Should we have stayed at home and thought of here?

As I approach the climax of my education, I feel a twinge. Third level has been a twisted path- one littered with failures, u-turns, a self diagnosed heart condition, and insurmountable debt. But there was always a definite job at the end of it. (honestly, there was) There was a light at the end of the tunnel. (No, genuinely, there was)

Without going into the obvious, that carpet has been well and truly ripped from under my naive feet.

The not knowing would have been fun a while back. The possibilities would have seemed endless. I would have taken a loan out and headed for the sun. I would have laughed and marvelled at people who were worried. But now, after 6 years of college and only an undergrad to show for it, I'm feeling peaky. Fears of AIB overlords repossessing my clothes, 250 euro car, saddleless bike, and rented room suddenly aren't so funny.

It seems that when you have a degree, certain things become expected of you. "When are you going travelling? " is a question that is asked at every turn, so much so that you start to feel that the staff of trailfinders are working undercover,wearing your friends faces as masks. The expectation that you have to leave Ireland and travel for a year in the two years following college seems to be unavoidable.Only a mad person would want to live in Dublin. Stay in Ireland? Who the fuck wants to live in Ireland?

None of my friends apparently. And as the rats are starting to jump into the water one by one, the sinking ship is starting to feel lonely.

Recession blues

Having your lazer card refused 2 weeks after payday-when you're buying a shoulder of Glen's.

A life of grime

Our toilets have flooded. All over our fucking yard.

The shit has melded with the toilet paper to form a tan coloured river of viscous sewerage that's covered the bags of glass bottles we've been meaning to recycle for months. Even the christmas tree is bark deep in it.

Thank Christ its not sunny out.

I dread the day then this type of thing can't be fixed with a simple call to our ever so helpful landlord.

Please give up your seat

What is the correct ettiquette for giving up your seat on public transport? Every time I board packed public transport I'm faced with this dilemma. Theres the standard crew you stand for-the elderly, the frail, the pregnant, people with crutches, people with children, people with guide dogs... you get the picture. These people are acceptable to offer to. Its clear cut.



Then theres the iffys. The inbetweeners. The ones with the grey hair and compressed spines who board the bus with the energy of Olympians. Sure they look old, but as they scramble along through the throng without a care or a worry you feel you'd offend them by offering them a sit down. They give you a look as much to say "Don't let these eccos or brown support tights fool you, I'm strong as an ox."



I wasn't always like this. I used to offer my seat to anyone with crows feet. A sprightly 18 was I when I offered to stand up for a woman who (in hindsight) was no more than 40. As her cheeks turned crimson she practically jumped out the window to affirm me of how little she needed that seat. A friend who was with me remarked "theres a line for who you offer your seat to on the bus and who you don't-and you just crossed it."



This post goes out to the man with the grey hair, false teeth and the lap top that I left standing for 5 stops on the luas today.

My Vagina; My Hometown

I saw the vagina monologues during the week in Trinity. I dont know what I was expecting. I watched a documentary with Eve Ensler and had seen snippets, and a few years ago, in a mortifying moment of extreme self confidence I'd even auditioned to be in it. I knew what I was getting myself into. As I watched the monologues that were punctuated with horror stories from the Congo and cautionary tales of how many people were raped and murdered so we could have mobile phones, I felt embarrassed. And it wasn't for the performances, which for the most part were really, really good.



I'm sure someone standing on the stage shouting "CUNT! CUNT! CUNT! CUNT!" while waving their fist at you is meant to be shocking, but it just wasn't. Tales of the joy of having a full bush and cumming for the first time probably should have felt liberating, but they just didn't. As the coochie snorchers, vulvas, and clitori rolled out, I felt red in my cheeks and heat on my neck. As I dabbed my (coincidentally) streaming eye I hoped that no one thought it was because I was overcome with emotion. Because I definitely wasn't.



Maybe its the filthy company I keep, or my sprightly age, or maybe (as I fear Eve might think) I'm secretly just a repressed dried up old vagina in need of a hand mirror and a hot bath.

The Ice Queen cometh

As I passed through the housing estates of Tallaght early yesterday morning, I couldn't help but feel as though I was moving through a pretty little Swiss Village. Bare trees and white-as far as the eye could see, with the mountains in the background looking ripe for a ski. As I disembarked the bus and trod along the canal I suddenly felt enchanted by the city. The traffic cones and shopping trolleys were invisible underneath the top layer of ice, and even the swans (who usually look sinister) seemed nicer and more serene. I floated along home not caring that I was wet to the knee and had lost feeling in my right hand. So focused was I on the beauty of it all that I missed the enormous pile of snow covered dog shit sitting right smack bang in the middle of the footpath.

Definitely not Switzerland.

Conversations with my bank manager; part two

"People who make decisions about your credit rating, or whether or not you can ever get a mortgage in the future don't deal with you. They just don't. They look at a computer and based on whats written on that screen they push buttons. They don't write polite letters, or make nice phonecalls and have friendly conversations. They don't even talk to you. They wont talk to you."


An educational session on debt management.