Thursday 27 January 2011

Two tarts is all a couple of blokes ever need...

Tea and buns and male conversaton at Dalooney’s. What could be finer?
Seeing as he’s providing the tea it’s only right I buy ourselves a couple of wee little gourmet tarts, if you don’t mind.

To have with the tea, d’ya see. 
I mean, ye havta.

So into the brightly-lit white shop I pop, my eyes betwinkled by the array of tarty delights glistening in their freshness and glaze.

“I’ll have one of the raspberry and custard, please, and one of the bakewells.”
“Well its 5 euro for 2 and 3 for 6, so you might as well have another.”
“Er, 2 cost 5 euro and 3 cost 6 euro? But I really only want 2 tarts, so why would I spend an extra euro on a tart I never intended to buy?”
”Sure I only mentioned it.”
“You did, and thanks for letting me know. No thanks, but thanks for mentioning it.” says I, trying to smile, because I have worked in shops and know she’s only trying to help.

But never try to convince me to spend more money by telling me I’m saving money.

Once more, today in fact, tea and buns at my good old mate Dalooney’s. 
Ah sure, well, you have to, don’t you, y’know it’s only a courtesy right, so into another totally different to the other one tiny independent bakery I go, and ask for two Danish pastries.

“It’s 4 euro for 4, so you might as well!”
“I’m sorry? You haven’t even told me how much 2 will cost yet.”

She sighs impatiently, with a bravado that I know has already won her the sale. 

“Look, it’s up to you, right, but 2 will costya 3 euro 60 cent, right, and you get 4 Danish for 4 euro, so -” - stepping back outstretching her arms and palms whilst exhaling 

‘ssssh-duuuuuhhsssshhh' finishing with an almost but not quite contemptuous ssssspit like like duh tightwad! It’s only like forty cent guy...

But this afternoon in Ireland forty cent is vital, to me to her to the company she works for, because every one of us 4.5 million citizens of the Irish Rebublic owe 20.000 euro to whichever bizarre consortium of nations and planetary banks supposedly bailed us out.

Strange bailers indeed, who drill holes into the hull of the sinking ship.

Ennyhoodyhoo hoo, Dalooney and I managed to eat 3 of the 4 Danish pastries that I ended up buying.

They were delicious. And just in case you’re wondering, we cut them all in half, so there’ll be none of that ‘who ate 2 and who ate 1?’ slanderous misbehaving type of mischief, thank you very much.

But wouldn't it just be wonderful to walk into a shop and buy what you want?

Sunday 16 January 2011

...more lame excuses, like having to make a living!

This colyoom has been nothing short of abysmally occasional in recent weeks, and now I’m begging the indulgence of my colyoomistas once more.

Trouble is that I have to make a living, and if I’m going to sell freelance writing at a time such as this, with my beautiful home country gone bonkers and bankrupt, then I have to seek out new markets, explore strange new editors ... new magazine formats ... to boldly sell where this scribbler has never sold before....

So, having successfully defined and limited myself as a sad nerd of scary proportions (physically and mentally), I now need to apply all my creative wotsits and focus my synaptical loop-de-loops on my work. So at the moment there’s very little amusing and nonsensical shite left over to share with you, but it will return, soon and stronger.

Hence I'm now signing off for a week or two, unless there’s any of ye out there who’d like an ancient short story, maybe chopped into readable episodic chunks, to bide the time?

Thursday 6 January 2011

What sounds sadder than 'A game in hand over Sunderland'?

Chronically sad that my first post of the new year is about football, and apologies to those readers who know not and care less about the game, but I know that many of my loyal colyoomistas are soccer fans, so for those aficionados, this little ditty will clearly appear worthy.

Such is the woeful form of my beloved team at the moment that, having watched Chelsea lose last night to the lowliest team in the league, I found myself today recounting to my barber how the Snapper tried to make herself feel better by saying:

“Well, at least we have a game in hand over Sunderland.”

Being a die-hard Gooner (Arsenal fan), my barber immediately saw the tragedy and humour in this utterance, and sucking each drop of lifeblood from it, he responded to every subsequent word let slip from my mouth:

“Well, look at the bright side. At least you’ve got a game in hand over Sunderland!”

Ay ay caramba. The shame; the ignominy.

Bloody Gooners. Hate ‘em.

Anyway, next time, I promise, I’ll be scribbling about life and gordknowswot as usual, but I just had to let this one out of the (onion) bag.