Ah Saturday. It could be anything. We could be anything. We could place both feet on the ground in the world we want to live in, and live the lives we thought we would, before we knew about life. One of those lives on TV. On Saturday morning we could find time to write the songs we dream of on Sunday evening. And as for dreams, on Saturday we could adventure wakeful nights all over town.
But only after we've changed our sheets and cleaned the bathroom and been to Tesco. One of those big Tescos. In the car.
Yes, I completely hate my job.
Thankfully I'm taking a Friday off next month to go to my stinking stupid pointless graduation that has no point except to highlight my ticket-to-parent ratio. Stupid fascist human biology. And you know ladies have to wear black or white, or black and white? What a joke. But that's what you get for going to one of those accredited non-internet universities. Perhaps I shall go goth. Or clown! Indeed perhaps we should all go clown. Not every day, mind. One day next week. We'll make a Saturday of it.
Speaking of clowns, how about Tom Cruise on Jonathon Ross last night? Good old JR. Tom Cruise is one beguiling mutant. Check out that posture.
What a creepy time to be alive.
Saturday, 24 January 2009
Saturday, 17 January 2009
At Your Most Beautiful
In order to protect the identities of the souls who feature here in their and my preposterousness, I normally resort to pseudonyms or occasional initials rather than real names. I mean I'm not here to make a scene. So please sit down.
However, I am prepared to be flexible, and am willing to make exceptions where I think it is important to the telling of the story. And in this case it is.
I had my first ever driving lesson last night, for two long hours in the darkness and the busy throughway that is the Phoenix Park. My driving teacher? He's called Norbert. That's right.
Norbert likes to high-five. Or Ha Faaaave as he pronounces it (I don't know where he's from so I can't be more illuminating on this pronunciation). Unfortunately, what with my driving half up on the kerb, my stopping in the middle of the road every time I tried to change gears, and my incessant shrieking and weeping, poor Norbert didn't have too many opportunities to raise his fat manicured hand and say in his fantastic accent 'Give me ahah faaaave!!'. But when he did, I obliged, embarrassed at my incredible stupidity, returning his ha faaaave, and shaking my other fist at my brain who seemed to have gone home for a Friday evening beer, leaving me here like a beerless chump, all crap at driving.
I. Was. Petrified. Way too petrified to learn anything, so that I spent about an hour making the same mistakes over and over again. Then Norbert would explain again and again and I would sit there nodding mmhmm mmhmm, until I realised I hadn't heard a word he'd been saying. At which point he would say 'Understand?', and I would say Yes or No, and he would make me practice it again, only to pull in shaking and panicked at the side of the road 30 seconds later to try to understand what went wrong.
I mean we all knew I was going to get freaked out. We all knew I would be the shrieking weeping kind of driver. In particular anyone who remembers the incredible scooter incident of 2005, in which I got into the wrong lane and, being too afraid to turn around, drove in a straight line in the wrong direction for two hours. So to be honest it could have been a lot worse. And I'm sure eventually I might learn to not want to let go of the wheel so I can puke into my hands, or I might lose the urge to just open the door and dive out of the car head-first into the traffic. But for the moment I feel the high-fives are going to be few and far between, and poor Norbert's energetic encouragement is quickly going to become as strained as is his seatbelt around his amazing belly.
Hey! He says, You're driving! Look, you're driving! Are you enjoying it?
No, Norbert. No, I'm not.
However, I am prepared to be flexible, and am willing to make exceptions where I think it is important to the telling of the story. And in this case it is.
I had my first ever driving lesson last night, for two long hours in the darkness and the busy throughway that is the Phoenix Park. My driving teacher? He's called Norbert. That's right.
Norbert likes to high-five. Or Ha Faaaave as he pronounces it (I don't know where he's from so I can't be more illuminating on this pronunciation). Unfortunately, what with my driving half up on the kerb, my stopping in the middle of the road every time I tried to change gears, and my incessant shrieking and weeping, poor Norbert didn't have too many opportunities to raise his fat manicured hand and say in his fantastic accent 'Give me ahah faaaave!!'. But when he did, I obliged, embarrassed at my incredible stupidity, returning his ha faaaave, and shaking my other fist at my brain who seemed to have gone home for a Friday evening beer, leaving me here like a beerless chump, all crap at driving.
I. Was. Petrified. Way too petrified to learn anything, so that I spent about an hour making the same mistakes over and over again. Then Norbert would explain again and again and I would sit there nodding mmhmm mmhmm, until I realised I hadn't heard a word he'd been saying. At which point he would say 'Understand?', and I would say Yes or No, and he would make me practice it again, only to pull in shaking and panicked at the side of the road 30 seconds later to try to understand what went wrong.
I mean we all knew I was going to get freaked out. We all knew I would be the shrieking weeping kind of driver. In particular anyone who remembers the incredible scooter incident of 2005, in which I got into the wrong lane and, being too afraid to turn around, drove in a straight line in the wrong direction for two hours. So to be honest it could have been a lot worse. And I'm sure eventually I might learn to not want to let go of the wheel so I can puke into my hands, or I might lose the urge to just open the door and dive out of the car head-first into the traffic. But for the moment I feel the high-fives are going to be few and far between, and poor Norbert's energetic encouragement is quickly going to become as strained as is his seatbelt around his amazing belly.
Hey! He says, You're driving! Look, you're driving! Are you enjoying it?
No, Norbert. No, I'm not.
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