Her: The bath thing happened, didn’t it?
Me: Oh. Eh. I thought I told you.
Her: Don’t think so. I could tell anyway.
Me: The girls left everything the way they found it. Spotless. I went to put the stuff back later and they’d already done it. How could you tell?
Her: I got the smell of whatever they used for milk as soon as I walked in the door. What was that?
Me: Eh, don’t know. I think they got it from the props department. Perfectly safe. Really. I think.
Her: You thi …

[Changing subject quickly ...]
Me: Hey! Want to see the outcome?
Her: Yeah. Go on.

[I power up the laptop ...]
Her: Wow! Fekin deadly. Absolutely gorgeous.
Me: Yeah, Rosie really has doe-eyes, doesn’t she? Just like Annie said.
Her: Huh. Suppose. I was talking about my bath and my tiles. They look gorgeous.

[I show her husband ...]
Him: [Eyes light up. Big smile. Stares at screen with a 'show me more' look]
Her: Our bath looks amazing, doesn’t it, hun?
Him: [Nearly chokes]

[I change the subject quickly ... honour among thieves and that]
Me: And this [I brandish the Irish Times magazine] is Annie. In the Times. Imagine that.
Her: Does she mention my bath?
Me: Eh, no. Why would she?
Her: She should have – it’s brilliant.
Me: It’s all about women bloggers, not baths.
Her: Ah, that auld Internet shite. Boring.

[She scans the magazine]

Her: Do you know any more of these Internet people?
Me: Yes. No. Yes. Sort of. It’s hard to explain.
Her: But you did know the two that were here?
Me: Yes. No. Yes. Sort of. It’s hard to explain. Well, I know them now.
Her: Who are they anyway?
Me: Well Annie is an acclaimed graphic designer, photographer and writer from Wales who lived in Iceland for years. She did a masters in film in Dublin and made some short movies of her own. She works in Ardmore on The Tudors now, but she’s off to tour America soon.
Her: And the other girl?
Me: She’s the one who took her kit off …
Her: [Strange look] Full-time job?
Me: No. She’s a gaeilgeoir and …
Her: So she takes her kit off as Gaeilge? How?
Me: She keeps her caol le caol and her leathan le leathan, I suppose.

[She thinks a bit ...]

Her: So what else did yee do?
Me: We had tea and biscuits.
Her: Mine?
Me: Your tea, my biscuits. I had to borrow some of your teabags.
Her: That’s like borrowing Tippex.
Me: And we went for a pint in the village.
Her: So what did they think of the pub?
Me: Annie loved it. Rosie wasn’t there for long. She went off to the shop first, back, then off again somewhere else.
Her: So you went for a pint with one and a half of them?
Me: Yeah. Sort of like the Cadbury ad – a pint and a half in every half pound or something.
Her: We’re back to the milk again.

• I miss my home, my baroque princess bed, Romeo my iguana and, of course, my family.
• Tiffany’s has yet to open a branch in Co. Meath but Mum was kind enough to treat me to a full Irish in a posh café.
• Medicine seems like the trajectory for me, but if I don’t like it after a year, I can take my maximum points elsewhere.
• I found them on eBay; a divine pair of Christian Louboutim. At $900 (€575) they were practically giving them away.
• If you’re going to wear an Aran sweater, you’d better make sure the jeans scream ironic island chic. And the shoes need to be in agreement.
• … over muffins and builder’s blend (or mung beans and soy latte – I’m sure the Tesco brigade are as worried about the bikini season as I am), the good grocers …
• But they asked me about shopping on the Champs Élysées – and that’s where I spent mid-term! I simply had to tell all.
• Phew. Today is the turn of French, a pleasant and civilised aspect of the Leaving Cert that always puts me in a good mood. I’m having a croissant and a bowl of coffee for breakfast and wearing Yves St Laurent for good measure.

You’re thinking rich kid, right? Diamonds on the soles of her shoes type, yes? A straight backed, nose in the air sort. Or as we say around here, a stick stuck up the arse / thinks her shite doesn’t smell sort. If it weren’t for the Co. Meath reference you’d probably have assumed D4.

The last point is a give away – a stick stuck up the arse / thinks her shite doesn’t smell sort who was sitting the school-leaving exams.

This, ladies and gentlemen of the bloggery, was written by Ms. Laura Brady of Enfield, Co. Meath in the Exam Diary column of the Irish Times. (No link to the Times because of their damn paywall, but you can read Ms. Brady republished in full for free on skoool.ie)

I began reading her column on Tuesday last week which was then about halfway though. I was also about halfway though making my dinner and her mention of buying a €575 pair of shoes had my blood boiling hotter than my spuds. A student, a school goer, a non-earner being able to pay €287.50 each for shoes. And she figured they were practically giving them away.

Gobshite that I am, I followed her column from then on and my blood continued to boil. Big things like they way she looked down on the Tesco staff. Small, niggling things like saying she landed the last “punc” in her Irish exam. Ponc, ponc, ponc! Damn it, p-O-n-c! Unless of course she had somehow managed to fit in a quick shag with Sid Vicious between answers.

I asked myself what kind of little world does she live in. Did she not realise that the world she portrayed was alien to all bar a tiny few other Leaving Cert students? That other students could not identify with her? Did the Irish Times realise this? Did the Times not realise they were alienating future readers? Was it too late to drop the column? Could they? Was she selected as a favour to someone on the staff? So many questions. So much boiled blood I was leaving Clonakilty in the ha’penny place.

Only on finding the skoool.ie website did I begin to calm down. I went back through the column to the start and learned more of her.

Third time to sit the Leaving. Second time around she repeated both 5th and 6th years in a boarding school. This time in a points-farm on Leeson Street. Repeating not because of failing but because she needs much better grades to get into medicine.

I began to pity her. Pity her innocence. Her ignorance. What her cocooned upbringing had done to her. Her misplaced self-confidence. She will never hack med-school. It’s tough. Damn tough. Getting in is hard, but with four years studying for the same exam in the best schools of course you’ll get the required grades. Staying in is harder and taking twenty odd years to complete a 6-7 years course will not be an option.

Even if she does get through what a pitiful bedside manner she will have with her attitude to those of us who never mid-termed on the Champs Élysées, shop at Brown Thomas, wear Yves St Laurent?

I am still angry at her: Medicine seems like the trajectory for me, but if I don’t like it after a year, I can take my maximum points elsewhere. Go on then. Take up a place that someone else would die for! Waste it.

I am still angry, but I pity her more. This is all a game to her. It’s not real. Life is not real. She can play with a course in medicine. If she tires of it or finds she can’t win she can find a new toy. Her parents’ money will buy it.

Update (14/08/2008): More of this twaddle. The IT have her back again. And worse – they will have her writing about her college experiences in the autumn.

Update:

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.

Is that O-N or A-N? – An Irish lady making out a cheque to An Post.

In the checkout queue

Three years I’m here. Three years and I’m still a blow-in. – If you know small towns, no explanation is needed.

In the pub

You’re like the back of my bollix – you see nothing but shite – The barman reacts to a customer’s constant complaining.

Same pub – same day

They do curries like in the Chinese, but you get unlevelled bread with them, like in the bible – The local chapter of Mensa discuss the menu for the new Indian takeaway.

»» Ryan and D’Arcy are two of the biggest gobshites ever to blow spit into a microphone – There are 575,000 gobshites listening to spittle in Ireland in the 20 to 44-year-old age group. [Source: Primal Sneeze - February, 2008]

Ryan, I could never take seriously since the lamb episode. Of all the voices on the national airwaves, only Joe Duffy’s grates more on my ears, and his Oprahesque treatment of topics is the only reason I can see for his show running 3 hours instead of one. One minute. The man uses more unnecessary adjectives than you’d read in a schoolgirl’s essay.

D’Arcy. His show’s a bit like Viz – Not as good as it used to be. At least Viz coined the slogan and they pride themselves in it.

I admit to being a mad fan years back when Martin Maguire was the producer. I’m no longer a fan. Just mad. And everyone involved with the show seems to be a producer these days. Maybe it’s a case of too many cooks or maybe Martin was a strong leader and made D’Arcy toe the line. I don’t know. All I know is that I seldom turn on the radio in the mornings.

I did tune in briefly on Friday while in the car. D’Arcy was disgusted that anyone would use a towel a second time. That didn’t surprise me – he’s a girl when it comes to hygiene. Actually he is a girl, so I just giggled like a girl back at the radio. I make myself laugh sometimes.

The next earth shattering topic was the Irish for gloves. A listener, a tradesman, was working outdoors in a Gaeltacht village and needed to buy some urgently. Someone suggested lámhainní via text. Someone else suggested miotóga. Neither D’Arcy, who worked briefly with Radió na Gaeltachta, nor co-presenter Jenny Kelly, who was winner of TG4’s Ní Gaelgóir Mé, could pronounce them. Well they actually could, but feigned inability. D’Arcy has become more Gaelophobic over the years. Maybe he thinks it’s hip and cool, and is what his listeners want. But my blood boiled when they positively bubbled with mutual appreciation of their failing. Christ on a bike, it’s not that difficult! Law-v-knee. Mi(t)-toe-ga. There. Now you have them in pronounceable body parts.

For me, the camel’s back was well and truly bollixed long before Friday. His increasingly I’m-open-minded, as-long-as-you-believe-what-I-do attitude led to the dromedary’s demise. Christ on another bike, get a blog if you want to be like that, man!

I cried as the poor camel breathed its last in August when he interviewed fellow blogger, Niall O’Keeffe, about Shitedrivers.com. A radio presenter himself, and well used to speaking, Niall couldn’t get a word in. D’Arcy was convinced Shitedrivers.com would glorify joyriders and boyracers and that was it. Adolescents would upload videos of themselves doing doughnuts and such. Niall tried to explain the registration and moderation processes. No! D’Arcy knew all about the Internet (like John Waters does) and there would be an endless stream of kids lining up to do crazy antics for the camera. And how will the site help reduce road deaths? Niall tried explain that wasn’t its aim. No, no, no. D’Arcy knew it wouldn’t do any good – there’d just be videos of car stunts. How Niall didn’t rip the big bobble head off the midget I don’t know.

Niall wasn’t the first, nor was he the last, to be subjected to D’Arcy’s pontifications. If he wants to play pope and issue Papal Bulls, then fine, let him. Waters does it all the time. But the funny thing is D’Arcy genuinely believes he is a fair interviewer. He tells the listeners he is often enough. I think I gave so-and-so his chance. I just asked him the questions you, the listeners, wanted answered. How many times have I heard this? Why the bull to accompany the Bull? If he needs explain himself, then surely something is wrong.

As for the 327,000 gobshites listening to the other eejit, well, they’re a lost cause altogether – lambs to Gerry Ryan’s slaughter so to speak. More worrying, is that 248,000 247,999 of 20 to 44-year-olds in Ireland don’t seem to see anything wrong with Pope D’Arcy the First either.

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.

Stad! Stad anois! Tá an t-uisce sin nimhiúil. Saghas baictéir atá ann, warned Micilín.

I’m sorry. I’m English. I don’t understand. Can you speak English?

I said, use both hands. It’s much quicker.

I knew that. I didn’t need to see census figures. Most of my neighbours have Dublin accents. In my local shop I’m served by Russians and Pakistanis. The filling station is staffed by Indians and Chinese. Strolling the length of the main street in Naas I will hear 20 languages. There are signs over shops in Hindi and one finance provider advertises 100% mortgages in Polish. Does this make me an ethnic minority? I’d find that kind of cool, but then I hear the pay is not great.

Is Naas suffering an identity crisis because of this? I think so, though it manifests in subtle ways. The council have funded signage and pathways for walking tours in the guise of tourism initiatives. Are they really telling the newcomers to go get to know their new home town? Submissions were requested from interested parties on the provision of places of worship for heretofore uncommon religions. But not before a big shiny new GAA complex was built – GAA being the true religion of the Gael.

The latest débâcle is reminiscent of the Dingle-An Daingean-Daingean Uí Chúis saga mentioned recently by Conor and previously by Eolaí. No, there is no attempt being made to adopt the Irish name for the town. Rather the issue is one of deciding what the town’s Irish name actually is. An Nás appears over the court house. The county council offices show An Nais. The sign on the post office reads Nás na Ríogh. On other signs the accent is omitted from Ríogh and some don’t have it in Nás either – Nas na Riogh. Even Nás na Rí pops up in places.

Councillor Seamie Moore is calling for a plebiscite to settle this once and for all – “People recently moved to the town refer to it as An Nass, they don’t see the fada, and we don’t want to have an association with an ass”. Seamie may have his head buried up his Nass because this is something I’ve never heard. Many of the newcomers are more used to accented vowels than we Irish are. Why some have even cracked the accented consonant thing. Seamie might better serve the community feeding the gondolas.

Even if a vote happens and a name is selected I have my doubts we’ll see conformity in signage. After all, this is the council who named a new road after Theobald Wolfe Tone and then erected a sign reading Wolftone Street.

In fairness, the Polish, being here in such numbers, do a little better. They get a cześć sometimes. If it weren’t pronounced chest, it would count as the sole occasion the correct language is used.

I think the Polish barman in my local has gotten used to it now. He’s stopped wetting himself every time a customer says danke. Although it may be due to the owner’s policy that the floor remain dry for safety reasons. I’ll get back to you on this.

Noel was in the pub on Saturday. Now Noel is not one for reading beyond the soccer headlines. His favourite joke is the one about the similarity between a battery and a woman’s butt. (It was funny the first time). He has his talents though – he can wire a plug in 6 seconds flat. Which is a useful skill given that he’s an electrician. He can also do the crossword in The Mirror in less than two hours. That is despite filling in stool for item used by an artist and heffer for young female cow, he manages to make everything fit.

Tadek held his water that afternoon although Noel insisted on paying for his pints with a cheery danke schön, das ist gut. Actually, it was more like tankie shoon, das ist good.

Pubs are like crèches – the conversation can switch from one subject to another in milliseconds for no apparent reason. Someone mentioned Cadbury’s Cream Eggs which led to Ireland’s entry in the Eurovision – They Can’t Stop The Spring, to be performed (in capital letters it would seem) by Dervish. Noel was in his element now. He knows all about Dervish and with beaming pride he explained to Tadek that he shouldn’t worry if he couldn’t understand the lyrics. They are in Irish and no-one, not even the Irish understand them.

Poor Noel not only has a problem with foreign languages, he also seems to have difficulty with the two spoken on this island.

She came to be known locally as La whore tar éis a sé.

[US readers. Just trust me. This is fekin hilarious!]