Saturday morning and I'm off work, o happy days, so thought I'd look in on my good friend 'interweb machine' and feed it stories from my life. Actually, not strictly true, it's a straight choice between blogging and taking the feather duster to Radge Central, so the former wins.
For some reason I just pictured myself in a pink fluffy mini-skirt singing the Shake 'N' Vac song. Chilling.
So most of my readers will have been out carousing with me on Thursday night in O'Neills for Dave's birthday. A fine spot is O'Neills, located just around the corner from work on Pearse St. Fine pints and a free platter of cocktails sausages and chips. At least I think it was free. I didn't pay anyway.
Destroyed was got anyway, with only shards of conversations remembered yesterday as I searched the flat in vain for paracetamol. No fear though. Had a good long chat with Mother Maher and her remembrances of the young Pado and Fred calling to the door for David to go out knocking conkers off trees and, presumably, engaging in gang warfare with those from Marino.
None of that probably happened.
Spent yesterday cursing the two tonne weight in my head. Had intended heading out to meet Denise and some of her colleagues, but whenever I tried to be upright the wobbles would start and the tears of excruciating pain start to form. No value. With a heavy heart I told her it would have to be another time, so hopefully that will come to pass soon.
This was, of course, also the weekend where I should have found myself in Cork with Orla, but the cruel gods intervened and work is on the agenda for tomorrow. Curses. I'm hoping I'll soon be heading south though. That wasn't intended as a crass sexual euphemism, by the way. I need to be clear on that.