrained reader, however, I have witnessed this debate on an annual basis and know that it can only end in my mother grudgingly going along with the written word according to her mother.

This year I decided to intervene before someone is killed, or worse, before I am asked to get involved with the task.

"Why don't you guys look up a different recipe? I mean I could have a quick look through the other books we have, or I could google it?".

I am not sure what language these two heard my offer in, but the grief stricken glares I was met with suggest that I had actually said; "fuck what Nana says, the old bag is so demented she hasn't a clue, lets go drown puppies in the Blackwater and shoot some nuns in the face."

The first one to splutter a response was the mother ship. Maintaining perfect eye contact- the woman doesn't need to blink in order to make her point, she just needs to be in the same room for the point to be and the message can be gotten loud and clear. I was told that there was nothing wrong with the recipe. They had followed them perfectly and without question for over ten years and everyone had enjoyed the pudding because of the fact. My sister mutely nodded, she clearly knows which side her bread is buttered on, or at least, which bowl her pudding should be mixed in.

I decided there and then that this was a warped tradition between these two. Like how I will always buy the Sunday Times and Tribune, but never read the same story in both publications. How I drink the first 3/4 of a cup of tea and never the rest and how I rarely end text conversations in the conventional words of bye, see ya or so long.

It seems that the mental apple doesn't fall far from the psychotic tree, and for that; I am happy.

Dell-lightful

8pm Thursday evening

Location- Wilton (...)

Situation- on hold with Dell Customer Service with the hopes, dreams and goals of speaking with a human being before my first born reaches college...

"Good evening, Dell customer care Anita speaking how can I help you?"

"Oh hi Anita, I was just wondering who I could speak with in regards to a new computer that we bought and isn't working?"

"Right......" (pause to the length of something really.... long)

"Hello?"

"Hi, no-one here can help you."

"Excuse me? What?."

"Yeah no one here can help you, call back tomorrow. Everyone is gone home, this isn't my job."

"Oh, okay, well is there someone I can leave a message with."

"No that's not my job Ma'am."

"Oh.. right... what is your job?"

"I tell people to call back tomorrow."

*dial tone...

Expect far more hand written correspondance from me.

I never get away with anything

The Chinese can train up their 14 year olds to jump up and down on the same spot for extended periods of time, the Americans can produce a human being capable of consuming 12000 calories and not be a fat bastard, but the Irish can't even make sure that the livestock we send out aren't questionable. Denis Lynch sat in a press conference and told the media not to blame him for this illegal substance that was found in his horse's system, the vet also claims that he is completely above board. Therefore all fingers are pointing at the... horse?? I would have done the same... when I was a toddler.

I remember when I was 7, my sister's radio "broke" (I dropped it when heavily engrossed in a game of "torture younger siblings until they cry", my parents came home and held the usual witch hunt. Unfortunately they knew exactly which of their witches was the guilty one, I never hide the badness well. The a-typical bite of the lip, eyes pointed to the ground and the red cheeks of sin are the usual giveaway. However, when my father got around to my interrogation I had decided that my ingenious plan would be to blame the dog. Yes, that fucking dog yen-yen. She had been asking for trouble since the day I forgot she was locked into the house and she used the parents bed as a make shift urinal. Yen-yen was going down...

I explained in great detail that Yen-yen knocked it over when she got into the house and I was trying to get her out in case she wrecked anything- the unfortunate thing was my story was a little too good, too much detail and therefore when I was being asked specific questions after my speech I shot myself in the foot. I couldn't remember where Yen-yen had come from, I couldn't recall who else was in the house, I couldn't remember why I didn't call anyone else to help. That day I realised that my parents had magical powers...

About two weeks later, you would have thought the lesson had been learnt... it wasn't.

We had this matchbox city filled to the brim with cars, trucks and figurines... I was quietly and guiltlessly playing with this imaginary community in my brother's room when I heard my father in the kitchen speaking with my mother. He had cracked a tooth in his front false teeth. His usual magic trick would be to take his teeth out in front of us and pretend that they were in fact real, the pain he contorted in his face was very impressive...

So he was going to have to fix his teeth with the special glue that was in the bathroom cabinet. This meant he would have to leave his teeth out for about an hour. My mother was angry at him because his carelessness meant that he would have to go to a meeting like a gummi bear. However, he promised her that he would put them back in before the time came for him to leave the house.

I got to thinking, as every 7 year old does that it would be interesting to see what the teeth would be at a closer inspection. All I had to do was take them from the bathroom, have a ook and put them back before the parental units spider senses started to tingle.

The teeth weren't really that interesting, in fact I was disappointed when I realised that they were nothing special. After a few minutes I decided to return them to the bathroom but.... my mother was in the shower. Knowing full well the cover would be blown if she saw the saucer my father had put them in was vacated panic sunk in. I stood in the hall wondering how best to sort the plight... and then I heard my father coming... In one hand I had the teeth in the other I had a black pick up truck with opening and closing front doors as it's only exciting feature. Realising there was no where to hide the teeth I shoved them into the pick up. My father was now in the hallway and shouting through the door at my mother to hurry up as they would be late. I decided it was best to leave as rapidly as I could.

The mind of a 7 year old is of pure genius it must be said, why didn't I just hand him his teeth right there and then? Why did I have to put them into the pick up? why, when I was forcing them in did I not realise that would be next to impossible to release them from that prison.

All was quiet while my mother was getting ready and my father was in the kitchen watching the news, I heard him turn off the tv, pull out the chair, stand up, open the kitchen door and go to the bathroom.

"Mary, did you take my teeth?"

"Why would I take your bloody teeth? I have enough to do without looking after your things."

"No I know you do, but they were right here.... LADS...."

And like that all five of us were lined up in the kitchen.

I would like to say it was in the cute Brady Bunch oldest at the front youngest taking up the rear, but that's never how we Guiry's roll, or were raised. We all stood there, four unknowing to what the problem was, but all still believing that whatever the issue was this evening they could be just as responsible as the next. It was always survival of the fittest when this line up's took place. The questioning would begin simple and my father would usually pace a little, trying to muster up some kind of anger, but it never really worked for him. And that night, without any teeth in, it was probably the most memorable.

My mother was still getting ready to leave and I knew there was little time to explain, she wasn't the understanding one. You did something wrong in the Mary Guiry world and you didn't own up to it, then you should probably get used to hoovering, washing and cleaning.

I knew my only way out was to play it smooth. Deny it all, the pick-up couldn't be traced back to me, it belonged to my brother, in our games it had never been my weapon of choice, and besides, I had hidden it in my brothers bed. I say hidden, I just threw it onto the bed when we were called to the kitchen.

My father said he wouldn't be mad if whoever had taken his teeth would just give them back. I had fallen for that line before. It had cost me dearly, no sweets after mass that Sunday was a bitter blow...

The other four at this point were rightly confused as they hadn't discussed the abduction of the dentures with anyone else, my eldest brother was trying to make eye contact with all of us to see who was responsible, it always made him unucomfortable not knowing who was to blame.

My youngest brother, the blonde haired, blue eyed doe was the orchard in my father's eye, was standing there looking increasingly disrupted by this whole experience and I knew it was my only chance... so I asked him timidly if he had been the last into the bathroom, had he seen the teeth? Did he know if anything had happened to them? Alan was getting confused I could tell, I took the opportunity and ran with it. I suggested we all have a look for the missing mouth ware. We spread out. The most important thing was that I didn't make it too obvious that I was going straight for the teeth. I looked other places first. Then after about ten minutes I went to the bed I had left them on and declared them found.

After hefty manipulation we deposited them in one piece back onto the saucer. I had gotten away with it. Suitably chuffed I went back to my game and my siblings went about their business.

But then I heard the parents talking. My mother was asking my father...

"Which one of them took your teeth?"

"Ciara".

God dammit all to hell....

Groundhog Day

I sit cross legged in the middle of the living room floor. Well, this will be my living room for the next 20 hours or so- after that it'll belong to some student who will start their year back in college. While I stay working. There are no sound effects in this blog but if there were to be you would hear some sort of dry wretch right about now.

We move once again tomorrow, I feel like that is all I have been doing... move to l eave college, move to find a job, move to find adventures, move to keep up to date with friends/family/people I like to spend time with. If this is what a grown up is all about then I am glad that I am short and can pass for a 17 year old, as I plan on regressing back those 5 years (shudder) and taking up the teenager phase that I seem to have not bothered with at that time.

My parents actually waited for me to become moody, my mother told me this one day. They couldn't understand why their most sensitive and dramatic child never came home in floods of tears and declared that she hated her entire family. To be honest, I just couldn't be bothered. I liked my life at the time and if I had any problems within it then that was probably because I had in fact created them myself. Which is nice to consider that some things haven't changed overtime...

Why in my day...

I have now reached the age where I can look upon a drunken teenager slumped on a bench in Patrick St at 11pm, shake my head at the situation and almost tut- the plight of the youth today.

That is what happened last night as we left on public house and walked to the next. The little teeny boppers had received their leaving cert results and they were of course anxious to celebrate. The only thing is, it made me feel old. I think I might give my mother a social call, telephonically. After my cup of tea and I've done a line... of knitting.

If I have to have one husband in the world....

Meet you on the Sunnyside

We have moved- it took an entire week- a six pack, an indoor barbeque, two terapins, five car trips, a speeding fine and a bad hair day to get here.

We're staying

But, shouldn't there be a table there?

I come from a household full of "eclectic" individuals, no one more
eclectically challenged than my father.

This weekend was to be no different... in we walk on Friday evening
greeted by cats, dogs, turtle, brothers, parents and... a big large
space where the kitchen table used to once inhabit the area that was
once the dining area.

No one mentioned the missing furniture, no one spoke of a terrible
accident that had led to its demise and no-one explained when it would
be returning. Instead the brothers grimm (the two younger ones) went
outside for a suspicious length of time and returned with some sort of
make shift situation. No one spoke as they assembled to the best of
their abilities a dining "nook". I call it nook what I mean is a rust
contraption of four legs with a clean(ish) plank of wood over the top.
Then to set off the motif they put a table cloth over the mess and put
the tea pot on top.

Now I have read enough Irish literature to know this is acceptable- in
the 1920s. Therefore I had to investigate. Usually one didn't have to
go much further than PJ "I think we have one in stock" Guiry. So that
was my first stop. The man was surprisingly tight lipped about the
whole thing, he had other problems it would seem. The tractor got
stuck in the river when he was launching his boat (wtf...). Apparently
it was not a good time to bother him.

I moved on until I reached the next most likely responsible for this
act- the youngest but most powerful of my brothers. "What are you
talking about Cia, the table is grand, if you'll excuse me PJ got the
tractor stuck in the river and I must....". I stopped listening when I
realised that they were in cahoots. The men disappeared on Friday
evening and returned joyously. On the tractor.

I decided that the best approach was outright inquiry- "eh lads...
just wondering, where is the kitchen table?".

The pan ultimate brother looked at me as if I had sprouted another
head- "It's being painted, where the hell did you think it was when
you came in?!".

"Why are they painting the table? I thought it looked grand the last
time I saw it."

"Ah yeah, it was grand, but PJ decided to sand it and it didn't really work."

"How can a table not work?"

And with that the brother departed, he seemingly grew tired of my
pointless and needless questioning.

So here I sit, still questioning the situation, worrying about the
table and wondering how it was water torture would have helped me in
the situation...

Many many moons ago... (written October 2007)

There was a time I didn't like college all that much and I decided that I needed to do something, to change it.

So I joined up with a group of people on campus who liked to dress up, tell stories and spend hours in a darkened space trying to make a new world. Sometimes we're pretentious wankers, sometimes we are so good we don't need modesty, other times we do the best with what we have.

This evening, I remembered a Dramat house party I went to a very long time ago- I sat on a bed until 3am eating digestive biscuits with some people and I tried my best to fit in with a group of people who prize themselves in not fitting in with anyone. Needless to say the safest bet was to stay sober to achieve this ultimate goal.

After that night I felt included, not at all intimidated and proud of myself for not shying away from the situation.

Some of the people that I met that evening and ate biscuits with are now my closest friends. How very strange..... and gay.


Her new song cause I miss her!

I really should be

packing.

Next week we move and this weekend I go to the homestead, I should be motivated, feel the need to put things in bags, label things, fold things. Usually this kind of stuff excites me greatly- I should clearly be bullied more often.

Not today though.

Today I prefer to sit here- staring at the room, if I concentrate all my energy into staring the room will pack itself.... I don't know why I didn't think of this three years ago.

Once Moving Day (MD) is over everything will be fine again. Just fine.

I was supposed to be more ladylike today, that was the plan, I am supposed to be all about the girl activities, it's what my mother would love to see- but it was just ruined by the anonymous text I just received: "Hey, I have a screw driver and paint belonging to you."

Once a tomboy always a tomboy...

If I ever have one, I want it to be just like this.

The scariest thing to happen before 11am...

"We could be best friends forever if I marry your baby brother", utters the best friend lying in the bed beside me. At this point in the story I should reply with "over my dead body".

But she was always the literal of the two of us.

Don't Blame it on The Weather.

Yesterday I walked into town. The bathroom sink needed a plunger, I needed food and the house needed a break from me pacing the floors trying to retain archaeological information. As I trotted in along Western Rd I met a man who fell into step with me. It was sort of awkward in so far as I didn't know him, I had headphones in my ears and I really didn't need a town companion. After the first minute I realised he was there to stay, so I removed one earphone, the one in the ear closest to my new best friend.

"Very dull isn't it?" he says when he realises he has my attention. For a heart stopping moment I thought he meant my outfit. It was true, I had not gone to any great effort in my attire, I had showered, brushed my hair and I had wore reasonably clean clothes. This was not something I was about to defend to Mr. Stranger.

"Pardon?" was the tentative response I found myself ask."The weather, it's getting very dull again." "Oh, yeah. It is abit alright- I'd say we are gonna get rain", I muster now that I realise he hasn't insulted me. I was happy in my improvisation considering I had no intention of speaking on my journey.

My fellow stroller wasn't too pleased with my assumption however. "Jesus, I hope not, that would be awful." Before I know it Mr. Man has walked on and then crosses the road. If I hadn't been so surprised by the verbal onslaught I may have adopted and kept a complex from the experience.

Instead I make a promise. From now on when people begin a conversation with me, even if I know them, I feign a lack of the English language.

Everyone is a winner.

overheardindublin.com

Charity worker: "Can you spare a minute..."
Guy: "Do you think I'd be wearing these clothes if I could afford to give you money?"

overheard in dublin....

"If you don't stop crying I'll sell you on ebay!"

The Day of Rest

When I am at home in parent land Sunday is my favourite day. It means mass, breakfast, Sunday papers, Top Gear and making a terrible desert that we will all pretend to enjoy. After the desert is digested (or brought back up), my parents usually go for a walk- cause they like each other. Myself and the siblings will stay at home and watch bad television or play cards in the violent Guiry way. It usually results in mutilated cutlery and at least one family member sporting a new bite mark. But it's all in good fun. We're just like the Waltons,bar the dungarees and the incestuous undertones.

This week I am in Cork and in an attempt to recreate the Guiry Sunday I have used all the same ingredients, however the day is ending up in a total bust and I think it is time to retreat to the brothers abode in the hope that I can attack him with a fork or something.

The definitions, events, trials and tribulations of the week....

When one is bored one finds ways of amusing ones self (easy now...). I am a self confessed amatuer hairdresser- people leave me alone for long enough and I will cut my hair, or tidy the kitchen. The latter is under control, the housemates are occasionally grateful and I am my mother's secret favourite. I can tell.

Last night/this morning at 4am I could not sleep, I could not listen to music, my room was tody, I had no desire to study, so I did what any normal 22 year would do under the circumstances. I cut my hair. Just a little bit mind, don't want to make a dogs dinner of it or anything. I wish I could say that is desire only occurs in dribs and drabs and that i infact never give into the urges- this is not the case. I would estimate that I take out the scissors to the fringe at least once a fortnight. My parents are understandably confused as to what this hobby will possibly lead to. My father has suggested I clip the dogs coats and stay the fuck away from my hair as I dye it so much too much touching of it could lead to it falling out and a bowling ball effect (that is a PJ Guiry direct quote, these a rare- very difficult to pin down an actual meaning, but this tiime I think I get it). In other words my parents would like normalcy to reign over me and my head of hair. Maybe Peter Mark would hire me...

SHAKESPEARE..... "Billy Bob "the shack" Shakespeare is a 1970's pornograohic director from Galway, he dealt mostly in the farm animal theme and his influences were....." My exam went that well.

Shopping for shampoo + karma resulted from calling your (adoreable) friend a midget and retard in the same sentence leads to.... a messy handbag when the bottle explodes and saturates all other food items in the bag. God watches out for his favourites.

No frontiers

I am so Irish that I cannot walk around in hot weather. Today I spent some quality time (we call it QT) with my youngest brother in town, the sun was shining we are happy with our lot in life and I made sure to walk in the shade as often as possible. I have a tendency to fall down if I provoke the sun.

Precautions did nothing for me. I waited patiently in South Doc this evening from 10.30pm onwards to get some medicine to stop the sun stroking that was occuring, The room was spinning, children were crying, my head was and still is relatuvely tight and that doctor called me claire guiney....

Cork it Disco Pigs (ooooh intelligent....)

First exam over with and I feel pretty happy about the whole thing. I would have liked another hour to ramble on with my amazing points, but my genius was being rushed. I was in seat 152 in kampus kitchen. Row K. The guy sitting across from me was not happy during the exam... he coughed, he shuffled in his seat, he removed his hat countless times to touch his hair and he tapped on the desk. Then something dawned on me as I watched him.

I HAD BEEN WATCHING HIM FOR FAR TOO LONG DURING A 90 MINUTES EXAM.

Why do I even bother....

Kevin Dearest....

No more smoking.

None.

Now get off my back. You are being an obstacle...

Attack of the bread

Walking around the Lough puts things into perspective. We admired the swans, the ducks, the cute boys playing football and also the amount of bread people throw into the lake. We saw to BAGUETTES. I mean seriously, they were demi baguettes (working in Tesco means that no dust holds on me- a ho ho ho, just bobbing along happy out. It's something we all do- hot chicken roll, caught up in our environment... we put 2 and 2 together and we fling the baguette out into the sea (sort of).

Or perhaps it was some class of a weapon...

Maybe the swan started it, called the baguettien's mother a hoe, or something of that persausion. Maybe there was jeering involved... and bam the bread is launched similar to a missile.

Whatever the case is- I'm bringing my bread maker up tomorrow.

cigarettes are bad

That is what I try to tell best friend girl #1 when she smokes at the backdoor of the house- it makes the kitchen cold,with the backdoor open it knocks over the rubbish- which in turns slips out onto the floor... potential obsticle course if ever we had one.

Which means I should regret purchasing aforementioned smoke sticks today... I should feel bad about smoking them too....

But I don't

If at first you don't succeed.... stay away from the bank

The most satisfying thing is splatting paint on a really cheap canvas- trust me. It's better than smoking, drinking and... that other thing, well maybe not. but it's on a par.... (whatever kind of par one has been on recently is entirely up to one's discretion).

Today I went to the bank. As alot of people may know who read this blog, I dispise bank trolls. They judge you with their judging eyes because they know exactly how much you are worth (in the monetary sense- naturally. otherwise I am priceless). The lady behind the bullet proof glass was all the glass personality of one of those people who ring you up and ask if you are happy with your current broadband provider. I am thanks.

She smiled and listened, nodded a little and then told me that I would have to go to the customer service desk. This I did, rather willingly. There was a guy at this desk and I always prefer having to deal with guys- it's alot less painful, both mentally and physically. But the problem with this guy was the fact that it was he was new, hadn't a clue and asked me to wait a momoent while he got someone else to help me out. That's when he called over the same bank troll from earlier.

It's times like this when I kinda wish I had packed my gun this morning.

Best daydream track

Last Night....

I couldn't sleep. Too much in my head to just fall asleep. So I picked up an old book I found in my room- Plato's The Republic.

In it prisoners are chained inside a cage, where they cannot move for the rest of their lives. All they see for their entire lives is the fire bouncing off the walls in the prison. The dancing light and then the darkness. I didn't fully understand it. It's a metaphor. The darkness is dishonesty. These people were imprisoned unfairly (a majority of the time). The fire dancing is the truth. I think.

I finished the third chapter at 4am. I get it. I have to re-read it. Sometimes google a phrase. But I get it.

Take that Travel Writing essay that I do not want to do.

Three scratch cards and alot of brisk walking later

Well that proved completely and utterly fruitless

I'm going to go buy a scratch card...

watch this space

The English Student/Patient

My mother always says that I am the worst patient in the world, I won't go to bed and sleep off illness. Now I regret it.

I have approximately 238897456 essays to complete.

If anyone would like to write an essay or seven just contact my office.

I had a dream...

I adopted a baby boy, it was very real. He lived with me in the house we're in at the moment and no-one seemed to have a problem with the fact that I was now a parent, nevermind the fact that I am afraid of the dark, occasionally suck my thumb and still consider a lollipop a respectable food group option.

Swallowing is so last season.

If I die of the Hep this may be the last blog... ever... oh what a world....


As I attempt to put together (in some form of haphazard style) my Buster Keaton essay I'm doing something my mother would not just frown upon, she would beat me with a stick if she knew. I am watching television while I do my "school work".

But, and this will be my argument to her if she ever finds out, we are actually watching the state funeral of Paddy Hillery, therefore Irish politics will save the day. Again.

I googled the man this morning just so I would know completely needless facts about him for the rest of the week in case he was brought up in a social situation. He is apparently responsible for one of the few sex scandals Irish politics has ever had to deal with. I think if we exclude Bertie from the list it is the only sex scandal.

I was delighted with the thought that he had done something so JFKish. However my delight was short lived when it was revealed through the accurate research of Wikipedia that the rumours were all lies and Paddy actually spoke out against them, telling the Irish public that they were ridiculous. The idea that he had a mistress in Arás with him does seem a little far fetched- the fact that his wife wears glasses and seemed rather tall, none of it was really adding up.

But I will find a scandal for today and it won't involve Britney... or one of the Geldofs....

Jones may not know much, but....

The longest word with no vowels is rhythms.


A man of few words, but they're all gems.

Study month continues....

Women blink nearly twice as much as men.

Some worms will eat themselves if they can't find any food.

What is called a "French kiss" in the English speaking world is known as an "English kiss" in France.

"Almost" is the longest word in the English language with all the letters in alphabetical order.

"Rhythm" is the longest English word without a vowel.

In 1386, a pig in France was executed by public hanging for the murder of a child

A cockroach can live several weeks with its head cut off.

Human thigh bones are stronger than concrete.

You can't kill yourself by holding your breath

There is a city called Rome on every continent.

It's against the law to have a pet dog in Iceland.

Your heart beats over 100,000 times a day.


Really study month is going very, rather, fantastically well....

Come Dine With Me

Ingredients for 22nd birthday dinner party extravaganza:

5 friends
Whiskey
Vodka
Wine (not too much wine, we will need to run out of it during the meal to cause tension)
Meatballs
Tesco value spaghetti
Guests to bring their own plates
A socially interactive dessert
Inappropriate table conversation, all things sexual.... going over the line.
The threat of a food fight at anytime

Once you have all your ingredients together mix however you see fit, if you do not have vodka Kopperberg will more than suffice as the next drink of choice. Make sure to have heating on so temperature of room is not comfortable and make sure that your guests are aware that if they are true friends of yours they will spill their dinner onto their laps.

Let simmer for 20 minutes and serve.

The following tale is completely hypothetical- it did not happen.

Once Upon A Time a young girl (age does not matter- just know she was not 22....) Was soberly walking home from an intellectual gathering of friends. At a very reasonable hour. As she trekked her way to the abode she got to thinking about the rear window attributions of vehicles. Namely vehicles that could be found on the aforementioned wandering homeward bound adventure.

This girl being of sound mind, "found" a way of removing windscreen wiper (the rear window ones, not the front ones- she is not an animal). She did this, twice. After this taste of rebellion she felt the need to continue on her apparent needless rampage. Turning over a wheelie bin in a dead of night (very quietly as she did not want to wake anyone, she would be very considerate that way). She also saw the need to swap some wheelie bins around. Giving them a new taste of life, broadening their horizons. She was doing them a favour really.

After this clear snipe at the justice system the girl wandered home. Climbed into bed and fell into the sandman land.

Upon waking she did not fully remember an accurate account of the previous evening events. Until she saw the windscreen wipers. She went through what she assumed must have happened. God left them there as a sign she was getting a new car for her birthday as she deserved it.

Then as the day went on it came back to her. She was a criminal. She belonged on crimeline in a cheap reconstruction that would paint her as a seedy blonde (played by a guy from Fair City). The guilt caught up with her in the early afternoon, no-one had to tell her to return the windscreen wipers. She was better than that... cough.

The mission was to go back to the scene of the crime and return the wipers to their owners. The girl realised as she walked in the broad daylight that Cork can on occasion give us that doing such a deed in the dead of night would have been far more intelligent. But there was no going back. She quickly, quietly and quite expertly clipped the windscreen wiper back onto car #1 and then put the other one on the roof and ran..... and ran... and ran some more.

Upon return to her home she decided that a life of crime would not her best option- given are idea of follow through.

End segment.

No Wheelie bins were hurt in the above tale.

NEVER decide that it is a good idea at 4am to finish a bottle of Vodka that is no way nearly empty.

Never smoke alot of cigarettes.

Never sit on a cold wet step talking about life while drinking said vodka and smoking aforementioned cigarettes.

Never walk home through the clearly signed blocked roads that are back street cork.

Never feel "alright" about the fact that there are two windscreen wipers on ones bedside locker.

moral of the story....

Never let me out again.

90 posts... and what do we have to show for it?

The problem with scary films is the fact that they are... well, scary. The loud music, the jumping out of the shadows and the idea that things that have been DEAD WITH 50 YEARS can walk up and down the stairs blowing whistles did nothing for my nerves.

Study month has started. Ironically it opened with April Fools Day... this is a sign of things to come. Shakespeare won't read himself, archaeology won't research without me and James MacGaurhen will not be critiqued unaided.....

God dammit all to hell.

When one is trying to find ones way in Dublin it is very important that you are not with a boy at the time. They will not ask for directions. There is something in their brain that tells them to stop talking, put their head down and pretend that it is a shameful act. At 3am on a Friday morning within spitting distance of that stupid spike thing there is nothing wrong with asking someone where the bloody hell our hostel is.

I understand the genetic make-up that comes into it. It is a sign of weakness to refrain from finding assistance and eventually coming upon the desired destination just before daybreak- but that just isn't how I roll. We asked for directions, we did find our way, and he is no less a man for it.

Another that has been uncovered this week is that vans can reverse- when you force them to. They will reverse, they will drive and they will most certainly go down a one way street the wrong way. The moral of this discovery is that I survived to blog it.

ISDA is complete.... I am no longer a production officer. I do not have another task that involves a risk assessment. From now on if you plan on standing still for long enough I will set you on fire.

Everything will actually fall down on top of me if I keep piling things up. I have learnt alot of things in the last 24 hours, take the advice written here and maybe you won't feel the same way.

- Say what you mean, all the time. Don't be sarcastic cause it'll get lost and misunderstood.
- Don't offer to help if you do not have the time, you're no good to anyone that way.
- If you're not comfortable in a situation just leave. People will understand if they understand you... which could be the problem in the third place.
- Never buy costumes and let the actors play football in them, even if you have the receipt returning them will be a nightmare.
- Read all rental terms and conditions before clicking the button, reigniting the acid baby in the evening when all helplines are closed will not help anyone.
- If at first you don't succeed, just say no again.
- Try not to feel bad because someone else is feeling bad.
- Learn to stand up for your point when frustrated.
- Use your words, passive aggression is not a good colour on anyone.
- When you have a bad feeling voice it. Usually that will make you feel better. If it doesn't, then something is wrong.
- You cannot control what will happen to others that you care about, therefore let it go and accept it in the way you know you have to.

and finally....
-wear socks when it's bloody cold outside.

I love having a room to myself. I think it was because while growing up I lived in a small powdered pink room with my sister. Sleeping on the bottom bunk, because that is where younger siblings belong.

My room in my college house is huge, big, spacious and a great place to breathe. And I adored hiding out in it. But not really anymore. Someone actually broke into my room (muddy footprinter we call him) and messed it all up for me. Now I sit on my bed at 11.30 with the full light on and am preparing to switch that off to turn on a reading lamp which will stay on throughout the night. Or, I might tidy it, change the bed clothes and make the place look different from this morning.

When we called the guards they were a-typical Irish men. Joking about the state of the kitchen, quoting lines from the plays that I had on my wall and trying to figure out who in my family they knew. In between telling me they wouldn't be surprised if the person came back cause they didn't take alot. They gave my no end of comfort.

They also very professionally referred to my window as "stupid", this is a police officer term I have no doubt, I have been getting into the lingo. Calling people perps, and my room a crime scene.... but now the joke has past its sell by date.

It shows that no matter where you are in the world, or what has gone wrong, you will always call home for them to fix everything.

This concluded with my father making sure it wasn't an "inside job"...

CSI Guiry- fighting crime, one under the table payment at a time.

And the ISDA might maybe go to....

It's that time of the year again folks, lets throw the sets into the back of a van and pray we find the theatre on time. Theatre is about precision if nothing else.

House parties have changed again, not a new revelation on my part- they regress like... a drunk at a house party.

There was once a time speaking in code at a party was safe. By code I do of course mean speaking in Irish. But not now, now you be left roasted alive by the fact that you have met another Irish speaker at the same party, standing in the same place at the bottom of the stairs and listening intently to the damaging conversation. As soon as he makes his bi-lingual contributions we realise we are in trouble. When did people start gaining a knowledge of their native language? How am I ever to call someone a douche bag without getting caught out.

When I was younger and living at home full time my father used to bring me to a second hand book shop at the weekends. Most of the books on the shelves were far too advanced for me, but there was a tiny section in the shop that I went to every-time. The biographies of famous or influential (mostly dead) people seemed so interesting to me. One of the first ones I read was about Montgomery Clift (gay guy from Here to Eternity.... as famous as Wayne, not as tall, the height of Sinatra but not as famous).

So I started collecting them, I have no theme, no idea who I would actually be interested in reading until I see what is available. That probably makes me the most flexible shopper.

The last time I went home my father wasn't feeling well enough for the adventure. So I decided to drive there myself. I spent about ten minutes convincing myself that I didn't need another Mandella biography and I most certainly would never read Victoria Beckhams "masterpiece" (a term one uses very loosely, like please and thank you). Then I found a really tattered and yellowed book, with the front page ripped off. The cover page of the book had the title "Joan of Arc- Jeanne D'arc". It was €2.50. How bad.

I started reading it last night. The most obvious thing at the moment is- she was worth more than €2.50....

If I commit myself to something, even if it is a favour for someone else and will not benefit me in anyway does it make me a bad person for deciding to back out now?

See, I am trying to figure out if people who bite off more than they can chew get the chance to spit it out before they choke....

Or maybe just figure out if that metaphor works....

Today was God's day, the day of rest. All was accomplished with was listed. I showered, I read the Sunday papers like a trooper, my room is tidier than ever, the recycling was put out an entire 24 hours in advance and the kitchen has never looked so shiney.

This wasn't the exact list I had made up for myself to. I hadn't an intention of staying in bed until an unholy hour (given the day that was in it). Nor was the a motive for staying in bed attire until 4pm when it was decided that the most productive thing one could do today would be to go to the cinema. Colin Farrell made me laugh for 2 hours- but at what cost?

Yesterday was to be my slow burning day, I was doing really well. I had cleaned the house, my room and my keen sense of domesticity was tuned highly. So much so that the inclination to clean my footwear came into play during the early afternoon. My vans had been soiled. They had been destroyed when operation "clean the toxic waste that has accumulated over the last six months- my god we're animals" was underway.

So I decide that a simple mathematical equation of : 1 pair of vans+ one ab led washing machine= one very clean pair of vans.

It was a naive venture at the core of it. For there I sat for 40 minutes (including the horrific spin cycle) and listened to the thumping and disgruntled noises come from the kitchenette appliance. At times it was similar to witnessing a battle. The shoes won one round only to succumb to the brutal force of the angry washer in round two. The banging and splashes of the water than could be seen through the port hole did nothing to quench the nerves that were... well, banging and splashing inside my mind.

I waited and finally I would be rewarded. The drone of the end came near. I got to my knees and gaped into the washing machine, waiting for that green light to salvation to flicker allowing me to open the door. The looked okay. In fact they looked more than okay. They looked clean. I open the door, and tentatively reach in and clutch the right shoe... although wet through and through it looked twice the runner it was before this ordeal. Whatever doesn't kill us certainly makes us stronger.

Stayed tuned next week as I haven't been liking the look of backpack with a number of days....

Never leave without checking if the drill has enough battery....

I learnt that lesson this evening. Winning's Leatherman is the new love of my life. It can do no wrong.

Quote of the evening:

"Ciara you're so small that if I gave birth to you, I'd probably feel no pain whatsoever......"

It's a useless cause. Not only am I NOT a no woman (even though that is a double negative and would imply otherwise....). I have become a "well I mean I can come in and give you a hand if you want" woman.

There is nothing worse.

Don't ask what your society can do for you........


When the editor of this publication recently based his editorial on the work ethic and commitment that was necessary to achieve success through societies on campus people had an opinion on the piece. Some agreed that the same people do all the work, while others merely laughed off the idea that societies did little more than drink until closing time on a weekly basis.

Upon deciding to write this feature this writer took the time to email over 20 societies. I received feedback from two. With over 80 societies on campus it could be questioned that I contacted the wrong societies, however the majority of the contact details that can be found on the UCC homepage are in fact obsolete.

As stated above there are over 80 societies on campus and with the exception of UCD that is the most active and well established society community in the country. With such impressive numbers under the belt of the expanding waistline of the guild there is notable success stories that we have all read about through the year, and societies that have fallen to the way side, with no sign of a rescue in sight.

JP Frennet, PRO of the Societies Guild, and a committee member of the nominated for Society of the Year Philosoph has spoken out on the positivity on campus when it comes to small and large society’s promoting events and meetings. “Nearly every society has promotion on campus. Be it from the smaller societies such as FECC & Pagan and Capriccio, to the larger societies like Dramat and Commerce. Nearly all societies have had a presence on campus this year either through regular meetings, a big event, or through regular postering” says Frennet.


Therefore it is fair to say that all facilities are present on campus to promote societies in order to encourage new members to join. This was not to be the case for the almost non existent Film Society. The society, while quietly active through the medium of all student emails last year has not had a committee to encourage members this year, never mind hosting actual screenings. It would seem the age old problem of all the work falling on the two hands could not withstand the pressure of running a creative arts society.


Brendan Hayes, perspective candidate for the coveted position (this year anyway) of Student Union President has explained the notion of the Societies Guild to the Express; “What makes societies work and what is the drive behind them is the people involved themselves; it is their own passion, worth ethic and dedication to the society that makes a society great. The Societies Guild is but a support for the societies in general and should never be seen as otherwise. Which makes perfect sense, people can only work on something if they want to.”


Mary O’ Leary, auditor of the newly established Fashion Society spoke glowingly of the guild, discussing the support she received when she approached them about setting up the society and the ongoing encouragement she has received since. This positive feedback will without doubt bring about more people formulating and executing their ideas on other societies on campus.


Starting up a society is not the problem it would seem. Maintaining the enthusiasm and fresh thinking within a group of people seems to be the issue. The fear that the job to bring a society to its feet and help it to walk will be left to a small few is an obvious concern for any perspective auditor. People need backup, people need help and some societies on UCC campus have anticipated this.


“I think that every society is different, and most societies have found the number of committee members and positions that suits their individual activities. Dramat have a separate sub-committee for each production, whereas the Philosoph have a standing committee of 16” Explains JP Frennet.


The idea that there are so many societies on campus is shocking to most, particularly those who were present at the Stars evening in Aula Max on Monday last. Philosoph, Law, Dramat and Choral were prominent on the night. With the exception of the academic society awards the nominations read like it is listed here.


There are many issues facing societies on a weekly basis on UCC campus says auditor of Philosoph Ross Frennet. When the philosophical society committee was formed last year for 2007-08 there were brand new members who had never worked with the society before. They were obviously enthused by the possibilities of working on a campus with an active group of people. However, once met with the obstacles of finances and the logistics of running any kind of established group on campus the excitement fizzled out to an obvious level.


It is obviously very difficult to keep the momentum going, without risking a mediocre academic career. Having worked on a committee this year I say that with a degree of certainty. Finding the balance of college work and society work is the key says Finance Exec Michelle Cremin.


“I would advise all society and club-heads to make sure that they have the balance between curricular and extra-curricular right from the start,” says Cremin, “I wholeheartedly recommend utilising the society’s guild and developing inter-society relations. When I was auditor of the Choral Society, I sought and received loads of help, advice and support from the Guild Exec and from other societies. While there is a huge variety of society activity in UCC, all societies compile budgets; run events; promote events etc.


One of common factors towards striving for a successful society is to have a passionate group of people working towards the same goal. The majority of the people interviewed for this piece agreed with this, Without the passion to achieve something innovative and different there was no point in a committee being formed to encourage more people to sing, dance, produce a play, write a debate or play a football match.

Everytime I think I'm finished.....

I keep saying it, I keep telling myself it will be completely different. But no, not in this lifetime at least. Maria Ciara Guiry has never had nor will ever have the intention of saying no to a task someone requires doing. There could be some kind of chemical imbalance which is causing this problem, I could be on some sort of toxic medical cocktail that curtails my mind and decision making abilities.

It's none of the above. There is one reason and one reason alone. I am a moron. Simple as. I will never say no if someone needs a favour. It's a terrible problem that I must deal with otherwise I will end up as the old bag lady living in a trolley that lives at the port and smells suspiciously like she has lived off a diet of cats and break pads off abandoned cars.

I can beat this. I can and I will.

I.AM.A.NO.WOMAN.

It's campaign season on campus again. The sun comes out and so does the nomination forms. "Will you sign this?"..... well I might if I knew your name, what position you were going for and how you are gonna help me in my plot for world domination in that position.

It's something that needs to be addressed, people going for high powered spots in college not telling me exactly how I will benefit from them getting somewhere in life. I am an Arts student- I live off coat tails.

ISDA announcements have come and gone and we will be bringing "Trainspotting" dir by Jody Quirke and Katie O' Farrell and "Arcadia" dir by Stephen O' Connor.

Th excitement should be decent if we all manage to stay awake.... oh ho ho ho.

I am sitting in the Old Pres at work. People are mulling over the one working printer and every so often someone will ask me if the other printer is actually working.

What they don't know is that it is all an evil plot- I prefer to have fifty million and seven people in this tiny box room with me, all breathing in my oxygen rather than half of them out in the other room. I thought it would be a laugh.

The only good thing about working early in the morning is the walk to work and the sense of accomplishment of getting up before noon.

I really love walking through campus when no-one else is around, it's nice and quiet and there are no wet red tiles and the world is perfect. Unless it's raining and then it's shite. But at least if I fall on my ass @8am no-one will see me

What's It All About Alfie?

I'm sitting on a bus, with freshly showered hair, on a discounted fare
all because I am a third level student. My time in UCC has been the
best, most enlightening and emotional time of my life (a little
Dawson's Creek detour has not done my generation any harm it would
seem). The only piece of advice I can issue is the same that was
divulged to me in the Western Star (the place to be back in the day)
during Fresher's Week. The best thing to do in this fish bowl of
anonymity is: Don't be afraid to ask for help.

Mammy is no longer found at the school gates at 3pm, dinner will no
longer appear magically on the table miraculously (this does not have
to be a disaster, might I just recommend the highly successful pasta
option- a food group all of its own its versatility alone will have
you never going without), the washing will pile up and socks will
disappear into the wide unknown, but all of this is entirely
manageable. I believe the "silver spoon" society is no longer the
asset it was once thought to be. By the end of week one you will have
a domesticated ritual that could rival Martha Stewart (in between her
jail time, har har har)

Alternatively you could just take it all in your stride, never wash
and only orange and purple foods. This would make you one of the
popular kids in the college experience, the one I would recommend that
the rest of us steer clear of and never make eye contact with.

On campus itself relax into the atmosphere. College is a lone
experience where it is justified and welcomed to sit reading alone in
the student center or the ORB (O'Rahilly Building) Don't expect any
lecturer to remember you! This is one thing that took me a good six
weeks to get used to. I believed that because I asked questions and
looked remotely interested in the lecture that my face would become
engraved in their minds and therefore saying hello to them in Java
City would lead onto a fantastically academic conversation about the
mating habits of the sea eagle. This did not happen, in fact, the
fantastical scenario in my head is so far from the confused
acknowledged nod I got from one lecturer that I chose never to salute
someone again.

Experience is the outright purpose of our College years. You will
travel, drink more than you thought biological capable of you, flirt
with the unknown (this experience is in direct association to the
drinking thing) and you will make friends, who in the most vomit
inducing of ways will become your family. They will see you at your
best and your worst (3am curled up in the foetal position at the end
of their bed rocking back and forth declaring that the MacDonalds
Eurosaver menus is a conspiracy created by the government). Treat them
as carefully as you can, to ensure your "Eurosaver" story never
becomes public.

Last Woman Standing

I am no Dara O’ Briain (thankfully); however I do believe I have the capacity to make someone laugh. Well, at least just as much as a guy. The penis does not automatically make a person humorous- if that were the case male Arts students would see a lot more action (all low blows are brought to you courtesy of a five hour shift in an un air conditioned Boole Basement).


Have you ever heard the word hysterical and wondered where it was derived from? Well let me tell you- I sat dazed in Women and Literature last year waiting for someone to start up about why women are better than stupid boys when the lecturer wrote the word up on a white board.


“Hysterical” she shrilled “comes from the word hysterectomy”. If you were also in that class I was the person who muttered; “Ah woman- I was about to eat this sandwich”. She went on to explain. Apparently when women go a little “mental” it was believed back in the stone age (you know, the 70’s) that their womb had detached itself from their…womb home and all that bashing around the place drove them mad. It’s a lovely image. So why is it then that the word hysterical is associated with us? I would take hysterical to mean something was rather amusing. But if I have learnt anything this week it is that guys around campus at least, believe that women are not funny.


So, the question of the week is WHY aren’t women funny? See, a friend (I use the term loosely) of mine made a sweeping generalised statement in the Main Restaurant (while enjoying the free tea and coffee- cheers Kylemore) that women are just not funny. He said it clear and concise as if this were simple fact and because I myself possessed ovaries may not have understood him clearly. He demanded I list funny women with the stipulation that they had to be funny in a situation that did not make them look stupid.


This was my chance to defend my fairer sex, the chance to prove women are hilarious and men are just things we keep around for the cold weather. Unfortunately this was not to be the case. I muster up all the thought in my mind and I… choke. No woman came to mind. This tragic turn of events has led me to think that we are in trouble.


If men start to think of they are in fact funny the world as we know it could end. The images of them sipping sherry, smoking cigars and congratulating themselves on being masters of humour will haunt my dreams. From now on I plan to start every conversation with “So this Rabbi walks into a bar”. To do my bit for the cause.

When all else fails send in the heavy artillery.


This last fortnight has led me to question if any kind of superpower could in fact exist. I have lost my “Very Best of the Corrs” cd, my hair straightening device is making it all curl upwards in a very eighties Molly Ringwald situation that I seem to be losing and my broken laptop started working again just as I accept the bill for the new one. In other words things really are going my way. If they were going any better I might suggest they were going in the opposite direction.

I have never claimed to be in any way graceful- 13 years of Irish dancing has at least taught me that much. But I do believe I can save myself from the majority of embarrassing clumsiness that I could befall. Last week was obviously my bad grace week. I walk through campus like everyone else, head phones in, head down, bag on back and desperately trying to stay upright on those devil incarnate red tiles that have been generously rooted through our campus.


I am similar to Pac Man in my approach to a daily route to and from the Student Centre, trying with all my might to steer clear of the red tiles (consider them to be those nasty blue blobs in the screen that try and kill Pac Man when all he wants to do is eat the yellow dots of goodness). I brace myself for my plot, I stage my coup and then dash (albeit carefully) through the red death that is campus. I will ignore anyone I know during this mission,, my mother could be sprawled out on the tiles selling her body to get the youngest sibling through college and I will not stop. I need to get from A to B without splattering.


Last week, things didn’t go according to the coup. I was distracted, I forgot myself and this led to me, ass first outside the Boole. People stifled their sniggers, some shook their heads as the resumed walking cautiously in the other direction and others stood, helpfully, and stared at the plight in which I found myself in. I gain composure- after swearing like a sailor on leave, and up I get. I walked right into that Boole, head help high, posterior throbbing.


However that was not to be the end of it. This evening as I walked to work listening to one young Elle Fitzgerald muse about some Fever on my iPod, I lost my footing manoeuvring those death-trap steps we proudly negate daily. Knowing full well how this was going to end I tried to compose myself, you know, to get some sort of marking upon dismount. I landed on same ASSet, thankfully different people around to judge. It was a Friday evening therefore the student population on campus consisted of mature students.


I propose a constructive protest in the most literal sense. I will supply the hardware appropriate for such a project and then we will dig up the red tiles. We will dig them up in a similar fashion to the dismemberment of the Berlin Wall and then we will march, we will march to Cork Port and there we will build a red tiled haven for the homeless. Everybody wins and I can wear converse to college.

Is this seat taken?

It is a fair assessment to make that I have a very low tolerance for those people inhabiting my world. I find them needless. I would prefer if people who possess the “messiah” complex keep it to themselves so I do not have to hear about it. I am the mistress of my own universe, I just don’t brag about it. This goes without saying Mr. Man with his shiny watch, new phone with annoying ringtone and over compensating briefcase that has just sat down beside me in the bus as I write this is a prime candidate and example of my point.

He believes himself to be largely more important than the rest of the mere mortals on the public transport system that we are vacated at the moment, he knows how much room he has, like the rest of us he has assessed it upon arrival and he has found it worthy. But elbow room will always be a priority for Mr. Universe and therefore he will have to hit me at least three possibly four times if I count the first minor infraction of his chicken arms invading my space. He then proceeds to place his brief case to his left on the floor. Which is, inconveniently where my feet happen to be connected to the rest of my body- I have always been keenly awkward like that. He sighs repeatedly as some kind of silent complaint towards the situation he finds himself in. He then realises that there are over head compartments above him and that he can avail of such novelties. He stands up and we are now in the face to crotch proximity.


Personally, this did nothing for me. Professionally it made me note that his belt was brown and his trousers were black. Now I realised what kind of person I was dealing with. This was a power driven man in the corporate world who was clearly being dressed by mammy. I smile, and realised that I have been staring at his manly region for more than the adequate evaluation. I replace the smile with a grimace, and turn my eyes back towards the floor in the hope that this gesture alone will warrant him to remain silent for the journey.

I needn't have worried. My counter- part passenger had no intention of speaking to me in the this journey, he did however have every intention of ringing every contact in his phone and discussing in
detail the market value of something or other, the shite present he had gotten from his parents for his birthday (which surprisingly enough was not the aforementioned belt) and the girl from the other
night. This leads me to think all men are filth and have no idea how ridiculous they sound whilst describing "indiscretions". Courtesy of Bus Eireann I found myself with an editorial topic, a new nemesis and countless tongue biting moments.

The worst thing is yet to come. By the time my seat companion had found himself comfortable it was my turn to start packing up my belongings and make a swift departure. He had decided to make it difficult for me, which was very clear. Instead of actually standing up to let me pass he decided to slide his legs out onto the aisle and look at me expectantly. I stared back, waiting for his gentleman ass to stand up. This was not going to happen. I asked politely (as polite as I could) if he wouldn’t mind moving to which he responded with a silent shuffle. From now on I walk.