Ado
Wednesday 25 July 2007
Thursday 19 July 2007
Pretty Mean Tiger. Or, life as seen by a premenstrual woman
It’s night-time. Panther is making some sort of a noise. It’s a breathing noise. Not snoring, breathing. The poke-in-the-ribs-and-turn-bouncing-on-the-bed technique doesn’t stop him breathing. The thought of smothering him crosses my mind but love and a vestige of rationality hold my hand.
The assorted contents of my stomach, which landed there in a random order only a few hours ago, are struggling to find their way out. Cheese and crackers, crinkle cut beetroot, custard, leftover pasta, chocolate biscuits and a dinner are NOT the cause of my insomnia. My man breathing is. Definitely.
I get up looking and feeling like a rat unwillingly pulled out of her hole by the tail. My personal space is ballooning to 10meter radius and growing, which is incompatible with a bus journey. There are too many people on this Earth and too many of them decided to get the 8am 121 from Drimnagh.. And they smell. Oh, the smell of humanity! Feet, Lynx, last night’s party and take-away, damp clothes and wet dog.
My heightened senses are bringing the irritability levels to an all-month high. The phone buzzes like a trapped bluebottle, a colleague clicking a pen is practising a new form of torture on me, the public are a herd of morons out to annoy me personally, the fellas drilling a hole outside my office are toying with death.
The end of the working day saves those unsuspecting men from an untimely departure from this life. I switch on the homing device and drag my heavy feet all the way back. I’m greeted by the smell of cooking potatoes. Full-blown paranoia ensues: WHY is he cooking dinner? WHAT is he up to?
The fact that after all these years he has learnt to tame the monthly tiger with a feed of starch doesn’t cross my mind. At all. It’s a conspiracy. Really.
Pinzimonio
The assorted contents of my stomach, which landed there in a random order only a few hours ago, are struggling to find their way out. Cheese and crackers, crinkle cut beetroot, custard, leftover pasta, chocolate biscuits and a dinner are NOT the cause of my insomnia. My man breathing is. Definitely.
I get up looking and feeling like a rat unwillingly pulled out of her hole by the tail. My personal space is ballooning to 10meter radius and growing, which is incompatible with a bus journey. There are too many people on this Earth and too many of them decided to get the 8am 121 from Drimnagh.. And they smell. Oh, the smell of humanity! Feet, Lynx, last night’s party and take-away, damp clothes and wet dog.
My heightened senses are bringing the irritability levels to an all-month high. The phone buzzes like a trapped bluebottle, a colleague clicking a pen is practising a new form of torture on me, the public are a herd of morons out to annoy me personally, the fellas drilling a hole outside my office are toying with death.
The end of the working day saves those unsuspecting men from an untimely departure from this life. I switch on the homing device and drag my heavy feet all the way back. I’m greeted by the smell of cooking potatoes. Full-blown paranoia ensues: WHY is he cooking dinner? WHAT is he up to?
The fact that after all these years he has learnt to tame the monthly tiger with a feed of starch doesn’t cross my mind. At all. It’s a conspiracy. Really.
Pinzimonio
Sunday 8 July 2007
Sunday 1 July 2007
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