Trolls, Trials and Tomes

I was so exhausted after two weeks with a student who, in fairness, was no trouble, it was me, talking 200% more than average and mentially being on home-duty every morning and evening... that I couldn't even blog.
Now there's a pile up of landlady lore before the next fella moves in. 

Morning holds such promise with freshly brewed coffee, an allegedly low-cal cereal and opening hopeful emails, any day now a publisher will write back. With good news this time.

Europe might be out of the recession but I for one know that it won’t be over in this house until I unsubscribe to emails from jobs.ie, eTenders and GrabOne.  I don’t even know why I bother scanning the list of jobs for IT/foreign language programmers on Google, because any of the ones I could do, like PA with English, they don’t even reply to. Last year was the upskill, interview, CV, recruitment drive. I can either say it was a complete waste of time or it gave me a perspective on a niche sphere. Well, it is a sphere that is a complete waste of time if you’re not in IT/Finance/Marketing/PR/HR, masters level liberal arts and twenty years of business practice counts for nothing these days. Yet I was told my CV was intimidating, my references were outstanding and could overpower a boss, so I should remove my achievements and big-up my typing speed (70wpm in case you’re interested). I even did on-line tests in Word, Excel and PowerPoint, and was impressed by what my laptop could achieve as I dithered; now I know what Macros are for.  

As for eTenders, I might as well unsubscribe now. The last time I tendered was at the invitation of a semi-state to be on their conservation panel. I had to take out Professional Indemnity insurance just to submit, at a minimum of 1,000 euro that turned out to be a complete waste of time and money.

That leaves my email inbox with the odd Twitter message, Facebook telling me to say happy birthday to loads of people, sales of sex toys and invitations to galleries and book launches.

It’s a shame our two major galleries are all but closed and there are no blockbuster exhibitions to excite tourists and denizens alike. But emails from the private galleries still show commitment to artists, they're putting on regular shows, there's still money to buy art, just not new money. Green on Red, Kevin Kavanagh, Oliver Sears, Cross Gallery and the Kerlin are all still doing business.

Without email I wouldn’t have got my invite to Roddy Doyle’s The Guts launch or Joe Joyce’s Echoland.  Three Booker winners at one of them, veteran investigative journalists at the other, talent and good will everywhere. I’m glad I went, bought the books, had the chat with friends I haven’t seen in ages and resolved to persevere even more on editing my own novel. 10,000 of my 125,000 words cut in the last two weeks, ouch.

Now that I’m contributing opinion pieces to the Irish Independent, how could I give up Google? They mightn’t want to interview me but they save me all those years I used to spend in libraries. And as for email, I wrote an article in 3 hours last week and was able to verify all my facts by contacting expert friends in high places, without getting out of my pyjamas.

There’s a lot to mistrust about the internet, there’s scary Ask.FM, scary Eric Eoin Marquez, loathsome trolls on Twitter, it’s up to the rest of us to uphold good standards and cut out the crap.

I met a man recently who would have nothing to do with any of it, a much respected literary agent. He doesn’t have a mobile, a web-site, email or use the internet. I contacted him by landline, left a message on his answering machine, he phoned back, we talked, I posted a hard copy of 3 chapters, in an envelope with a stamp.

We got along very well, but he sent me away to ‘do more work’ and I don’t think he meant writing blogs to distract myself from the task in hand, back to the book…

He represents 160 authors. Sure, who knows….

Be Generous - Tweet Good Thoughts

I hadn't anticipated becoming a twitterati, nor indeed still writing a blog mid-year, there's only so much you can say about your gentleman lodgers and your cost centre sons before they come crashing down on you. Gentleman Lodger #1 to the best of my knowledge doesn't even know there is a blog. The longer he is here though, the more bewildered he seems, something to do with the late rugby nights he keeps and the fact that landlady has been going into Oireachtas Hearings. It's so nice not to have too much discourse at home; just a passing comment from CCs and GL#2 suffices. I don't want to go into detail with a man who likes to keep things simple.

But GL#1 (Adam as he was the first on planet landlady) must have noticed how busy I've got, I haven't had time to do his washing, a bad habit to have gotten into anyway. Especially when the Cost Centres came home from Life festival in Belvedere (go google) with sacks of rancid clothes and now there's a right back-up.

I thought it was a bit of a swizz that Groove Armada pulled out of the festival, though the last minute replacement with Leftfield wasn't bad, amazingly enough I have both of their actual first CDs. I know that's amazing because the Cost Centre's are confused that I had their music before them.

Speaking of Leftfield, I was invited to the United African Nations celebration of their Golden Jubilee on Saturday and roped blonde Racquel along. Great hair, great costumes (not us). There was a doctor from Galway doing wine samples from her distributorship (Kinnegar Wines) of South African tipples. She worked in a hospital as a cardiologist and was taking the train back that night. Amazing what people do...the second Reisling was my favourite, the fourth sample pretty much meant it was time to go and eat. Saturday night, no bookings, after a big rugby match? Best to turn up needy, we got a high table in Keshk, the place where you can bring your own wine, amid two 30th birthday parties, a good reason to hurry the (very good) food and move on.

It still being early we joined friends in the calm garden of Dylan, rested on comfy sofas and toasted Sir Leigh's birthday.  You see, one of the ideas of tweeting is to be generous, so I'm mentioning all the nice people I met.

It's a good thing in life too, not imposing your anxieties, prejudices and ideologies on others who don't share them. I’m only beginning to discover the cut-throat raw edge of politics and campaigners of late. And I'm just an on-looker.

Moments of Relative Idleness

March Ski in Davos

I had my first MRI just over a week ago, it wasn't easy to get an appointment  when I came back from the curtailed ski trip, the GP thought the knee was fine, but I needed a letter for the MRI. Absentee Boyfriend Bond thought it was a bit of a drama. A week later when I walked into the clinic  I even felt I should hobble a bit to justify the visit.

I was strapped to a bed in a room full of high-tech lights and equipment. The kind of bed, like a bier that glides into a tomb-like chamber I've only ever seen on ER or Grey's Anatomy. Happily I could keep my head outside as it was just the knee being scanned. The technician asked me what radio station I'd like, I didn't think Joe Duffy would relax me, sorry Joe, so he put on Lyric FM and placed the ear phones on my head, as the strains of a violin concerto filtered through my ears, I daren't move an acrylic eyelash.

MRI, Moments of Relative Idleness, or something like that, I could Google it, but it was a procedure that must be incredibly terrifying if you are going for a brain scan. My reverie came to abrupt end after twelve minutes and the music is interrupted by the technician telling me its all over. I hobbled out and forgot all about it.

I registered to do the Women's Mini Marathon for the Rape Crisis Centre in June and do a ride at Donard Glen this weekend for M.S.

The GP phoned me with the report, he sounded as surprised as I was, and probably glad he had agreed I get it checked.

'No activity for three months unless you want orthopaedic surgery' or something to that effect. I had a full depth tear to the medial ligament and a few other older injuries unnoticed before.

'What about riding?' I ask.
'Out of the question,' says he, 'the best thing you can do is rest it and wear a brace for a while.'

And that's just a ligament, what must our rugby players go through with their serial injuries in the name of sport and our entertainment. Respect.

So I can't swim with it, and my usual sprint up and downstairs is off limits, otherwise I think I got away lightly. Like the moment a few months ago when I got the news from the breast cancer re-call, the fear and dread was palpable, sitting and waiting, not having thought of bringing someone with me. And then a grave face tells me it's all clear, spontaneous combustion of tear ducts is an understatement. The aftermath of that news can only be described as a second chance at life. I drove into town for lunch after the mammogram and was given three driving offences, for one little manoeuvre. That garda didn't seem to understand I had a second chance at life.

Thanks Google and Friends

 


How about this for a birthday surprise, I went in search of something and this came up, I thought, 'oh someone famous has the same birthday,' and scrolled over it, it said 'Happy Birthday Deirdre,' I gave Cost Centre #2 such a fright calling him to see it in case it disappeared. 'Only you get it mom, it's not on everyone's computer.' But still, a good use of algorithms and personal data.
 
As if that wasn't enough of a surprise, gorgeous Primary School friend arrived first thing with flowers, home-made tira misu, birthday candle and divine china cup and saucer. All the things the heroine of my novel loves. And me. At last, let's call her Vyvienne (because that's what her parents named her) is a sight for sore eyes. Just before she arrived I tore out to the front door to prevent the dog eating the cards the postman tried to deliver, I don't mind her chewing the corners off bills but just as I salvaged the TWO (!) she got thunderously sick, before my breakfast. Happily there were no lodgers around to hear the string of expletives.

After a birthday blow-dry from the best hairdresser in town JH Haircare on Highfield Road, I highly recommend. It's time for a disco nap to prepare to go out with the girls I didn't see on Friday, thank you all for turning up this time! And even better, lodger/friend Triss coming too ; )

Conundrums

I've been thinking about the word 'digs' lately. I used to hear my aunts and uncles using it as a term for the place they stayed when they came to work or study in Dublin. It wasn't as independent as having their own flat, but a room in a family house, which is what I thought I'd specifically advertise last week; I wanted to check its etymology first. I tried to figure it out, assuming it was hiberno-English, maybe coming from the Irish 'Tigh' the possessive for house. I must admit it was only when I studied English at university that I found out what the genetive (possessive) case was and lo, what the 'tuiseal ginideach' meant, after all those of years of complete bewilderment in Irish class - why didn't I just ask? Would you believe Google doesn't know nor does the Oxford English Dictionary? The nearest thing is 'where you dig a foundation' or I'm more likely to concede it's giving a 'dig out'. It's possibly old French, but really only used in Ireland and England, so, a dig out, or a helping hand, seems apt. Answers on a postcard...

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

The other origin I'm wondering about is Monday Washing Day, how did that come about? It's exercising my brain as I'm stripping the previous tenant’s bed and it happens to be Monday with the washing machine going at full tilt. Strangely I don't have an aversion to this, which I find very odd, I only ever deal with my own bed. The Cost Centres change their own linen when hollered at. I think I’m not grumbling about doing it because I'm being paid (very little) and it's a humble but satisfying task, with a purpose. I get it done quickly without any murmurings that I should be doing something more important, like making thousands of euros writing a report. Then it's on to Adam’s bedroom (Lodger#1) where I'm trying to guard his socks from Cost Centre #2. He left a rail of washing to dry in his room while he’s away skiing and I decide to pair the socks and stash them, seeing as he’s only been here two nights this month. The first time I did this I was taken aback to find some of my own underwear hanging amongst his. I am slightly more over this totally weird juxtaposition. But not quite.

The male sock population is breeding like rabbits and I noticed the child wearing Ralph Lauren socks the other day,

‘Where did you get them?' I enquired.

'Found them.'

'But they're not yours.'

'So?'

No sooner do I settle back to re-writing my novel when Cost Centre #1 comes in from college. When they were in school I knew I could have a working day until 5 then I'd set off to collect one or other of them from sports or after-school study. Now they could rise at noon and start cooking an Irish breakfast, just when I’m about to get that perfect sentence crafted. Now CC#1 thinks a subway in Rathmines is better and cheaper, thankfully.

He tells me he’s been making enquiries about joining the Navy. I never know where this is coming from, but he fills me in on quite a lot this morning. He's adamant he doesn't want an 'office job' after college, 'I like being on my feet' he says. Again, I don't know where this is going. There's no doubt he'd look good in uniform, a big strapping lad of 6' plus. Years ago I put him off joining the guards, and probably shouldn't have. When I discovered he was dropping out of his first college course, in the same week my father died, it was a double grief, which I’m still not over. Now, I'm prepared to listen to any of his initiatives. Approaching 23 with a very studious girlfriend for the last few years in Cork, I don't think I have much say anymore, except about ironing. Which is why I think he'd make a good officer and a gentleman.

'What do they do in the Irish Navy?' I ask.

'Catch fishermen,'

‘Oh.' I murmur. Now we know.

'But you're studying marketing, how will you use that?'

'In their marketing department.'

What do I know?