Ado
Saturday 25 August 2007
Wednesday 22 August 2007
Danish Pastries
I got a couple of calls in work last winter from a bloke involved in the Viking Warship project. I thought the man was deranged and the whole thing a windup. Somebody unbalanced had to be involved but it was not a windup. A full-scale reconstruction of a Viking warship (the Sea Stallion of Glendalough, to give it its proper title) landed in the courtyard. And with it came the Viking crew. And with all the fuss men popped up with mobile phones flapping around looking important and efficient and marketing types all fur coats and no knickers.
I do have to point out that I have proof that, on the other hand, modern day Vikings do wear them (knickers, that is).
I was standing in a strategic position with Catwoman and YoungArtist observing the festivities doing a grumpy-old-men-from-the-Muppet-Show impression. The square was filling up nicely with people when suddenly out of the corner of my bad eye I saw naked flesh! Naked fit Danish male flesh! We had appreciated the self same man, with his clothes on, wielding an axe giving wood carving demonstrations earlier in the day. Before modesty and manners made me tear my gaze away, I pointed him out to my surveillance partners who felt compelled to check I wasn’t seeing things. They saw and coyly but reluctantly looked away. If laughing is good for your health, we are assured of a flu free winter.
So it was that a wet week end passed, and a wet Tuesday followed a wet Monday. The day didn’t look up to much. The promised delayed Irish summer wasn’t coming and I couldn’t account for the absence of money in my purse. Then I spotted the two wood working Danes packing up their wears and giving their ship the last goodbye cuddles. I thought I’d be nice and offer the use of the staff kitchen. They came in. The sight of two 6ft+ fit young Vikings made a welcome change from the usual middle-aged pot bellied Celts frequenting the place. The local barbarians had left a sink-full of dirty crockery and nothing clean in sight. I felt compelled to supply my emergency mugs from the depths of my food locker. My main problem at this point was communication: all I could dribble out (keeping my teeth firmly clenched to avoid my tongue falling out and tripping me up) was something like ‘here you go, this one is clean the other needs a rinse’. I could not look them in the eye after seeing something only the partner or the washing machine should. But I felt very girly, teenagery, almost in good form (for a Tuesday). I even handed out biscuits and club milks from the communal stash. The Celts in attendance were puzzled by my erratic behaviour. I couldn’t blame them.
Pinzimonio
I do have to point out that I have proof that, on the other hand, modern day Vikings do wear them (knickers, that is).
I was standing in a strategic position with Catwoman and YoungArtist observing the festivities doing a grumpy-old-men-from-the-Muppet-Show impression. The square was filling up nicely with people when suddenly out of the corner of my bad eye I saw naked flesh! Naked fit Danish male flesh! We had appreciated the self same man, with his clothes on, wielding an axe giving wood carving demonstrations earlier in the day. Before modesty and manners made me tear my gaze away, I pointed him out to my surveillance partners who felt compelled to check I wasn’t seeing things. They saw and coyly but reluctantly looked away. If laughing is good for your health, we are assured of a flu free winter.
So it was that a wet week end passed, and a wet Tuesday followed a wet Monday. The day didn’t look up to much. The promised delayed Irish summer wasn’t coming and I couldn’t account for the absence of money in my purse. Then I spotted the two wood working Danes packing up their wears and giving their ship the last goodbye cuddles. I thought I’d be nice and offer the use of the staff kitchen. They came in. The sight of two 6ft+ fit young Vikings made a welcome change from the usual middle-aged pot bellied Celts frequenting the place. The local barbarians had left a sink-full of dirty crockery and nothing clean in sight. I felt compelled to supply my emergency mugs from the depths of my food locker. My main problem at this point was communication: all I could dribble out (keeping my teeth firmly clenched to avoid my tongue falling out and tripping me up) was something like ‘here you go, this one is clean the other needs a rinse’. I could not look them in the eye after seeing something only the partner or the washing machine should. But I felt very girly, teenagery, almost in good form (for a Tuesday). I even handed out biscuits and club milks from the communal stash. The Celts in attendance were puzzled by my erratic behaviour. I couldn’t blame them.
Pinzimonio
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
Tuesday 5 June 2007
holiday notice
PLEASE NOTE THAT BISON WILL BE ON HOLIDAY UNTIL JUNE 20TH... WE ARE NOT GONE... JUST HAVING A BREAK!
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