Saturday 24 February 2007
Of wind and Buses
I go to yoga classes on Monday evenings to fluff up my aura and prepare myself for the long, inconsequential week of work ahead.
A couple of weeks ago, in the middle of a storm (high winds and a bit of horizontal rain for good measure), I made my way home by bus. Excellent. First bus decided to keep going along the quays instead of crossing over as it is supposed to do. So I had to cross O’Connell bridge in hurricane (not quite, really) force winds to reach the wind tunnel where my choice of busses is conveniently located. By this time the aura I had worked so hard to create was already well battered.
The place was littered with double-deckers parked in everybody’s line of vision, mountains of rubbish bags huddled around the bus stops and people blown up and down the street. I parked myself, my windswept aura, my bag and yoga mat between two stops on the look out for 3 buses. As one eventually approached I ran towards it against the breeze. With my left arm stretched out in a desperate plea for the driver to stop and holding the bag and yoga mat and the last rags of my aura in the other, I made a dash for the stop. According to my calculations, the bus should have slowed down and I should have reached the stop. Not so. The wind that was holding me, my bag, yoga mat and aura back, propelled the bus forward at an unanticipated speed. Past the stop and past me. The last ribbon of my aura was ripped from my hand by a hungry gust and I just wanted to cry. 20 minutes later another bus was casually blown my way and I got home.
The next day I rang the bus company to make a point. Not really a complaint as, I suppose, most drivers are actually customer friendly. I was connected to Customer relations and found myself talking to what I could only describe as the incarnation of a double-decker. The gentleman on the other end of the phone put his point across with the same diplomacy of a bus approaching jaywalkers (I am louder and bigger than you, so piss off). Not that his explanation didn’t make any sense, but a few sympathetic noises wouldn’t have gone amiss. (That’s what they thought me on those otherwise useless customer service courses!) At the end of the conversation we agreed that he would talk to the garage manager to encourage his drivers to slow down at that particular stop to help unfortunate passengers reduced to bus-stop-hopping by circumstances beyond the bus company’s control. The instant I put the receiver down I knew the bus made flesh had a mystical side, and thought he was hearing confessions thus keeping to a strict vow of secrecy.
The moral of the story? There isn’t one, really.
Pinzimonio
A couple of weeks ago, in the middle of a storm (high winds and a bit of horizontal rain for good measure), I made my way home by bus. Excellent. First bus decided to keep going along the quays instead of crossing over as it is supposed to do. So I had to cross O’Connell bridge in hurricane (not quite, really) force winds to reach the wind tunnel where my choice of busses is conveniently located. By this time the aura I had worked so hard to create was already well battered.
The place was littered with double-deckers parked in everybody’s line of vision, mountains of rubbish bags huddled around the bus stops and people blown up and down the street. I parked myself, my windswept aura, my bag and yoga mat between two stops on the look out for 3 buses. As one eventually approached I ran towards it against the breeze. With my left arm stretched out in a desperate plea for the driver to stop and holding the bag and yoga mat and the last rags of my aura in the other, I made a dash for the stop. According to my calculations, the bus should have slowed down and I should have reached the stop. Not so. The wind that was holding me, my bag, yoga mat and aura back, propelled the bus forward at an unanticipated speed. Past the stop and past me. The last ribbon of my aura was ripped from my hand by a hungry gust and I just wanted to cry. 20 minutes later another bus was casually blown my way and I got home.
The next day I rang the bus company to make a point. Not really a complaint as, I suppose, most drivers are actually customer friendly. I was connected to Customer relations and found myself talking to what I could only describe as the incarnation of a double-decker. The gentleman on the other end of the phone put his point across with the same diplomacy of a bus approaching jaywalkers (I am louder and bigger than you, so piss off). Not that his explanation didn’t make any sense, but a few sympathetic noises wouldn’t have gone amiss. (That’s what they thought me on those otherwise useless customer service courses!) At the end of the conversation we agreed that he would talk to the garage manager to encourage his drivers to slow down at that particular stop to help unfortunate passengers reduced to bus-stop-hopping by circumstances beyond the bus company’s control. The instant I put the receiver down I knew the bus made flesh had a mystical side, and thought he was hearing confessions thus keeping to a strict vow of secrecy.
The moral of the story? There isn’t one, really.
Pinzimonio
Sunday 18 February 2007
Monday 12 February 2007
Sunday 11 February 2007
untitled
I'm sitting at the computer trying to come up with the
wittiest most wonderful engaging prose ever put to
screen. It's not happening. I thought I might write
somthing saucey about voulptouous women in tight
clothing. this made me go out, get drunk and fall
about with some wonderful voluptous women in tight
clothing. I always like to wear tight clothing when i
fall about with voluptous women. All that behaviour
got me to thinking about going in to work with a
raging hangover and a dickie tummy as I was going into
work with a raging hangover and a dickie tummy. Now I
find the best way to endure a hard day's work in this
situation is to hide in a darkened corner and avoid
work at all costs. This can be achieved by hiding
under your desk and fiddling with the leads to your
computer. Once you have had a good fiddle, you should
fuck up the macine enough to require a boring man to
come round and have a good fiddle with your equipment.
this can last up to three hours. Afterwards (when
you're all fiddled out) you should make him a cup of
tea and he can have a fag. Then you start to think.
'Is there any way I can increase the number of
voluptous women entering the I.T. sector? Then you
take it further. If I started a company called
voluptous ladies who will offer you IT
solutions.......I would get nowhere because the name
is too long and wont fit on the van.. BUT if I call it
'I.T.Art' Now we are talking. I make such good sense
somtimes. This is not one of them.
Bobby Peru
wittiest most wonderful engaging prose ever put to
screen. It's not happening. I thought I might write
somthing saucey about voulptouous women in tight
clothing. this made me go out, get drunk and fall
about with some wonderful voluptous women in tight
clothing. I always like to wear tight clothing when i
fall about with voluptous women. All that behaviour
got me to thinking about going in to work with a
raging hangover and a dickie tummy as I was going into
work with a raging hangover and a dickie tummy. Now I
find the best way to endure a hard day's work in this
situation is to hide in a darkened corner and avoid
work at all costs. This can be achieved by hiding
under your desk and fiddling with the leads to your
computer. Once you have had a good fiddle, you should
fuck up the macine enough to require a boring man to
come round and have a good fiddle with your equipment.
this can last up to three hours. Afterwards (when
you're all fiddled out) you should make him a cup of
tea and he can have a fag. Then you start to think.
'Is there any way I can increase the number of
voluptous women entering the I.T. sector? Then you
take it further. If I started a company called
voluptous ladies who will offer you IT
solutions.......I would get nowhere because the name
is too long and wont fit on the van.. BUT if I call it
'I.T.Art' Now we are talking. I make such good sense
somtimes. This is not one of them.
Bobby Peru
Saturday 10 February 2007
Christmas entretainment
It was the night before Christmas Eve and even the mice were drinking.
We were having our seasonal tipple with old friends in one of panther’s favourite watering holes. A local pub, sparsely decorated, lit by stark bright white lights on one end and dimmer on the other (unexplored) end. A few fairy lights hung behind the bar, between the bottles and a few GAA photographs, a line of Christmas drunks were draped across the long bar.
We settled for the comfy seats by the Ladies’ toilets. Of a no longer identifiable colour, they still held the onion-ringish odour of their previous occupants. From that position my female companion and I had a good view of the talent. An unhealthy number of blokes were joining the line at the bar stools. Builders’ Christmas party: faces that only their mother would love and jeans hanging low holding unshapely arses. The boys didn’t fare any better. The few women, who hurried through to the dimmer area waiting for the music to start, looked like they’d eat you without salt and wash you down with a pint of lager. The music started. The karaoke inevitably followed.
Two fellas at the bar started poking at each other and, as inevitable as the karaoke, a cock fight broke out. The two roosters were quickly separated by others of the same species. Not that they would have been in any fit state to cause any damage other than by falling over, but an ‘oul fight is good entertainment. The local Tina singing “simply the Best” provided the sound track.
At this very moment, out of the mist of time a Christmassy whiff came in the door followed by three elderly representatives of the local old folks support group smiling and singing Christmas carols. They brought with them a bit of uncertain warmth out of the frosty night. Dressed in luminous vests and Santa hats they gingerly offered their collection buckets before being swallowed again back into the dream from whence they came. We contributed to their worthy cause and while the hand was in the pocket another round was bought.
We were having our seasonal tipple with old friends in one of panther’s favourite watering holes. A local pub, sparsely decorated, lit by stark bright white lights on one end and dimmer on the other (unexplored) end. A few fairy lights hung behind the bar, between the bottles and a few GAA photographs, a line of Christmas drunks were draped across the long bar.
We settled for the comfy seats by the Ladies’ toilets. Of a no longer identifiable colour, they still held the onion-ringish odour of their previous occupants. From that position my female companion and I had a good view of the talent. An unhealthy number of blokes were joining the line at the bar stools. Builders’ Christmas party: faces that only their mother would love and jeans hanging low holding unshapely arses. The boys didn’t fare any better. The few women, who hurried through to the dimmer area waiting for the music to start, looked like they’d eat you without salt and wash you down with a pint of lager. The music started. The karaoke inevitably followed.
Two fellas at the bar started poking at each other and, as inevitable as the karaoke, a cock fight broke out. The two roosters were quickly separated by others of the same species. Not that they would have been in any fit state to cause any damage other than by falling over, but an ‘oul fight is good entertainment. The local Tina singing “simply the Best” provided the sound track.
At this very moment, out of the mist of time a Christmassy whiff came in the door followed by three elderly representatives of the local old folks support group smiling and singing Christmas carols. They brought with them a bit of uncertain warmth out of the frosty night. Dressed in luminous vests and Santa hats they gingerly offered their collection buckets before being swallowed again back into the dream from whence they came. We contributed to their worthy cause and while the hand was in the pocket another round was bought.
Friday 9 February 2007
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