Saturday, October 22, 2011

I wish they'd take it down..

The smug looking eejit surveying Dame Street from above the front gate of Trinity - who he? Anybody able to enlighten me?

I've heard it's the new provost but the interweb fails to back that up...

The first to answer correctly wins a great big bag of kudos.

Thursday, October 20, 2011

Speaking fluent dentist

"Who does the dentist's teeth?" "Is there a discount?" "Where would a barber get a haircut?"

Questions to drift in and out of my head with every scrape and drill and injection of beautiful, sweet, weird anaesthetic. Three fillings. One hour. A comfortable chair to move up and down electronically and the thought that I won't be watching 'Marathon Man' any time soon.

I can't escape bad popular music.

Today FM and Katy fucking Perry's teenage dreams or whatever she's on about. I need this like a hole in the head, a pun I absolutely fucking intended. Dr. Greg ceases the drilling for the news for a moment and makes a quip about dead despots, then asks me why my cheeks are so hot.

"Do you get sinusitis?"

I was wondering how long it would be before he'd ask me a question, with seven shades of implement vying for my tongue.

"Uuuuggghhurrrhhuhhhh... Urh? Ughagagahhhh..." I responded.

"Thought so," he said, speaking fluent dentist. "That can also manifest itself in tooth pain."

Back to the scraping and the imaginings, the inability to figure out the time that had passed. He told me I'd done a great job with the flossing since my last visit and I took that with a pride I haven't known since third class.

I didn't mention the nauseous stomach I had or the fact that I could hear his, gurgling with the promise of his lunch. I just waited for the endless invasion to stop so I could head for the outside and feel all lopsided.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

The price

"Jaysus, the costa' Costa Coffee coffee... And no, the joke isn't old yet."

At €3.30 for a Flat White I feel I'm allowed to labour the point, drag the arse out of a quip I first made six, seven, eight weeks ago. She'll be tutting in company for years to come but these are the breaks. The drawbacks. The prices you pay for picking someone who still laughs at funnies from 1986.

I curse the absence of a window seat as it was the only reason I chose this gaudy, faux homely café in the first place. I like to look at Dame Street, to quietly judge the suits, the dealmakers, the people who can't look anywhere but straight ahead for fear of wasting time.

Pearl Jam plays in my ears, then Sinatra, followed by something that makes me tap the fast forward button six or seven times. I settle on Ludovico Einaudi so I can marvel at my own eclecticism but then the drowning comes.

I later discover it to be Rihanna and a ballad about king size beds. The volume is way up and my coffee at about €2.70 of its full value. I turn off the iPod, resign myself to the emoting overhead and try to lip-read the conversation at the next table.

He looks like Diarmaid Ferriter and she's heading to Chicago on the day of the election, so whatever business they have must be concluded "pow wow" or else going forward the world will collapse, or have fewer shoes, or whatever. I lose interest.

I make a note in my phone about HR people and what they go home to, how they live their lives when they're not going forward, whether they manage to shake off their awfulness before crossing the threshold. I file it away.

The window seat empties and I take its space, taking care not to spill the contents of my coffee cup on something that should be wood but probably isn't. I stay where I am because I'm afraid of my couch, my telly, of Ivan Answer and his call centre capos, of the fact that I'll find nothing to do on this day off but find things to shout at, and eat sweets.

I think of the move. Of my stuff in the wardrobe. Of my duvet and iron and other pieces of my life to be discarded and thought about and, yes, discarded anyway. I think of my teeth and the three fillings needed. I think of my eyes and the new glasses needed. I think of my head and the MRI needed. I think of my stuff and the new life that's needed.

I think that I'll write something again, third person it, make it not me and that I'll do that as soon as this coffee is done. This pricey bastard of a coffee and its reminder of so much to make happen.