1. Introducton

Painting is my 23^rd love. For brief period after I gave up competitive long-distance-spitting it was my 22^nd. Then blogging happened and painting fell back to 23^rd again. Still, 23^rd is not bad when you consider my 24^th love is eating Irish stew and 25^th making it.

Now before you go getting all excited, expecting talk of exhibitions and such, I mean house painting. Not the other kind - landscapes, portraits and so on - I know nothing about that.

But I know a lot about painting houses. When I was only a nipper, the great Barty Conlon was a world famous house painter in our village. He took me under his wing and taught me everything he knew. Well, almost everything - I had to go home early that day as my dinner was ready.

Over the years I’ve worked with a lot of painters (none as world famous as Barty, but some were classified as fairly world famous) and worked at it on my own bat too. (Regular readers have probably realised by now that I’ve done more moonlighting than Bruce Willis and Cybill Shepherd).

Anyway, I’ve learned all the knacks and tricks of the trade. I know how to suck air through my teeth and shake my head when pricing jobs; I know to get a look at the marque of the car, the size of the garden and the quality of the furniture before setting the price; I know to look impressed and tell auld wans they’ve picked great colours; without fail, I can locate the tea and biscuits in any kitchen - blindfolded.

I’m good at it too. No spills, drips or splashes with this lad. Masking tape? For wimps! Drop cloths? They just trip you up! A good painter doesn’t need them. All a good painter needs is a damp rag, just on the off chance a herd of wildebeest come stampeding through the room and one leaves a bum print on a skirting board.

And straight lines. The folks over at the local accident and emergency bring their electrocardiographs (and a corpse) over to Sneezy Manor to have them calibrated.

It’s all down to skill, know-how, a steady hand, the right tools, patience and time. Time is most important. A rushed paint job is like rushed sex - lads, I’m telling you, you may walk away happy that time, but don’t expect to be called again.

After the chaos of last week, I finally found some time to do some painting. Now therein lay the problem - some. Not enough, just some time. Big mistake.

2. Tooling up

I checked my supplies and realised I’d need a few things. Not a lot though, because I either make tools or reuse unwanted items. Rather than haul a heavy paint can up a ladder I cut the top off an empty plastic milk container (leaving the hand-grip intact). A long flat strip of wood with a small sponge glued on the end is great for getting down behind radiators.

But I would need some new brushes and a few gloss sleeves for my mini-roller would save me a lot of time. Now, I don’t like the idea of stuff, like gloss sleeves, that you can’t easily clean and reuse, but I thought, hey, it’ll save time and I can always chuck them over the fence to Nasty Neighbours’ kids - the small one will eat anything and the older ones love the excitement when the ambulance comes.

Stuck for time, I went to the nearest hardware, B&Q. A trip there is always good for a laugh anyway. You see DIY-dude paying big bucks for a professional painter’s drop-sheet when he probably has a stack of unused and unwanted sheets at home. And there’s always one who will buy the professional painter’s mini-tub which is really an empty ice cream pail. And the one who only needs a sleeve but walks out with a professional painter’s rolling kit (with roller, tray, fine and coarse sleeves and tool he doesn’t know the purpose of). If it says professional on the label it has to be what you need doesn’t it?

I got the gloss sleeves. And seen some brushes that claimed to be loss-free. Doubtful as I was, I’d give them a go and see what they were like.

An old painter’s trick is to wrap the roller sleeve tightly in a plastic bag if it will be needed again within a short space of time. It saves a heck of a lot of washing. But I didn’t have any bags. Irish houses used be full of them before the introduction of the bag-tax. I didn’t have any or anything like them. I thought, well for the sake of 22c I’d buy one - think of the time I’d save.

Can I have a bag, please? The shop assistant looked at me quizzically. A what? A bag - a plastic bag. But you aren’t buying anything. I’m buying a plastic bag. Actually, give me two. But you’ve nothing to put in them. Okay then, give me two of boxes of matches and I’d a like a bag for each. No problem, sir. Here you go.

3. Painting

My system is to paint by numbers. 1. Do that bit. 2. Do that bit. 3. Do that bit. Great system. Never fails.

This time, 1. was to be the bathroom walls. That’s where the trouble started in earnest. The last “Mrs.” Sneeze (long gone - bad hair - you know yourself) had a thing about fixtures. More precisely, a thing about fixed-fixtures. There were more fixtures bolted, screwed or glued to those walls than in the premiership on a Saturday afternoon.

I figured taking them down would mean repairs- it’d take a lorry-load of fillers and a lot of time, neither of which I had much. I’d just cut in around them. I had all the gear I’d need, even some tiny artist’s brushes for the trickier nooks and crannies. (Yeah, I’m a perfectionist).

That reminded me of a blogging artist, who also paints houses, once saying he likes to do rooms at night while the owners sleep - just to see the look on their faces the next morning when they see the transformation. That’s what I’d do. I’d paint at night. Okay, I’d be painting my own rooms for myself so I wouldn’t be surprised, but I could pretend, just for fun. Plus I’d be free during the day for any urgent work that came in.

A few hours sleep and I got stuck in at 1 in the morning. By 2, I’d lost the rag - the damp one. I simply can’t paint without the comfort-blanket of a damp rag to hand. I didn’t need it, but I needed it to be there.

I began to regret not removing all the junk from the walls. There were more corners than Monte Carlo. And why were there two toilet roll holders? One butt at a time. Two hands, but one butt. More disturbing was that I hadn’t noticed before.

The artificial light began to hurt my eyes. Cutting a straight line at the ceiling was next to impossible. For a while I thought I’d have to leave sections until daylight.

And the loss-free brushes! Brilliant yokes altogether. Not a single hair shed. The problem was, not a single drop of paint applied either - the synthetic fibres just wouldn’t hold it. I even tried some sticky varnish as an experiment but no joy. They should make rain coats or bullet-proof vests with this stuff not brushes.

I persevered and got what I had intended done by dawn. I stepped outside and then back in and feigned surprise. The dog gave me his fekin eejit look and walked off. I had to agree with him.

A few spots here and there might need some attention, but it still wasn’t bright enough to be sure and overall it was a good night’s work. Time for a coffee and a sit down.

3½. The result

In the full light of day I surveyed the scene again. It was much, much better than I thought. My eyes had been playing tricks under the lights and the ceiling line was, in fact, perfect. The patches I thought would need touching up had merely been shadows. It was a masterpiece.

But never again will I paint at night or when stuck for time - I’d used the colour I’d bought for the main bedroom not the bathroom!

So the cat’s gone. Anonycat got put down. AIDS of all things. The dog missed him a bit at first. They were sometimes-friends - on the cat’s terms of course. Some nights when it was cold the cat would be kind enough to let the dog share the dog kennel. Other nights he’d evict the dog with one well placed swipe of a claw - especially wet nights. The dog isn’t the brightest and never realised the cat was a proper bastard. But I hated it. I hate cats.

Peace and tranquillity were once again restored to Sneezy Manor. Never again would I be tripped up by a fluffy white thing crossing my path at faster miles an hour. Why did it always do that when I had my arms full? Never again would I be woken at 2am by Anonycat having his way outside my window with some floozie he picked up on the street. Never again would there be scraping and yowling at the door at 3am - deed done, now looking for food and/or a cigarette.

Then what happened? A mickey-relation heard the cat was dead and took pity on me. Pity! Pity, I ask you. What feking pity? I didn’t want pity, I wanted party. They got me a replacement. 06D reg. FSH. Range of optional extras included. Low mileage. i.e. Less than 2 years old, used belong to some old dear in Dublin, all certs provided, box of toys, house cat. A fukin house cat! Bad enough having one around the yard but now I have one that lounges on the couch all day watching soaps. I suppose you’re going to suggest I put a cat-flap on the fridge in case it gets peckish during Dr. Phil, I asked. Don’t be silly, she said. Here’s his food and here’s his menu. It’s a two week rota so he doesn’t get bored. How can something that watches Oprah get any more bored?

Anonycat was pure white. This one is mostly white with brown patches. And one small black patch. Where? Right under the nose. You’ve dumped me with a Nazi cat, I yelled. Ah don’t be silly, the little moustache is cute.

I whipped the cat up and frantically turned it this way and that. What are you doing? You’ll hurt the poor kitty. I’m checking it doesn’t have a number tattooed somewhere. 666 or 667. If it’s not the Beast it’s the Neighbour of the Beast. See the way it’s piercing me with its eyes? See the way its paw is outstretched like that? That’s a salute I tell you. Is its name Adolf or Damien? Would you relax! Its name is Alex and he’s a little dote. So was Damien at that age. It’ll make the dog jump to his death from the balcony. Mark my words. You don’t have a balcony. A high wall then. You don’t have a wall either.

I less than two weeks this damn cat has caused more trouble than the last one did in three years.

The painter-in-law (he’s married to my cousin) arrived one morning last week. Where’s the cat, asked Lar. Oh, it’s here. Just hidden. Not hiding. Hidden. He is a master of camouflage. A stealth cat. One minute there won’t a be a sign of it anywhere, then you’ll notice it asleep on the seat next to you. This cat is SAS trained. I’m sure of it. Jayzez, you’re right, Primal. I thought I was losing the plot, said Lar. I came in for the tea yesterday morning and it wasn’t here. I dropped me bag, hit the button on the kettle, turned around and it was asleep on the mat. And all the meat was gone from me sandwiches. Yeah, it does that, Lar, I agreed. You’d want ears on the side of your head with it. This one has read too much TS Elliot. Too much what? Don’t worry about it, Lar.

But for once the cat really wasn’t there. We could hear it meowing somewhere, but couldn’t find it. Ah bollix, groaned Lar. The utility room. It’s fallen down behind that wall unit. Listen. And that’s where it was. How it got up there is a mystery. But then, one of it’s pastimes is performing a tightrope act on the tops of doors.

Lar got his step ladder and we dropped a sheet down the back so it could climb up. We waited and waited. Lar got a bigger ladder and I climbed up a shone a torch down. It wasn’t there. It must be underneath the units. But which one? We prised out the kickboards one by one. No cat. The one kickboard we hadn’t taken out was the one wedged in by a skirting board. It had to come off. And it brought an acre of plaster with it. The cat strolled out with a what-the-fek-kept-yez look and perched on a chair.

Lar and I spent ages on the repairs and went around blocking up any other gaps over the units it could fall into. He finally got to start painting at 10:30. Two and a half hours lost.

Even then he wasn’t having a good day. The wind was bitterly cold and gusting up Arctic strength as he worked on the plinth either side of the glass doors. He laid out a narrow strip of carpet to protect his knees and catch any drips. A full 5l paint drum on one end and he on the other prevented the wind lifting it.

He happened to glance up. Coming straight at his face with claws bared was a feline Hitler. (The cat had jumped from the back of a chair onto the door handles). Startled, Lar toppled back. The carpet whipped up in the wind sending the paint drum toppling too. Lar dived to save it but was too slow. 5l of paint poured onto the path. The strip of carpet flapped in and out of the paint puddle, splashing the walls, glass doors and Lar in patterns that would put Hirst to shame. I hooked up the garden hose but the wind was drying the mess too fast and it was pointless. We spent the next three hours scrapping splotches off the doors and repainting the walls. The cat dropped gracefully down off the door handles and went for a snooze on the mat. I could swear I heard an evil snigger.

And that was just one day. There have been ten to date. I am sick of screaming “get thee to a cattery”. This cat is the result of some mad scientist’s genetic experiment - part Nazi, part SAS commando, part Omen, part McCavity. A genetically modified moggie.

Daddy would be working Saturday. Would I be on for helping entertain the two boys? We could take them to the forest park. Or if the weather is bad, just drive around and stop for lunch somewhere. Maybe we’d have lunch in that place we’d visited a couple of months ago - The Geraldine. Anywhere really, just to get them out of the house.

No problem, Kathy, says I. We’ll think of something to get them out. Little boys are like farts: better out than in, eh.

Lovely image, Primal. Thanks. I’ll never be able to look at my sons the same way again.

Saturday morning the weather didn’t look promising. Wind and rain and more forecast. The boys nodded off as soon as we set out. Kathy breathed a sigh of relief. The peace was welcome. Seán had passed the morning jumping off chairs declaring himself to be Capin Jack Sarrragh - a brave and fearless pirate, but one likely to crack his head against a windowsill. It can be difficult reason with brave and fearless pirate captains when they have just turned three. His brother, king Oisín, had banged the tray of his throne (high-chair) bellowing aawaaahh sna sna sna wheeyh which roughly translates as damn it, woman! Feed me now! Tír na nÓg can be a terrifying place.

But now they slept. Their oh- and ah-inducing angelic faces belying the demonic ones of just 20 minutes ago. When we got to The Geraldine they were still sleeping like teenagers so there was no point stopping. We’d go as far as the forest park anyway and see if the newly acquired annual pass, a smartcard, was working. It was and we drove in and pulled up in the car park.

Kathy had an idea. Look the sun’s coming out. You stay with the lads and I’ll go down to the café and get us a couple of toasted sambos and something for the pirate. I’ll ask them to warm the king’s bottle. All going well they’ll wake soon, we’ll feed them, then go for a walk. Now what would you like to drink with your toastie?

Not coffee anyway. Their coffee is shite. Do they do anything else

Yeah. They do soup. Don’t know what it’s like though.

Shur just ask them if it’s shite. If it’s not, then I’ll have some.

So I just say excuse me, is your soup shite? And if they say yes, I get something else? What if they lie and say it isn’t shite?

We’re in a forest with a pirate and a king. Anything could happen. This is the stuff of legend. Trust your instincts. Go now, and may the force go with you.

Kathy set out on her quest taking the force with her. And her wallet too - the force doesn’t work unless you have a few quid in your pocket. The sun was warm now. I let down the windows and lay back in the seat.

Just as I was nodding off there was a clap of thunder. Then another one. The skies opened and the hailstones hammered down on the roof of the car. The king woke up screaming and woke the pirate. The pirate leaned over, stroking his little brother’s cheek, explaining it’s only big noisy rain. Pirates have a tender side.

Pirates being used to the expanse of the high seas can also be a bit claustrophobic so I turned on the windscreen wipers so he could see out. A big mistake. He screamed in terror and set the king off crying again. Through the trees and coming straight toward us was a big black scary monster. Pirates know all about monsters and nothing I could say could calm him. We were going to be taken. Then we were going to be eaten. Monsters prefer takeaway it seems.

Kathy had been about to leave the café when the hail started. Seeing she had no coat the staff had cut holes for her eyes and mouth in a large back plastic refuse sack and pulled it down over her. All that was visible was her feet.

The force and/or wallet had worked wonders. There were toasted ham & cheese sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil. Big chunks of ham, not the photocopied stuff sandwich bars sell. One toastie cut into strips with a side order of crisps in a paper cup - pirates can be particular. A banana on a paper plate. A plastic fork to mash it and a spoon to eat it with. Kings like to dine in style. Two large beakers of hot homemade soup for the slaves.

We ate like kings … pirates and slaves. Actually, with four of us now in the front we ate more like octopuses. A sandwich in my hand had to take a carefully planned and calculated parabolic trajectory to get to my mouth. Even then it ran the risk having a bite taken out of it en route. Tell ye what, lads. When we win the lotto, we’ll treat ourselves to a picnic in a lunar lander or a one-man sub. Imagine the room we’ll have then!

There was a problem though: Kathy had forgotten a drink for the pirate. My turn to go to the café. If they don’t have rum, I’ll get Ribena. Okay? … There are no monsters, but if it’ll make you happy, I will be careful and not get taken. Reassured, he returned to the task of twisting every knob and pulling even lever on the dashboard.

Picnic in the carpark? With two small kids and the woman in the rubbish sack? Yes, I admitted to the woman behind the counter, how did you guess? You look stressed. Don’t suppose you’ve any rum?

When I got back the pirate was gone. A cowboy had taken his place. The pirate ship was now a space rocket. His royal highness was laid out on the passenger seat having the royal nappy changed. The hail came again and I was forced to squeeze into the back between two child seats. The cowboy needed to ride off into the sunset or somewhere equally important and I was chosen as his mount before I had time to say no, nay or neigh. The back of a Fiesta is small at the best of times but in a space rocket with two child seats, a cowboy and a horse there isn’t room to change your mind.

I needed a pint after that. Thought you’d be in earlier for the racing, Primal? Couldn’t. Busy. Working on the house? No. I accidentally went on an Irish picnic in a space rocket in a forest with a monster, a pirate, a cowboy, a horse and a king. Right so. Wasn’t great weather for that kind of thing. No. But the sandwiches were lovely.

Thursday was bitter cold. Bitter as a 70-year-old virgin. The painter’s fingers quickly turned a Smurf blue as he put masking tape on the windows. I helped as best I could with coaching and encouragement - Another one down, Lar. You’re motoring now. I’m sure he appreciated my assistance though he never said. Must be the silent type I suppose.

~~~~~

He got something in his eye and spent Friday at the hospital. His wife came though. She owns a cleaning company and offered to have the place scrubbed down in lieu of a house-warming gift. That’s a bit of a misnomer seeing as it isn’t a new house, just an extension to an old one. So strictly speaking her services were in lieu of an extension-warming gift. But that sounds like something you’d buy on eBay and hope the postman wouldn’t (mis)read the customs label.

I checked on her at lunchtime. We’re flying, Primal. The windows were a curse though - took hours - them fekin builders never took the tape off them. I suggested she let Lar know that - he’d be very interested. I got a quizzical look. Ok. I was going to call anyway to see how he was getting on with the eye. I made a hasty exit.

~~~~~

The cat turned up on Saturday after a three week absence. He was barely able to walk. Puss (appropriately for a cat) was oozing from a wound on its throat. Obviously there had been a fight and he’d lost and had been lying in a ditch somewhere. Now I hate cats, but I felt sorry for it. Something had to be done.

I called the vet. White male - approximately 3 years old - gangland victim - heavy discharge from infected wound on neck - deep laceration to left foreleg - dehydrated - impaired mobility - possible euthanasia candidate. Okay, Mr. Sneeze. You’d better bring him in. What’s his name? Name? I don’t know. He’s a stray then? No. He was one of three white sibs - Disclaimer, Terms and Conditions. Two died from trafficitis. I could never tell one from the other. Trafficitis? Yeah. Severe trauma to the torso caused by pneumatic tyres on heavy goods vehicles. I see. So what name will I put in the computer? Anonycat. What? Well it’d be stupid to call it Anonymouse.

~~~~~

Nervy Neighbour wanted to have a chat. He was having trouble with Nasty Neighbour again. We could have a pint. Pints are great catalysts for sorting out the woes of the world.

The pub was buzzing but not a barhound in sight. We stood there playing spot-the-barman. One bustled in all hot and bothered. The soccer? The soccer is it? Room down the hall there. Eh, no we w… Oh, the rugby. On in the lounge. No, we ju… Yee’re grand then - the racing’s on here. NO! We just want two fekin pints, ya tool!

That Irish publicans are more interested in sport than drink was another woe we added to the world’s ever growing list.

We hadn’t even gotten to start on the list when Strange Fellow plopped himself down between us. Know anything about car seats, lads? Are you giving up the window cleaning business and going into car valeting? No I am not. I bought a car. An 06 Saab. Well fair play to ya. After years riding around on the bike it’ll be great comfort. So what’s wrong with the seats? I can’t fit me ladders in. I’ll have to take out the seats. Do yee know how ya do that?

~~~~~

I’ve been needing two RJ-45 connectors to finish networking the office. Two lousy pins. Do you think I could get them? Not a hope in Hades. The so-called geeks in PC World never heard of them. I didn’t mind the blank looks from the staff in the hardware stores, but in PC World - com’on lads, get your act together. A local electrical supplies shop, Wesco, had them. 50c each. I suggested the guy behind the counter perform a sexual act on his own person if he thought I would pay 50c for something worth about 15c. I am a man of principle after all. Bad language, but principle. Principally bad language.

I could get them from an Irish online supplier, Komplett. €2 for a 10 pack. Excellent. €13 postage. Shite. They could perform the same act.

Maplin in Blanchardstown had them at a reasonable price, but I would join the folks at Wesco and Komplett in their new pastime if I was driving all that way just for two pins.

Would I go to Argos on Sunday morning and collect stuff? Ok. Maplin is near there so I could get the RJ-45 connectors. Men are from Maplin, women are from Argos. Fact. The women in my life happily spend hours poring over the Argos catalogue - I get as excited as a hungry baby in a topless bar with the Maplin catalogue in front of me.

But letting me loose in an electronics store is as dangerous as letting a woman loose [double checks order of those words] in Macys at sales time. I came home with a cordless screwdriver, a network tester, a solar-powered battery charger, a watch case opener and a simcard reader. All of which I will probably never use. Unlike the RJ-45 pins which I will. Or would have used, if I hadn’t left them behind on the counter.

~~~~~

Today is the day we celebrate St. Patrick driving the snakes up ladders without passing go or something like that. Maybe it’s the time he went camping with Tara and he lit a fire to cook shamrock while she played with his crozier. I’m not really sure any more. Sometimes I get mixed up between the St. Patrick’s Day we have in Ireland and the St. Patty’s Day they celebrate in America.

All I know is that I am to drink pints today as required by law. They will be black ones as they always are. I will wear jeans. They will be blue ones as they always are. I will express my wish that a friend be happy. I will say happy birthday to her as I always do on March 17.

It’s a bank holiday. Our national day. No one else’s. What could possibly go wrong?

I don’t like Fridays. I hate Fridays. Fridays are when people remember what they needed done during the week but forgot to ask about. They clear their desks of that niggly chore that’s been on their to-do list since Monday and swamp mine. Friday gone was no different and I was running around like a blue bottomed member of the family diptera. Running around and worrying that Friday beer-time was slipping away. Beer-time didn’t happen. Friday should be Funday not Fukday.

Saturday was no better. A call from the builder. A truck would be arriving to take away his portacabin. Could I dismantle the temporary gates to let it drive straight in so as not to rip up the newly laid yard surface? Of course, Bob, right away, I replied. (I call the builder Bob because that’s his name). As I hung up, I heard the truck. Already in the yard. Doing 27-point turns and churning the hardcore into a badly ploughed field.

Driver! I yelled. Stop! Stop! Don’t go into the … garden. Too late. Now I had a yard fit to grow spuds in and a 40t truck planted 30cm deep in muck. Christ did you not heard me shouting? Did you not see me waving at you to stop? I’ll get out no bother once the weight of the portacabin is on the back.

He didn’t. He couldn’t. The only thing to do was to flag down a passing truck and hope it could pull him out. The first two sped by, the drivers averting their eyes. No way were they getting involved. The third stopped. Howya? Howya gettin’ on? Grand mornin’. Mild one isn’t it. It is alright. A right one. Listen. Could ya give yer man a tug out? No English. No speak English. Peadar Murphy, now seeing the carnage, suddenly became Pavel Murkowski and drove off.

The fourth truck obliged and the 40t was harvested. I stood by with a spade and waterhose to help clean the wheels. I didn’t get a chance. Both drivers pulled out onto the road and sped away with more muck flying than you’d see at the Mahon Tribunal. I spent the next half hour scraping up sods and tossing them over the hedge, all the while being angrily honked at by the very speeding motorists I was trying to prevent crashing. Wankers!

That afternoon I realised no mail from my Topmail account had been arriving for weeks. (With about 12 email accounts, it is easy not notice one isn’t working. I’m right, amn’t I?) Tomail is an ultra secure system and the latest enhancement, it would seem, has made it too secure. Once fixed, 40 odd mails popped into my inbox. Some odder than others.

I’d missed a monster thread about drinks the night before some awards thing or other. I’d missed a mail from the Hallowed Halls of Bockschloβ about some awards thing or other. I’d missed an incredibly well researched mail from Towers gan Fhéile, listing all the transport options I would have to and from drinks the night before some awards thing or other, should I wish to partake. I’d missed a mail from Castillo del Niña Problemo reminding me about lunch the day after some awards thing or other. There was only time for some hasty replies and apologies, then I rushed off to an evening in the company of Oisín and his older brother, Seán. All going well, I would get time for more replies and maybe catch some coverage of some awards thing or other after I got them to sleep.

A slow waltz around the kitchen with Oisín in my arms usually does the trick. Not tonight. While I was doing my best Fred Astaire, Oisín had more of a Riverdance thing going on. But the high kicks, jigs and reels eventually tired him out and 15 minutes later he was sleeping like a teenager.

Seán was availing of his allotted 30 minutes of TV and I availed of the break to browse the paper. I scanned a review by Colin Murphy of Twenty’s book. A great many of these bloggers like to share their thoughts on politics, the media, popular culture and their toilet habits. Many, particularly those interested in the latter, do so under cover of a pseudonym. Do I? Do we? Did I ever mention my toilet habits? Did you? Maybe we should if that’s what’s required of us? I’d have to read more of this.

First, get Seán to bed. The very mention of bed to Seán is like a red rag to a bull. Or worse, a wet rag to an electrician.

[Begin special section for Colin Murphy →

The three-year-old reluctantly made his visit to the toilet; did his business; washed his hands; donned his jammies; brushed his teeth; had to be dissuaded from trying to open a pack of tampons so he could clean his ears; went to bed. He suffered a flash dump minutes later and the whole procedure had to be repeated, with the added thrill of a shower and changing bedclothes this time.

Sorry Mr. Murphy - this is the best I can do for the moment. The next time I have an interesting toilet habit of my own to share, you'll be the first to hear.

← End special section for Colin Murphy]

I had read on Íomhá an Lae that some awards thing or other would be streamed live and decided to check it out. It might be interesting - Íomhá an Lae was up for an award for use of the Irish language, as I was. Why my blog was in that category, I can’t fathom. There were other mysteries to solve too. But I couldn’t access the stream. Not to worry, I might still be meeting the best storyteller the Net has ever seen for lunch the following day and she’d fill me in on proceedings - despite having missed a million mails for same.

On Sunday morning I expectantly donned my glad rags (i.e. a clean shirt) and was about to call her hotel when I got word a family member wasn’t well. The doctor had been. For overseas readers, let me explain that getting a doctor out of hours in Ireland is like owning a mansion - very few are that lucky and those that are pay a fortune for the privilage. Would he have to go to hospital? No. The doctor was against that. From past experience they would poke and prod and try things that would make him worse. Then a week later they would send for his file, read it and announce ah, yes, now that’s what we should have been doing. But there was a prescription to be filled if I didn’t mind. Of course I didn’t.

Now, how to find a pharmacy open on a Sunday. In the nearest town some band together and take it in turns. But they don’t put a sign in the window saying whose turn it is so you just drive around in hope. One always opens. Between 11:00 and 14:00. That was for sure and even though the drugs were needed urgently, I waited until then and was standing outside at 11:00 on the button. They opened promptly at 11:25.

Can I have this in liquid form? He can’t swallow pills the way he is now. The chemist checked the computer and told me the liquid form was only licensed for use in hospitals. Buy why? It’s the same AI, I argued, tabs are no good - he can’t swallow them! What age is the child? Eh, 40. Sorry, tabs is all I can give you. I’ll see what I can do tomorrow when the HSE offices are open. We can apply for an exemption. How long will that take? An hour, a week, a month, never - depends on who answers the phone.

So I came out of there with medication that couldn’t be used, the taxpayer had paid for and damn all faith in the HSE.

I think I deserve an award for worst weekend and you deserve one for perseverance if you’ve managed to read all of this.

For many years I worked with the same company. (Note the Freudian slip? with not for). Except for one unsavoury incident, I truly loved every minute of my time there. The work was interesting, but what made it was the people. HR did a great job of selecting new hires that would fit in - meaning you could be the greatest engineer in the world, but if you didn’t have a wild or witty streak, you could fcuk right off.

There was more laughter in that building than in the Foley department of the BBC sit-com studios.

It suited me fine. I seemed to get away with murder. Or at least, manslaughter. Or maybe mouse-slaughter. Well nearly anyway. I was in the office late one evening and ended up getting roped into loading a truck. A mouse ran across my path and was killed instantly by 4 tonnes of forklift and 70kg of Sneeze. The following day, a funeral was held and the scrapings off the floor laid to rest in the flowerbed. The GM officiated and, I was later told, said some very nice things about Michael and offered his condolences to his wife and their 153 children. As perpetrator of the crime I wasn’t present - I was locked in the warehouse cage for the duration. I was only released after a team from accounts reported they couldn’t say conclusively that the bum-prints on the forklift seat were mine. So much for forensic accountants.

Early one morning, in an effort to cheer up the receptionist, who had missed out on a promotion, I burst out from the mens’ shouting call the Guards! Call the Guards! We’ve got a floater. It worked and she literally fell off her seat laughing. Which would have been fine if she hadn’t been in the process of transferring a call from Germany to Sales and ended up putting it through to the canteen. The chef wasn’t having a great day either and screamed at the head of procurement in BASF: How many times do I have to tell you fekin eejits? I will not take orders from you at this hour of the day. I honestly can’t remember how that one was soothed over.

We had a manager temporarily transferred to us from California to lead a particular project. Erik Wenger insisted on a meet-and-greet breakfast for all the senior staff. I did up a nameplate for the janitor and invited him along. It read Crisis Avoidance Manager - well he kept the toilet roll dispensers topped up, didn’t he? No one was more deserving of a free meal. Erik-with-a-K, as he was to become known, introduced himself and told us how great he was for half an hour or more. It was the day before St. Paddy’s, which sort of counts as a Friday, so we were all pretty chilled and let him rabbit on. Enough about me. We squirmed - we’d all have to explain our roles and tell him how great we were. So tell me … we squirmed a bit more. What are you guys all doing for the holiday? We relaxed. Are you going to the mainland? Stunned fckuing silence. The janitor came to the rescue. Well we can’t because of all the heavy rain ya see. The Irish Sea’s too high and the boats aren’t allowed sail. It’s a health and safety thing. Really, said Erik-with-a-K, that’s unreal. Oh it’s not just here, went on our saviour, it’s all of Europe. Shur they had pictures of Venice on the telly last night and the place is under 20ft of water.

On the shop floor, most of the staff were young Dubliners. In the days before cheap air-travel, few had been past Newlands Cross, never mind seen exotic places like Kildare or Wicklow. To put that to rights, one of the company nights-out was held in Navan. It became obvious after a couple of hours that the pub we’d chosen was too small and with more still to arrive, something had to be done. The production manager volunteered to scout for a larger venue and took, Wayne with him. Settled in the new hostelry I asked the PM why he’d taken him. At each pub they went to, he had Wayne stand inside the door while he approached the counter. He’s explained to each barman that there were 40 in the group and pointed out Wayne as the drunkest. If you think you’ll have no problem with him, then the rest will be a piece of cake.