Categories
- Ben Folds Broke My Bike
- Shaggy, and occassionally dead, Dog Stor
- My Thoroughly modern Ghost
- Misc
- Grandad
- Sleepy but sleepless
- Strange conversations
- Idle Stuff
- Not Waving but Diving
- Changing Rooms
- Sophie
Links
I HAVE MOVED
TO WWW.IDLEBONES.COM
20SIX.CO.UK COULD NOT, WOULD NOT, REPAIR THE DAMAGE THEY DID TO MY BLOG SITE, EVEN THOUGH I WAS A PAYING CUSTOMER, SO I HAVE MOVED TO THE ABOVE ADDRESS WITH WORDPRESS. A PROFESSIOAL SITE. WWW.IDLEBONES.COM
20SIX can take a running jump.
After a delay of 4 months, 20six have finally succeeded in making a complete horses arse out of their upgrade. LOOK AT THE STATE OF MY PAGE!! CALL THIS AN UPGRADE. THEY LOST ALL MY LINKS TO MY PHOTOS AND SCREWED UP THE FORMATING!!
If your thinking of joining a blog service, don't make it this one. Thankfully I had backed up my blog regularily, so I'm going elsewhere.
good luck 20six.
A velly Jelly Christening
Baby Cian Ruairi Jelly was christened last week at Skryne Church, Co Meath, and lo, the little Jelly is now Royal Jelly. Arise Sir CJ!
At least I think that's what went on. I didn't see a sword, or notice the Queen hanging around, but I'm sure that's what happens at these things as I have read it in books; therefore, it must be so. Note to self : must update library on Catholic ceremonies.
The service began in tradition Ball style: We arrived late, sneaking sleeping baby Cian and wide eyed Sophie into the backseats while Dad and the poor lost souls following his car were still doing laps of the wrong church. Sophie, obviously having read up on Catholic ceremony books with some outdated text, decided to witness the whole spectacle of the mass backwards, Latin style, eagerly coveting the toy of a child in the pew behind us. The stragglers eventually turned up and made their way in hushed reverence into the wrong christening parties pews. On the alter, our old parish priest Father Gleeson was berating the faithless for not attending church. A speech probably wasted on the attending parishioners who were, after all, attending, and therefore, probably not the target audience. I felt eyes on me as I sat in a church for the first time since the last family christening. I got new shoes and everything, I offered in meager apology.
By the way, I have no recent picture of Cian, as my camera is rubbish. But I am told, reliably, that the poor wee fella looks like me:
A scary glimpse into the future for young Cian?!? Personally, I don't see it. I think it's more because we both drool when we sleep.
Halfway through the service, baby Cian himself was in need of servicing, and he was handed back to me to take for his first little walk with his Uncle Bones. Out I brought him into the brilliant blue day for his first Journey out alone in Ireland, gurgling happily to be out of the frightening big loud church, only to be treated to a walk around a graveyard. We said hello to all the sleeping people and sang "staying alive". Well, it was the only thing I could think of on the spur of the moment. We even did a little dance. In retrospect, the beach would have been a more seemly site for our first little moment together, but uncles can't be choosers.
Back inside, Cian was happily passed back to Gran just as Great Gran turned up and beckoned me with her finger to outside. On the Alter, farther Gleeson was beginning to think I was the usher, and was eyeing me for the ice-cream tray. Perhaps he fancied a Cornetto?. Out front, an irate taxi driver was busy grumpily off loading my Aunt Marie, complaining that this was Skryne Church and not Rathfeigh Church, where they had sent him originally. I told him he looked wonderful in his inside out tracksuit, and wasn't it a wonderful day for a christening, to which he harrumphed and pulled his bed-head back into the the taxi and roared off to more important matters of state, like going back to bed with a copy of the racing post.
Time came eventually for the head wetting bit. Adam and I sat beside each other, urging Sophie, who was wandering the isles, to go up and bang the large bell at the side of the alter, as we readied ourselves to stand up and announce dinner. Sophie had other ideas more fanciful than ours, however and i was left to irreverently take surreptitious tugs on my bottle of water (River-rock, if your interested. Very nice.). If one is to assert blame for the state of my head at the time, it is to be placed on every one but me, as they had all kept me up passed my bed time the night before. The fact that none of them had been there at the time is irrelevant, and frankly, argumentative m'lord.
Anyway, unaccustomed as I am to long speeches; I didn't bother, and the service was all the better for it. Cian Ruari Jelly was benighted, as was Aishling Bridgit something or other (the other christening), in a storm of camera flashes and god motherly cooings, and we made our way back down the isle, Dad stopping momentarily to admire the Baby Aishling and comment to the worried father on what a grand little fella his baby girl was.
Back at Ball towers, the party was begun. Fathers drank beer, Grandfathers drank wine, Grandmothers drank Shloer, and Uncles regretted bringing the bloody cars with them. Smoked salmon, poached Salmon, cheese on sticks and pasta on forks disappeared into hungry beasts and mums worry of overkill on the caterers part turned into fears of under kill as Adam, Marc and I systematically decimated the buffet table. Sophie decorated her clothes with chocolate, Marc made better use of it by bypassing the middle man and devoured lumps of chocolate cake by the the fist, and Jay reminded us all of how he didn't drink, while topping up his pint glass. Meanwhile, Sophie had turned her attention to her little friend Ciarans new bike in the back garden. Ciaran, being older by several months, and longer of leg, had arrived with new boy bike and stabilisers. On first attempt, Sophie couldn't reach the pedals, but unperturbed, she swung her self to and fro on the saddle while Ciaran complained that it was "his bike".Sophie was reminded that she had to ask Ciarans permission to use his bike. A moment of reflection, then, plan B, thought Sophie, as she coopted Ciaran into a running race from on end of the garden to the other. For four laps Sophie issued the "go" order and the two pairs of little legs tore up Grandads grass from one end of the garden to the other. Ciarans Longer legs and flapping arms one the race every time, but Sophie was mysteriously unperturbed as Adam and I watched on. On Lap five, the two stood at the bike, as Sophie again shouted "go". Ciaran tore of in breathless excitement while Sophie calmly turned round and got on his bike and tried to make her getaway. Adam and I collapsed in laughter as Ciaran reached his winning post and turned around to see Sophie vainly trying to escape on a bicycle to tall for her little legs.
The night wore on and little babies were put to sleep. Bigger babies took to the the bottle and compared confirmation suits and dodgy baby photos. Jean rested her head on Adams shoulder and commented on my big lips in my communion photo while I comment told her she had (which she dosen't, but i was stuck) crooked eyes and reminded her that it was an affliction to have one leg shorter than the other two. Marc was reminded of the the fact that the Drogheda united colours in string I have hanging from the rear view mirror of my car was not, as I had told him, a truck horn, but me pressing the horn while tugging the platted piece of string, and was intended to fool Sophie, not her Uncle. Caroline, Ruth and Brain resolved themselves to not getting home early; the perfect excuse for Ruth and Brain not to take up on their neighbours invitation to a party, and Caroline resolved herself to a weighty hangover the next morning. At 10.30, I begged my leave and went home to leave the others telling stories till the early hours.
And so baby Cian was beatified. Knighted or something. His head has been wetted and he will never remember any of it. But some of us will be able to look back at it and show him the photos and say: Well, neither can we. Suffice to know that while you were in bed, the relevance of this day in your life having gone completely over your head, (literally); we all had a great time.
Cheers Sir Jelly!
Thunderbirds.
Some things are certainties.
Car keys are always in the last place you look, coffee always spills on the only white part of your clothing, the turbo charged sports car you hear thundering down the road will always turn out to be a kid in '93 fiesta with a fat exhaust. But only I could miss a plane will working IN the airport it's leaving from. By four hours, no less. To boot, I had actually been spending my time programming in the flight times and details of all the aircraft arriving and departing that airport, including the the flight that I managed to miss. My plane last Friday, left at 1.30pm, without me, as I worked in an office just upstairs from the check in desk. I had decided to use my intuition, believing that it would agree with me that my flight would be at the same time as last week, instead of looking up, and slightly to the left to the departure board silently flashing in red the fact that my flight was now closing. When I came to check in, I was politely told by the pretty Air France clerk that I had actually left hours ago. Stunned, (it took me several moments to reconcile this news with the fact that I was somehow still in London) I was shown to the main Air France desk, where they helpfully moved my ticket to a later flight for 8.45. They took one look at my bedraggeled, sweaty self, and choose this as a good excercise for one of their new desk staff to experience how to help an idiot in trouble. 20 minutes of "press here, Select this, upgrade this, download that", and the odd "no, not many people manage to miss a flight by four hours, but you might as well learn", and I was shifted to a new plane by the one finger typist novice. The flight left 30 minutes late, to add insult to injury, but at least left me feeling somewhat comforted in the thought that at least I wasn't the only one late.
At least it gave me the time to sit outside the terminal watching the planes take off and land for a while. London City Airport is probably the most entertaining for several reasons:
Firstly, the runway is bordered on two sides by water. One end of the runway is terminated by more water, and the other by a raised road bridge and then even more water. I began to think that watching these planes land in windy conditions like fat ungainly geese was not the ideal preparation for my own flight.
Secondly, there is only one runway. Therefore, every so often three or more planes of diferent sizes would tear off in tandam the wrong way up the runway to the large turning circle at the watery end, and then turn and take their place, ready to rip down the tarmac and lift themselves over the road bridge, pausing every second plane or two to thoughtfully let someone else land. After a while it begins to look like a bunch of kids lining up to take running jumps at the river, before hurtling back up the runway for another go.(I could almost hear them crying: Wheeeeeeeee!!!) A strong blustery wind accross the airport made a few of the smaller twin prop aircraft waggle quite violently as they ascended, making them look like baby planes falling from their nests and learning to fly for the first time. I popped to more sticks of chewing gum in my month and realised I was I was clenching my teeth too hard.
Thirdly, just when I began to calm myself and think its safe to go back in the air, the fire department rolled up in three specialised airport engines, looking like Thunderbirds One Two and Three. Out popped Virgil, Brains and Trev and disappeared into the back of one of the trucks. Two minutes later they re-emerged carrying a body by arms and legs, which they carelessly swung, 1,2,3, into the water. I began choking on my chewing gum.
In the second or two I thought the dummy was actually a body, the notion raced in front of my mind that I was either witness to a particularlly callous murder, and that the Airport was run by the mob, or that the Fire Department had a much harder entrance exam than I'd could ever have imagined. Thankfully, a rescue boat (Thunderbird 4) swept into view and the show (quite a few other people had stopped in their tracks and were also staring nervously at the water, some at the air, waiting for some stricken plane to come barreling out of the skies to the waiting fire engines) was revealed for what it was: a water rescue exercise. You know, just in case your pre-adolesant plane misses the bridge but hits the water. I spat out my gum, regained some colour in my cheeks, and decided to go back into the terminal and try and avoid views of the runway from here on in.
Unfortunatly, the departure lounge affords a terrific view of the runway from just about anywhere. Some time later I was queuing for a coffee my attention was drawn, by the turned heads of everyone else in the queue, to the West end of runway, which was casually billowing black smoke. I immediately feared the worst and left the queue to join others at the window to see what was going on. To view the wreckage, if i'm honest.. At the end of the runway, directly under the road bridge, Virgil, Brains and Trev were at it again, trying to put me off flying for life. The Fire Department, obviously noticing my absence outside, had moved onto the next part of the days training. Lighting the Airplane Training rig and then trying to put it out again. Not usually a problem for me to see this at an airport. Comforting, even, to see that they are training for every eventuallity. It just worried me slightly that they were doing it at the end of a runway. My runway.
I got back in my queue and order two beers. One for me, and one for the former shadow of myself.
Oh my god!! They've got an Explosive Dogs unit!!
Oh Wait. thats "Explosives Search Dogs Unit" His jacket was wrinkled. I'm getting too jumpy. The image of Jack Russels chasing terrorists with: 'Yap, Yap, ....BANG!', went through my mind
Just Beware. Just, 'Cos.
Drivers please be aware of the sign that is positioned for your covenience and safety to warn you of the sign that is there to warn you of the sign that is there for your convenience to warn you of the sign that has been positioned to warn you of the sign that has been put there for your convienience to warn you about the sign that has been positioned there for your convenience.........
I'm dizzy.
Dancing Fees.
I got to bed late last night, having worked online till 2am. Red eyed and tired I crept into the bedroom so as not to wake Finn, and as quietly as possible, got undressed and climbed in beside her in the dark. I had been working on my CV, amongst other things, painfully attempting to put down on paper what I hope employers will want to hear. (well Mr B, why do you feel the need to change jobs? Well, I've grown tired of feeling ill twice a day, long, pointless early morning journeys to badly planned projects, spending half my life wearing suitcase-shaped shirts and waking up to the sound of chambermaids' hoovers clattering against the door. Apart from that, everythings just rosy and I just fancy a new "Challange". Yes that's the word: "Challange". Alomost makes it sound as though I really want things to get harder, dosen't it?). Not very convinced by my first draft. Must try harder, says my report card.
Finn gives out a little moan in her sleep, as if I have interupted her train of though, and rolls over, now facing me. "MMmmmM---you haven't paid the dancing fees--mmmmMMm", she mumbles, in an almost hurt little .voice. "pardon?", say I. "Dancing fees. I paid but you didn't--MMmmm--they'll be after you..--MmmmmM--Knives--Mmm". I go immediately into male mode and try rewinding the last week in my head to try and find where I may have forgotten something, while repeating the words "Dancing Fees?" over and over again, as if saying them at different speeds might make them seem more familiar. In the I'm satisfied that I have nothing to worry about as regards forgetting some important event, and feel confident enough to ask her what on earth she is on about, "Dancing Fees?".
Killarney
I'm here three weeks now, which has probably given Finn time to re-stock on wine glasses, etc. The Hotel is a lovely five star little place which dosen't deserve my kind inattention, I'm sure. So far i've Broken two cups, one plate, and created a large dent in the wood paneling surrounding the snooker table. Not bad. Still, it means my house is still intact. The best thing that ever happened my house was for me to move out and rent it to Andy, an ex-army Welshman who studiously (and somewhat unnervingly) folds his towels and bedclothes to exact measurements every morning and puts things away in their proper places so that I have no hopes of finding them. It'll take me months to get back to normal when he moves out. I'm not sure Finn would agree though, and is probably the main reason she's keen to finish refurbishing her house and getting us to move into mine. I think she feels unkown tennants will cause less damage thaen known clumsy boyfriend. Less floor space: less damage.
I haven't seen much of the town, although I can recommend Courtney's for their good range of bottled beers, and dissuade visits to anywhere subtitled "traditional". Otherwise known as poor selection and cheap music. If it has to promote itself as traditional Irish, it probably isn't. One bar took a dim view of me turning up red-eyed and straw-haired (after too long in the swimming pool with no googles) but cared less for the man sleeping blissfully in the corner with a can of special brew tettering on the table in front of him. Served with a grimace only barmen can give.
Tonight I played snooker against myself and lost. I was on the black, ready to sink it and claim glory, when I sneezed and potted the white, losing the game to myself. Lost 20 quid to me which I'm sure will just be spent on sweeties.
I retreated back to my hotel room, defeated to lick my wounds. My neighbouring room has decided to babysit their kids with the telly, and so MTV is seeping throught the walls. I set my alarm for six thirty, full volume, to remind them I'm here. I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, shatter the glass as i return the brush to its holder, and get ready for bed. The maid comes round to ask do I need my bed turned down, but I assure her I remember how to do that much, but could I have a new glass.I check my emails and respond accordingly to all non Irish memebers on my MSN list as to why I don't really want to Kill-Arnie, etc. Thankfully the hotel is running well and not experienceing any of the network problems it had experince earlier, inexplicably during the same time R. my colleague was downloading the first series of lost to his laptop from his bedroom via the TV cable network point, so I can sleep easy, and wait for breakfast.
I slept badly last night, despite taking a Melatonin pill to help me drop off, so tonight I'm relying on good old fashioned feeling shattered to do the trick. And the odd bang on the wall to shut up the neighbours, obviously.