It was the mid-nineties and I was working for large multinational. I had won a prize for being absolutely brilliant or something. Being the heady days of the dot com boom, the prize was equally heady. Myself and the other absolutely brilliant employees from all around Europe and the Middle East were to be brought to London for a weekend where we would be presented with our awards and collect nice fat cheques.

Then the IRA went and blew up Canary Wharf. The company decided London was too dangerous and the venue was switched to Edinburgh. It would be bad press to have your absolutely brilliant employees killed and wouldn’t make a lot of economic sense either. Edinburgh suited me much better anyway - the beer would be drinkable.

The itinerary went like this:

Friday afternoon: Fly to Edinburgh. Limo from airport to fancy hotel. [Grand. Friday off work and paid]

Friday evening: Wine & cheese reception. [I'd find a bar]

Saturday morning: Shopping trip. [I'd find a bar]

Saturday afternoon: The matinée of a musical. [I'd find a bar near a bookies]

Saturday evening: Gala dinner. Business-casual dress. [What was that about? I'd find the bar]

Sunday morning: Sightseeing tour. [I'd find a bar. Get a cure]

Sunday afternoon: Limo to airport. Fly back home. [Bollix! I'd have to work Monday]

I hadn’t even left Ireland before I made the first cock-up. I queued for 45mins at the Aer Lingus check-in only to be told that I needn’t have bothered - I had a first class ticket. I’d never had a first class ticket before. Not even on a train. This was going to be great.

I was ushered onto the plane first. This was going to be great. They gave me a newspaper. Offered pillows and sweets and stuff. An absolutely stunning girl was next to board and sat beside me. I introduced myself: I’m an absolutely brilliant employee. You’re an absolutely stunning girl. She laughed. Not surprising - women always laugh when they see me first. We got chatting and she told me she went to Edinburgh nearly every weekend to visit her sister. I got the whole story on the best restaurants. Do you know a pub near a bookies? She told me what shows were playing. Do you know a pub near a bookies? She listed all the must-see attractions. Do you know a pub near a bookies? She didn’t but would find out.

A chauffeur greeted me at the airport with a sign saying Mr. P. Sneeze. Peaked cap, black gloves, the works. He insisted on carrying my bag and opening doors for me and calling me sir. This was going to be great.

The hotel was amazing. The room was more of a suite. On the desk there was a note from the company welcoming me and an envelope with my ticket for the musical. I tossed that in the bin. On the bed was a gift from the company - a picnic hamper. But not a Yogi Bear one. This had a really soft tartan woollen rug, a radio that could even pick up aircraft frequencies, a bottle of champagne, Waterford Crystal glasses, binoculars and I can’t remember what else. I suppose it was intended for those who like to picnic at exclusive airports.

It was nearly time for the cheese and wine do in the lobby. I rang down to reception and asked them to tell the bosses I wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t attend. And then I asked if the hotel had a back door. I found a bar.

The next morning there was a message for me at reception. I called the number. It was the girl from the plane with directions to a pub near a bookies. Highly recommended by the locals. Would she be there? No, she was going to the big musical. Ah fek, I could’ve given you a ticket - I had a free one and threw it away.

I met up with another two absolutely brilliant employees from Ireland at breakfast. Was I feeling better? Was I going shopping with them? Yes, much better (except for a hangover). And no, all my shopping was done. I had a lovely rug for the mother. A radio for the father. Waterford Crystal for the sibling. Champagne for the Sneeze’s squeeze. Binoculars for her dad. Ya cheap bastard, Primal. Would you not have given your mum the whole basket and bought more stuff for the others? The ma doesn’t like airports, I explained. And anyway I was skint and my budget only ran to alcohol.

So what was I doing for the afternoon now that we weren’t being taken to the show? We’re not? Why? The last minute switch from London meant it was too late for them to buy us tickets. That’s why they put £100 cash in the envelope instead of tickets. They fekin’ what? Oh, Christ! This wasn’t going to be great.

I raced back up to the room. The bin was empty. I ran down the hallway, around the corner and slammed straight into a rather portly lady in a blue pinny. Was it yourself cleaned room 404? (I should have known that number would bring bad luck). It was her. You did a great job. Now just bear with me for a minute. This is an emergency. I upended her trolley and rummaged through the pile for my envelope. I planted a big sloppy kiss on her cheek and danced back down the hall waving the cash in the air and whooping like, like a thing that whoops. All I could hear behind me was bloody Irish. They’re all mad.

Maybe this was going to be great after all.

I made this list. But I didn’t check it twice. So apologies for any errors.

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• An end to world hunger. No use to me. I’ll never be in a beauty pageant.

• Our troops home. The fekers went for a few pints on Tuesday and haven’t been seen since. Ah shur let them at it - they’re only young.

• World peace. No, changed my mind. How else would Americans learn geography?

• More time on my hands. Yeah, that might be nice. But I’d like some on my feet too. Maybe even a little on the spot behind the knee that doesn’t have a name.

• A token of appreciation, affection or one that I can use in supermarket trolleys. Maybe not. Any chance of a snog, a shag or a euro instead?

• A baseball cap that doesn’t have a logo. But they don’t make them do they?

• Something to do on the Internet that there isn’t an award for. Better be careful - I could win a logo to stick on my blog for thinking that up. See - Fekin logos again.

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No. None of the above. But how about this: What if all the folks who check in on this blog but never comment just say “hi”, “howya”, “g’day” or whatever they’re most comfortable with? Don’t say “happy Christmas” or you’re barred! So how about it lads? Go on, go on, go on. Ya will, ya will, ya will.

Warning: Not for the weak of stomach

I was up to my eyeballs yesterday what with making a shopping list, reading blogs and generally avoiding work when the mobile rang. I grunted my displeasure and frowned at it, but being a cheap Huawei import it has difficulty understanding western social norms and kept ringing. I had to answer it. It was Kathy inviting me out to lunch. Well that was okay then. Very pleasant in fact. As we all know, doing lunch is a 100% legitimate excuse to avoid work. And of course she would have the wee man, Oisín, with her. At just 3½ months old he’s already becoming an individual in his own right with his likes and dislikes, big gummy smiles, eyes that follow everything that moves, little fisted hands that rub his eyes when tired. Mighty craic all together.

Now those of you who are mums or dads will know that the SAS, climbers on Everest and Arctic explorers have it easy - they have damn all supplies and equipment to carry compared to the parent of a baby. When picking a lunch venue you need one with space. Preferably big couches to rest the baby-carrier or to lay the child down on and room for bag(s) with nappies, wipes, creams, soothers, bottles, spare bibs, clothes, shovels, rakes and implements of destruction. The list is endless.

I was commended on my choice. It ticked all the boxes apparently. We chatted away over a lovely lunch all the while being checked on by the staff who were really making up excuses to ooh and aah at Oisín. It never ceases to amaze me how people, even the grumpiest of old men, turn into blubbering idiots in the presence of a baby.

Coffees arrived and an unrequested jug of hot water in case we needed to warm a bottle. Which we did. I was impressed with the service.

I fed himself while Kathy slipped to the loo. On her return she moaned that they were tiny with no room next the wash hand basins to comfortably, or safely, change a child and obviously no fold down contraption for the job. Then inspiration hit her - a quick check and his nappy was just damp. I’ll slip a new one on discretely where we are. That’s a runner, I figured. The crowd had all gone and we were in an alcove hidden from view.

Just as the fresh one was being slipped on there was an almighty explosion and the proverbial hit the fan. Well not totally true. It hit everything except the fan as there wasn’t one. But it would have if there was. Now I’ve had the hottest curries in my day and ended up with an arse like the Japanese flag, but never like this. Good f*ck! This happens once a day, explained Kathy. Like clockwork at 4 in the afternoon. It must have come early as he’s on extra feed since today.

Just then I noticed, well more sensed, one of the staff approaching. I jumped up on my hind legs and intercepted him. Ah, there ya are now, Derek. Ya have the bill with ya. Good man, I’ll get ya on the way back. Just have to nip to the mens. I hovered at the door for a minute or two then returned. Kathy gave me the Iarnród Éireann line - we’re not there yet, but we’re getting there.

Derek was making his way over again. With a cloth in his hand. I grabbed the coffee mugs, pulled a wipe from the baby bag, cleared down the table and made intercept number two. There ya go now, Derek. All done.

Ah thanks, Primal. There’s a job here for ya any day. Want to settle up now? I stalled and made like I couldn’t find the bill. He ran off a copy. I glanced at Kathy shaking her head vigorously. It looked like Oisín was sorted and she was working on the (luckily PVC) couch. Oh, I think this isn’t right. We didn’t have coffees did we? Derek looked at me sideways. But shur you just handed me the empties. Bad stall, Primal - 1 out of 10 - must work harder. I glanced at Kathy now sitting back looking flushed but smiling. Or trying to. Oh, yeah we did. Yer right. I paid and we left.

At the car she remembered her handbag. I went back in. Derek met with it at the door. It must be something in the air today, Primal. You forgot the coffees. Her ladyship forgot her bag. And I forgot to tell ya we have a new baby changing room down the hallway.

I’m back. Well sort of. Let’s say I’m Backish. Like Ivana. I’ll still be drifting in and out of the consciousness that is blogland for a couple of more weeks. It’s not right to be messing with the space-time continuum like that but it can’t be helped for the moment.

Now what was I saying? Oh, yeah, the great tree-felling of ‘07. What I haven’t told you is how the tree was actually cut down.

As it was close to the house, we needed to be sure it fell away from it. Pat’s a good man with a chainsaw but just to be sure, he had me brace a hefty plank ¼ the way from the treetop and then push as hard as I could when he gave the order. It worked a dream.

However, being as useful as tits on a bull when it comes to things like this, I somehow managed to let the plank slip from my shoulder and I tore the muscle on a rib.

Some years ago I had a similar injury and I remembered well how much it hurt when I coughed, sneezed or laughed.

Kismet, as it does, played its part and I got a cold the next day. Cough, fuck, cough, fuck, fuck and atchoo, fuck, fuck, fuck. You get the idea.

Luckily I was working hard and hadn’t time to read blogs so there wasn’t much to make me laugh. But kismet, the bastard, had other ideas.

In the chemist’s collecting a script for an elderly neighbour I coughed, let out a string of expletives and bent over holding my chest. The blonde babe who fancies me* came running from behind the counter. Are you sure it’s a torn muscle? It’s not cracked is it? Here let me have a look and she ran her hand up under my jumper.

She pressed and prodded and I screamed oh god, oh god while she soothingly ooohed and aaahed.

The commotion brought the manager out from the back of the shop and suggested if we were having some sort of role-reversal sexual experience that we were welcome to use his office.

The staff and customers burst out laughing. I did too. But that caused even more pain and I fell over clutching my chest, and the girl’s hand as it was still on the offending rib, consequently bringing her down on top of me.

To add insult to injured rib, the guy who owns my local walked in right then. Never the shy one, eh Primal. That produced another bout of laughter and writhing in pain. Each time the girl tried get up I rolled or jerked involuntarily and brought her crashing down again.

Can security camera footage be uploaded to YouTube? asked the manager. More hilarity. I thought it would never end. Why in the name of the mother of the six sniffling infants did this have to happen in a shop-full of smart arses!

* I know she does ‘cos she dropped a subtle hint one day: The other girls think I fancy you. They could be right - you make me laugh**.

** I asked her if they stocked Scrotox. It wasn’t on the computer but if I explained what it was she’d make some calls. It’s like Botox but it’s for getting the wrinkles out of your sack.

A woman is out shopping when she gets a call to say there’s been a terrible accident and her husband’s been taken to hospital badly injured. Making her way to the car she notices a sign over the entrance to the new mall: Today only - All stores, all items, just €5. I’ll just have a quick peek, she thinks. Five minutes won’t make a difference.

In the first shop she sees the most wonderful pair of Manolo Blahniks. And only €5. Too good an opportunity to miss.

Just down the way she picks up a party dress by Rebecca Taylor. Kittenish and feminine. Irresistible at €5.

A pair of jeans, numerous tops, belts, more shoes, and two hours later sipping a coffee admiring her purchases she remembers the phone call. She races to the hospital and is met at the door by a stern looking doctor - a woman of her own age but with the air of authority of one much older.

Well, well, well. I hope you are ashamed of yourself. You swanning around the shops and your poor husband fighting for his life on the operating table. Now, missy, let me tell you, you’re shopping days are over. Your husband was so badly injured that he will need round the clock care for the rest of his life. He will have to be fed and washed and changed like a baby. And you will be the one doing it. There won’t be time for shopping. Shame on you. Shame on you.

The woman breaks down crying uncontrollably with guilt and remorse. With thoughts of how her husband has suffered. Of how she will cope.

Ha, says the doctor. I’m only messing. He’s dead. Show me what you bought.

Tempus fugit - time flees - not time flies as is the common misconception. That would be something like tempus volvit, but the linguist among us can correct me - over to you Gayé. How we came to translate it as time flies is just probably that it makes more sense in English that way.

On languages, while we’re on the subject, I am considering making a representation to the Terminology Committee of Foras na Gaeilge - If the act of shopping is translated as ag siopadóireacht, then surely going to the Italian take-away should be ag chipeadóireacht and likewise, buying sweet and sour pork with fried rice should be ag chineadóireacht.

Anyway, back to time. Why am I obsessed with it these days? I seldom rush. Rushing leads to mistakes. If I’m going somewhere, I leave early and am never late. An erstwhile Mrs. Sneeze insisted we, or rather I, try the leave early so she’d never be late system, and while it worked, it wasn’t any fun. She got dumped fairly rapid I tell you. Bad hair anyway. But that’s a story for another day.

Now I’m not advocating being painstakingly slow either, which is something I must explain to the staff down my local.

I know what time the sun rises and sets. I know when it’s midday. That would be enough for me were it not that a lot more precision is required when dealing with people. The dog is happy being fed at dawn, a good ramble and a chat at noon and a snack at dusk. People don’t seem to like me saying I’ll meet you 2 hours after sunrise. So I am forced into wearing a watch.

And a grand watch it is. I have it 12 years and like most of my possessions it came to me in a roundabout way. A lad bought it off a lad who was a jeweller for half-price as a gift for his father, only to realise that his father couldn’t use it because of failing sight. He sold it on to me at half what he paid. So I got a £200 watch for £50. 5 year guarantee and all.

The problem is the winder broke off three times. The first two repairs cost me more than the watch itself so I’m not getting it fixed again. It wasn’t an issue until the beginning of this month when the date needed changing. But I could live without having the correct date. Now though, I’ve bigger problem. The hour has changed. Instead of being 24 hours out, I’m 25. Or 23. Hard to work out and very confusing.

In the shop this morning, the talk was all of changing clocks. My watch is 23 hours slow was met with strange looks. But I’m used to that. Just yesterday in the same shop I asked the girl do you do laces and when she said yes, I lifted my foot up on the counter. She actually tied them by the way.

So here’s what I want for Christmas in case you were thinking of getting me something. A portable sundial. See it’s got a little compass and spirit level built in. Perfect. No adjustments needed and what moving parts there are, are all enclosed.