It pains me to update at the mo because like the Green Party, I just don't know where to start. OK, so I got the Enterprise down to that inhospitable wheelie-bin that is Dublin last week sometime, to mind the old man, and visit me old Ma.
There's a black dude on the train all the time now, staff member, and while the generally well-educated folk in the 1st class carriages pay no heed, in the cheapo carriages, the N.I. aulones look him up and down with such disdain as he mills by with his tea-trolley, that it can only make you laugh. One of them 'snapped' back her change from him so quick and with such trepidation, you'd swear he was a portico for all the HIV virions in all of Africa [in her mind] somehow destined to dive into her Tetley tea. Nice to know sectarianism will never give up the ghost.
Anyhow, I wrote house specs on the train [for a change] which meant I didn't have to sully my retina with that hellish loyalist kip: Portadown and soon enough I was sitting in an internet cafe in Phibsboro waiting on boss man from the cop magazine to give me some editing work. In a cafe close to the office I trundled through the lives, ardour & concerns of what it means to be a modern day garda and then went on the hunt for the old man. As the Mater Hospital is so near Phibsboro, I knew he'd be skulking in a pub nearby, and found him in Doyles, all lemon-curd yellow and into his 10th double whiskey of the day.
"What's going to happen to Ma?" he said, rubbing his bulgy eyes, and quickly the conversation moved to global warming being a scam, because according to my biological father, if it were actually true, our heating bills would be lower. So here we have the start of another day of scams in the life of the mentally dilapidated mad man. At the hospital, he ranted at her [again] about her brain tumour eating away at her head and causing the fall, that she got upset and had to ask him to leave. "I can't believe that lump of human excrement ever had a job", I snapped, as he left and I tried to lift her spirits a bit. "I was 8 out of 10 before he came in", she admitted, "and now I'm 2 out of 10". I know Ma, I said, but as always I feel a surge of anger too. "Promise me next time you'll be fussy & not just go for some inept geezer who happens to have a good job?" She agreed, in her next life, she will be far more wary. "I'd like to come back as a bird", she said. If you came back as sheep's shit next time 'round you wouldn't have as bad a life. But I kept my mouth shut.
It transpires that when my mother got weak in Finglas a week ago now, Father Frog held on to her, but then let her go to wave down a taxi and that's when she went on her snot and broke her ankle in two places. This is why there's so much alcoholic guilt (even more self indulgent than normal). It would be another day till she was moved into the semi-private ward, out of this 20-bed junkie bedlam. I don't hide my inverted snobbery at all - when it comes to education and hospital wards - I'm an interminable snob. And the next day, when a junkie with hepatitis and pistachio green hair that was probably blonde a decade ago was lounging all over my mother's bed asking her over and over where her wedding rings were, enough was enough... I yelled for a porter who very kindly wheeled her to the safety of St. Joseph's Ward on the other side of the hospital, compliments of her VHI policy;there was a big mutual sigh of relief.
Of course the little aulone she shares the ward with, I recognised, you can traverse Dublin all your life but as soon as you're in a cancer ward or a place where people's kidneys stop functioning, you will always spot an ex school teacher or a bus conductor who molested you when you were 12. Her ward companion is an old diabetic I knew from an incidental bus stop on my daily journey to a shite job over two decades ago. My mum had an accident in the night so I had to head into Penney's in Parnell Street and buy some spare nighties and big cotton knickers, no bother, and in Cuccini's Italian Restaurant afterwards, I made a conscious decision to puke up four of my dinners per week for the entire summer to help me lose weight.
The hips are so frogged at this stage and I simply cannot walk/exercise so there's nothing for it but to take on some responsible bulimic action so that I'm not a portly neurotic for my MA in Autumn and even more urgent, that I am not over the standard BMI to face Part II of the hip replacement that's imminent at this stage. Lover has been hinting about getting me knocked up recently, and I honestly don't think I could carry a lizard for long at the moment, never mind a sprog. I am kinda raging I didn't do this when I moved to Belfast a year ago, when I'd all the time in the world and money in the bank, etc.. Starting up a business right now and other pressing issues ahead make it as gauche as a paedophile in Disneyland, but I will take on what's ahead, regardless.
So there I was in Cuccini's, Parnell St., gazing out at the Tracksuit Catwalk, all those wonderful navy, blue, pink striped legs and zip tops... armies of young chav mothers wheeling their novice joy rider toddler sons and baby daughters who'd be fertilised before the Intercert was underway, and I wondered what the dead heroes of 1916 would think if they could see Dublin now. Would they die for pitbulls & Aldi & puddles of lumpy spit on the kerb? It crossed my mind that maybe the 'Nike tick' on the trainers bears a resemblance to the 'yes' tick on social welfare forms that gives you a free gaff for life as long as you smoke yourself to death and promise to only drink tinned lager & wear gold hoop earrings & re-produce every 16 months or so? I'm not right wing, honest.
A few hours later, the meal of fried vegetables & pasta swirls with house wine was puked up in the Jacks and I was downstairs in the sitting room listening to Father Frog rant about how Pearl Harbour was just as devastating as 9/11 and various other nuggets of psychosis befitting the terminally mentally ill, and I felt quite comfortable about the Bulimic months ahead. The idea is that I will give the food at least 3 hours to make its way from my stomach and any leftovers get thrown up until the weight starts dropping again. It's three years now since my health got bad & I've tried every sane procedure from cutting calories in half to buying gym equipment I'm not allowed use, and in the absence of not being able to walk, nothing has worked. I am not prepared to look like Friar Tuck's slut any longer, with a dodgy bob, thunder thighs and tornado tits... so three meals a week are being donated to the environment (the Greens will be pleased, if I'd left the food in packaging & not semi-processed it this way, it'd be a lot worse of a scenario).
I will log weight changes on here of course and keep you up to date with how it's going. Before I left Willow Park and despite all my misgivings about my father frog's inadequacies & how I'm supposed to be a proxy-feminist, I cooked the old codger some fish pies and a pot of chicken stew so he'd stop eating those monstrous 'tins' of Irish stew that smell like a bag of farts, as for the time being, it's best if he's kept alive… especially as he's the only one in the family with money & my mother needs a house to come home to. But pretty soon he will have to be placed ankle first on the crematorium trolley & sent to his demise & then I can cut short my career as a part-time bulimic and use this dead man's wages for a liposuction spree.
There's a black dude on the train all the time now, staff member, and while the generally well-educated folk in the 1st class carriages pay no heed, in the cheapo carriages, the N.I. aulones look him up and down with such disdain as he mills by with his tea-trolley, that it can only make you laugh. One of them 'snapped' back her change from him so quick and with such trepidation, you'd swear he was a portico for all the HIV virions in all of Africa [in her mind] somehow destined to dive into her Tetley tea. Nice to know sectarianism will never give up the ghost.
Anyhow, I wrote house specs on the train [for a change] which meant I didn't have to sully my retina with that hellish loyalist kip: Portadown and soon enough I was sitting in an internet cafe in Phibsboro waiting on boss man from the cop magazine to give me some editing work. In a cafe close to the office I trundled through the lives, ardour & concerns of what it means to be a modern day garda and then went on the hunt for the old man. As the Mater Hospital is so near Phibsboro, I knew he'd be skulking in a pub nearby, and found him in Doyles, all lemon-curd yellow and into his 10th double whiskey of the day.
"What's going to happen to Ma?" he said, rubbing his bulgy eyes, and quickly the conversation moved to global warming being a scam, because according to my biological father, if it were actually true, our heating bills would be lower. So here we have the start of another day of scams in the life of the mentally dilapidated mad man. At the hospital, he ranted at her [again] about her brain tumour eating away at her head and causing the fall, that she got upset and had to ask him to leave. "I can't believe that lump of human excrement ever had a job", I snapped, as he left and I tried to lift her spirits a bit. "I was 8 out of 10 before he came in", she admitted, "and now I'm 2 out of 10". I know Ma, I said, but as always I feel a surge of anger too. "Promise me next time you'll be fussy & not just go for some inept geezer who happens to have a good job?" She agreed, in her next life, she will be far more wary. "I'd like to come back as a bird", she said. If you came back as sheep's shit next time 'round you wouldn't have as bad a life. But I kept my mouth shut.
It transpires that when my mother got weak in Finglas a week ago now, Father Frog held on to her, but then let her go to wave down a taxi and that's when she went on her snot and broke her ankle in two places. This is why there's so much alcoholic guilt (even more self indulgent than normal). It would be another day till she was moved into the semi-private ward, out of this 20-bed junkie bedlam. I don't hide my inverted snobbery at all - when it comes to education and hospital wards - I'm an interminable snob. And the next day, when a junkie with hepatitis and pistachio green hair that was probably blonde a decade ago was lounging all over my mother's bed asking her over and over where her wedding rings were, enough was enough... I yelled for a porter who very kindly wheeled her to the safety of St. Joseph's Ward on the other side of the hospital, compliments of her VHI policy;there was a big mutual sigh of relief.
Of course the little aulone she shares the ward with, I recognised, you can traverse Dublin all your life but as soon as you're in a cancer ward or a place where people's kidneys stop functioning, you will always spot an ex school teacher or a bus conductor who molested you when you were 12. Her ward companion is an old diabetic I knew from an incidental bus stop on my daily journey to a shite job over two decades ago. My mum had an accident in the night so I had to head into Penney's in Parnell Street and buy some spare nighties and big cotton knickers, no bother, and in Cuccini's Italian Restaurant afterwards, I made a conscious decision to puke up four of my dinners per week for the entire summer to help me lose weight.
The hips are so frogged at this stage and I simply cannot walk/exercise so there's nothing for it but to take on some responsible bulimic action so that I'm not a portly neurotic for my MA in Autumn and even more urgent, that I am not over the standard BMI to face Part II of the hip replacement that's imminent at this stage. Lover has been hinting about getting me knocked up recently, and I honestly don't think I could carry a lizard for long at the moment, never mind a sprog. I am kinda raging I didn't do this when I moved to Belfast a year ago, when I'd all the time in the world and money in the bank, etc.. Starting up a business right now and other pressing issues ahead make it as gauche as a paedophile in Disneyland, but I will take on what's ahead, regardless.
So there I was in Cuccini's, Parnell St., gazing out at the Tracksuit Catwalk, all those wonderful navy, blue, pink striped legs and zip tops... armies of young chav mothers wheeling their novice joy rider toddler sons and baby daughters who'd be fertilised before the Intercert was underway, and I wondered what the dead heroes of 1916 would think if they could see Dublin now. Would they die for pitbulls & Aldi & puddles of lumpy spit on the kerb? It crossed my mind that maybe the 'Nike tick' on the trainers bears a resemblance to the 'yes' tick on social welfare forms that gives you a free gaff for life as long as you smoke yourself to death and promise to only drink tinned lager & wear gold hoop earrings & re-produce every 16 months or so? I'm not right wing, honest.
A few hours later, the meal of fried vegetables & pasta swirls with house wine was puked up in the Jacks and I was downstairs in the sitting room listening to Father Frog rant about how Pearl Harbour was just as devastating as 9/11 and various other nuggets of psychosis befitting the terminally mentally ill, and I felt quite comfortable about the Bulimic months ahead. The idea is that I will give the food at least 3 hours to make its way from my stomach and any leftovers get thrown up until the weight starts dropping again. It's three years now since my health got bad & I've tried every sane procedure from cutting calories in half to buying gym equipment I'm not allowed use, and in the absence of not being able to walk, nothing has worked. I am not prepared to look like Friar Tuck's slut any longer, with a dodgy bob, thunder thighs and tornado tits... so three meals a week are being donated to the environment (the Greens will be pleased, if I'd left the food in packaging & not semi-processed it this way, it'd be a lot worse of a scenario).
I will log weight changes on here of course and keep you up to date with how it's going. Before I left Willow Park and despite all my misgivings about my father frog's inadequacies & how I'm supposed to be a proxy-feminist, I cooked the old codger some fish pies and a pot of chicken stew so he'd stop eating those monstrous 'tins' of Irish stew that smell like a bag of farts, as for the time being, it's best if he's kept alive… especially as he's the only one in the family with money & my mother needs a house to come home to. But pretty soon he will have to be placed ankle first on the crematorium trolley & sent to his demise & then I can cut short my career as a part-time bulimic and use this dead man's wages for a liposuction spree.
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