The things that weigh us down…

Some things have become self evident over the last few weeks.

1. I have too much Junk
2. I am going to have to get rid of lots of that junk
3. I am going to find this hard.

I am a pack rat. I’ve never been a particularly materialistic person, I don’t own lots of expensive stuff, I don’t buy huge amounts of luxury items. But I am a sentimental hoarder. I have, among other items,  timetables for trains in Germany 1989 (college holidays spent working abroad); ticket stubbs for films in cinemas that no longer exist; brochures for various attractions from every spot on earth I have visited; old letters; old poetry scribbled on envelopes and the back or cigarrette packs; and dozens more papers all containing some tiny memory or fragment of my personal history.

I also have furniture that I’ve been hauling around for years that now has to be Freecycled or dumped; literally thousands of books and that’s after a fairly extensive cull a few months ago; lots of clothes, toiletries and stuff that all has to be either discarded or packed; instruments, ornaments and paintings; and enough kitchenware to stock a small outlet.

Part of me is really looking forward to getting rid of some of this – they are things I lugged around for years, making a home for myself by having a few bits and pieces of my own around me. They are symbols of a much lonelier, if bravely lived, existence. I like that Mr BB and I are starting out in our own little place, sans clutter and sans burdens of the past. But other things – well, books are old friends. Even ruthless cataloguing has failed to remove more than a 1/4 at best. I simply can’t give them away, I love them. I am incapable of throwing out anything I think might be useful and if it wasn’t for Freecycle I’d drown under a mountain of items that “have a bit of wear left in them.”

But sadly despite my best efforts to recycle I think we’ll have to get a skip. Obviously someone else will have to take over and fill it (I would suggest they sedate me first so I won’t climb back into it and start “rescuing” stuff!) I know it’s mad but I can’t help seeing these things as old friends. I actually feel guilty that I can’t keep them with me.

Mr BB went travelling two years ago for almost a year; he streamlined his life and his possessions and isn’t in any rush to repopulate it with all the bits and pieces I’ve accumulated. Half of me wants to embrace this lighter, freer lifestyle (and also acknowledges that we have absolutely no choice at present! there is not room for any of it) but the other half of me wants to cling onto them.

The papers and souvenirs and old ticket stubbs and travel memorabilia – well that’s all coming with me. I’m going to pack it up as neatly as possible and store it in the bcak of a wardrobe. Mr BB knows I can’t let go of those – tiny precious memories fading and torn but all mine!

Freedom is in sight!

Despatches from the front line; it’s been a long, hard fight. The enemy has used weapons of mass annoyance, including The Silent Treatment ™, Missiles of Complaint (ie notes pinned to the fridge door) and Generally Making a Nuisance of Herself. Frankly it’s been murder, war is indeed hell. But soon the reinforcements will arrive and we shall make a break for freedom, over the hills and far away (well down the road and round the corner to be precise but hell you get my drift.)

We just heard from the estate agent that as he can’t sign on Saturday he’ll let us sign on Friday instead. A whole 12 hours early, bless his little mercenary, property-speculating heart.

Now really why on earth should it make much difference? It’s only 12 hours, it’s one night early – surely it isn’t all that exciting! And yet I am sitting here with an absurd grin on my face and pretty much feeling like I won the lottery. Mr BB went and got lots organized the moment he heard; we have all the annoying things like Esb and Gas and NTL in hand already. A dozen emails have flown between us with titles like “can you ring remember how much the last ESB bill was for?” We’re even looking forward to packing for goodness sakes! what on earth is wrong with us? 

It’s just the relief. I’ve become a bore on the subject of Ms NarkyNickers – I fear her nuerotic ambiance is pervading my soul at this point. I actually bored my FBIL to tears for a full 20 minutes the other night on the subject of ” things she did that wound me up that day” I dread going home on my own, for fear of meeting her on the stairs or in the kitchen and where once I used to daydream about winning the lottery I now fantasize about  waking up in a house where using the shower isn’t a cause of recriminations and tears. I long for an evening in without one ear cocked for the sound of a bike being wheeled into the hall and the stomp of hockey boots. I dream of opening a fridge and not being confronted by the half eaten remains of some concotion. I am enchanted by thoughts of watching crap TV without her talking on her mobile phone in the living room.

Of course, we shall have to pack in the dark, and flee by night, the car laden with our possessions and the armchairs tied to the roof rack; we’ll push the car the first hundred yards for fear the engine noise will wake her and I fully expect to have to dodge searchlights and alastian dogs. So if anyone spots us pushing a battered mitsubishi around the streets of Dublin for gods’ sakes walk by and forget you ever saw us…..but wish us luck, friends, wish us luck!

Driving Ms NarkyKnickers…

Shush! I am writing this very quietly for fear the enemy will hear me. I sit in my bunker, with my flame-proof asbestos suit on me, blinking through the smoke and waiting for the next salvo to be fired.

Yes full scale war has broken out Chez Moi; the Nuerotic Flatmate (AKA Ms NarkyKnickers) has decided to suspend diplomatic relations and upped the game from internecine warfare to open hostility. Apparently our failings as human beings and as flatmates have come home to roost and we have provoked her righteous anger. We are in fact, her axis of evil.

Our crime? We had a BBQ last Sunday while she was away, to enable both sides of our families to meet for the first time. We think planning a wedding might necessitate them getting to know each other: especailly as we are both individually very close to our respective clans. We let her know well in advance, we planned it so it would end before 11.30 and it wasn’t exactly a rave you understand – think tea, cakes and polite(ish)conversation.

We did however commit the unspeakable act of parking in our own driveway. Usually I don’t bother competing for driveway space; the tantrum when she comes home and finds that for one night in the year she hasn’t got the driveway is too wearying for me. Even with my car broken into once every couple of weeks, she refused to consider letting me have the parking space (and I was there before her/am the leaseholder!) But last Sunday Mr BB decided to park our car in the driveway until she came home to make room for the others to park. She arrived home, saw our car in the driveway and went mental. First she phoned me (I gave the phone to Mr BB as I am an utter coward!) and started howling down the phone that she couldn’t park, where was she to park, move one of the cars, there was no room for her to park etc etc.

Ours is a corner house, there was room left for another three cars. What she of course meant was “Move your car out of the driveway now and let me park!” but being passive agressive she couldn’t bring herself to actually say outright what she wanted. So Mr BB took her literallym asked someone to move a car and my Future SIL* went out and moved her dad’s car. This prompted my flatmate to run into the house, slam the door, run upstairs and lock herself in the bathroom.
My lovely FFIL* went up to the loo a short time later and she stormed out of the room, looked him up and down and slammed into her own room, locking her door behind her.

Which really only resulted in both our families bonding over how much they disliked her, prompting my FBIL* and 14 year old niece to engage in a pantomime of running upstairs and banging on her door…..OK you probably had to be there but it cheered me up!

Since then she hasn’t spoken to us and pointedly leaves the room if we’re there. She has taken to guerilla warfare as well as open hostility – if ever Ireland gets invaded again we can recommend her as a tactician – and now sneaks down to remove our clothes from the dryer while still wet, or nicks the last roll of toilet paper and hides it in her room.

Normally this would reduce me to eyepopping annoyance. I cannot stand atmospheres in a house, and confrontations leave me a broken woman. But we have a little ace up our sleeves.

We found a perfect two bedroomed little house, nearer to the Old Folks and in a lovely area and we’re signing the lease on Saturday 1st September! Us, our offending car, our telly, our cutlery, bedding, towels, clothes and ornaments are moving in immediately and then we’ll just return to the old house to continue packing it up and cleaning it. I’ll miss my wonderful landlord, best I have ever had but other than that I am just so excited to move!She already knows we’re not renewing the lease and I warned her I would be removing my effects long before the end of September but I am not sure yet that she has worked out the following – we own the TV, we own the washing machine, we own the couches, we own the armchairs…

If there is any justice in the world someday in a few weeks time I’ll be able to describe her sitting on the floor of the living room, eating Pot Noodle with her fingers, staring at the empty space where the TV used to be (but her car will have the driveway all to itself )

Passive agressive? Moi?

PS *fbil/fsil (future brother/sister in law) ffil (future father in law)

Men will be boys?

Another of those conversations over the weekend – female friends giving out yards about their men, how useless they are, how selfish and insensitive, how they can’t be trusted to do anything; how in fact, they are big children who need constant supervising. Of course in contrast the women highlight their own behaviour – thye organize everything, they make all the important decisions, they have to nag them constantly to get anything done.

Goaded beyond boredom at one point I asked why on earth they stayed with such lay incompetent men. The reaction was a blank look and a patronizing, “but sure, all men are the same.”

O-kay. This attitude drives me nuts. I hate passive agressive behaviour with a passion to begin with and the idea that you stay with someone in a dysfunctional relationship solely so that you can moan about them and play the martyr drives me mad. The laziness of the attitude is insulting to women and men – I will take crap from you because it can be swept under the carpet with the words “all guys do it?” And then there is the fact that if you treat someone, anyone, as an incompetent, untrustworthy lump who couldn’t find his arse with his elbows and a sat nav – they are very likely going to live up to your expectations.

I have a lot of male friends and have, ever since college, and while I appreciate the differences idir the sexes I am not prepared to believe that those differences extend to common sense, decency and moral worth. My Male friends, bless them, are different from my female ones in their interests, less likely to discuss fashion or relationships say; but they are just as reliable, trustworthy, caring, considerate and loving. My fiancé is thoughtful, romantic, kind, and involved in our wedding plans. But then again, I expect nothing less.

I won’t write off rude behavoiur in either sex. If you are ignorant, thoughtless and rude it is because you are a waste of space not because you are male or female. Men who behave badly are ignorant people, not typical men. Men are as capable of women of rising above baser instincts. Allowing them to behave like pigs on the grounds that you can’t expect anything better of them – that speaks volumes about women in my opinion.

I suspect that many women find it convenient to label their men idiots and to complain constantly about them. I also suspect that many deliberately set their partners up to fail. This at least is the experience of two male friends who told me of countless times their partners forced them to participate in activities (choosing colours for napkins and place settings, for example) that they neither understood nor cared about only to attack them for being reluctant, unhelpful, etc.

Now some guys might have an opinion on colour charts but you should know your partner, for gods’ sakes. If he isn’t interested in whether the napkins match the bridesmaids’ knickers stop beating him up about it. Let him do the things he is good at – Mr BB is in charge of bands and cars, but can be apealed to for final decisions on colours and flowers whereupon he will let me know if he hates / is nuetral/likes what’s on offer. Likewise I will be happy if the band plays  agood few 80s covers – beyond that I could care less.  We know each other’s strengths. We don’t lay traps for each other, and we don’t treat differences as failures.
I am not a lesser woman because I don’t much care about the broadband provider we choose. He is not a lesser man because he doesn’t obsess over where we put the ornaments.

Vive le difference, Ladies. But don’t try to tell me the difference is that all guys are 5 year olds!

When Nutters can’t help acting on impulse…

I seem to have a face that invites every nutter in the western universe to come have a chat with me! All I have to do is sit on public transport (they will make a beeline for me, sit down and immediately launch into an explanation of how their home planet of Schzltstzomentaliocs is planning to invade Dublin….) or stand still on a street (they will materialize beside me and start ranting about how I ruined their life in 1650 when we were both kitchen maids in a castle in England – not joking, this one actually happened to me) In short, I am a magnet for every nutjob in Ireland.

This morning’s adventure was courtesy of a wino outside Dunnes on Sth Great George’s Street. Since the Sally Army opened their “wet hostel” in the area everywhere from Aungier Street to Dame Street is plagued by drunks. They beat up the homeless, attack businesses, rob anything not nailed down and generally intimidate and bully anyone with whom they come into contact. Then they repair to the Sally Army hostel to finish their night’s drinking before hopping into taxis of a morning and going home to their council owned homes. All, by the way, at the expense of Joe and Joan Taxpayer. If you ever want a good laugh go round to the Sally Army and complain about the effect their misguided and ill-run hostel has had on the area; you’d never imagine employees of the God Bothering Squad even knew such launguage! They have the same Public Relations skills as the Hitler Youth.

Anyway, being a little grumpy myself this morning, courtesy of a very good dinner party last night and resentful of the fact that I’m in work today, I decided to trot around to the shops and treat myself to a packet of Tayto (cheese and onion) and a bottle of Bannana Milkshake. Clutching my treats, I was stomping back to work when a voice suddenly bellowed into my left ear “you’ve a FINE pair on ya, luv!” I jumped about three feet in the air and turned, bug-eyed, to find myself facing the most repellent example of humanity I have ever seen. Only a lifetime of dedicated abuse could have invested his appearance with that level of sheer evil and post-apocalyptic veneer. He was about two inches from my face and he continued to shout “Get your TITS out, G’won!” He desperately needed an encounter with a toothbrush and a tube of Colgate.

I did what anyone would do in these circumstances, I turned bright red, muttered bravely under my breath and turned to leg it. At which point, to my utter horror he started to run after me shouting loudly “Big Tits” every couple of steps. I passed a crowd of Spanish students who obviously thought this was some piece of Beckett-like street theatre because they began to applaud and two young men whose response to my damsel in distress was to look pointedly at my chest area to see if the persuing nutter was telling the truth.

I finally turned on him when I got to the corner outside Jaipur restaurant and roared back “Will you please leave me alone!” at which he stopped in his tracks, looked completely affronted and snapped at me “There’s no need to be rude ya stuck up b*tch!” Then he turned to the gathering crowd of gawpers and appealed to them, “You can’t give a women an effing compliment these days!”

I knew I should have stayed in bed.

Equality? – depends on your point of view…

Two comments made recently have started me thinking - always a danger, I know. One was made on this blog by Gaye in response to the Householder post:

“Mostly women get away with anything, while men get the wrong end of the stick, as far as using deadly force while defending self“and another was made by a poster in a forum I frequent on the subject of men and women in relationships:“More women I know slag off their men than vice versa – If men did the same they’d be labeled thugs“

Now, I yield to no one in my devotion to the feminist cause but I have to agree,
there are areas where women are unfairly treated and there are areas where the treatment men receives is  equally, if you’ll forgive the pun, unjust. One is the area of “reasonable force” when dealing with attack.

Surely one of the most idiotic phrases ever invented is that of “reasonable force.” Unless the government wants to pay for each and everyone of us to become an expert in self defense, martial arts, the effect of trauma on the human body, a year or two of medical training and a course in basic psychological warfare how the hell are we, the average citizen supposed to judge what constitutes reasonable force? and how are we in moments of terror and fear, supposed to coolly evaluate the situation and apply the correct amount of force commensurate with the needs of our individual attackers? “Good morning Mr. Burglar, my name is Ms Bodhránbanger, I’ll be your victim today. Now as you are caught in flagrante as it were, would it suit you if I hit you over the head with the poker or merely gave a glancing blow to a flailing limb with my trusty three iron?”

That the law expects this most unreasonable level of activity from us is bad enough, that they doubly punish men for their actions in self defense is criminal.See here’s the thing – most men, of my acquaintance, do not fight on a regular basis. They did not grow up scrapping on street corners nor do they go around fighting or mugging or indulging in gang warfare of a weekend. They have probably neither felt in danger nor been in actual danger half as often as women are- that’s the nature of the beast for women sadly. We often have to deal with feelings of fear and danger. A lot of guys may go through their entire adult lives without ever having to deal with anything more threatening than a leery drunk in a city centre nightclub.

 So just where exactly are they supposed to gain this mystical insight that will enable them to use just the right amount of force and no more? Where do they gain these nerves of steel that will ensure that without any experience of violence they will feel no fear, act rationally, and never lose control?Cos I’ll tell you I once disturbed a burglar in my home and I was like a mad thing; fear and adrenalin turned me into the antichrist in high heels. If I had been a bloke, if I could have managed it, I would have beaten the loathsome little creep into submission using my bare fists. As it was I realized after a minute or two of uninterrupted screaming (“Get out of my effing house you B*astard” I believe I may have said) I realized that he was bigger than me. At which point I ran away, fast.

Being male in those circumstances merely means you are A) more likely to have a go at defending your home and belongings and B) feel it incumbent upon you to at least try! Guys are told to be brave, defend the home, defend your women, stand up to bullies, don’t be a coward, don’t get walked on. Women are told to run away if possible. Then when a bloke defends his home, whether with his hands, his golf clubs or a shotgun, he is criminalized. When someone tells me it is unreasonable for a man to empty a pump-action shotgun into the back of a fleeing robber all I can think of is that moment, face to face, with a thug in my own home.

Had a weapon been handy, instinct would have dictated my actions -shoot, shoot again and then chase after him shooting. “In the back” has no meaning in those moments of terror. All you want is to end a situation you never choose and which fills you with fear.As for the second quote above – well I recently heard a young woman categorize her husband to be – a perfectly nice chap – as a “roaring &*&^” and a “retard.” had he said the same of her he would indeed be labeled a thug. But I may save that for another day… 

Sex attacker walks free using Diplomatic Immunity

Read the Evening herald tonight; A brave (and lovely) young woman Christina Leech-Cleary was attacked by a sex pervert in Herbert park October 24th 2006. A brutal and vicious attack, which she managed to fight off, one that has left her shaken, fearful and traumatised. She contacted the guards who arrested the man at the scene.

Despite this, and despite obtaining a full statement  from the little toerag Christina will not see justice, not one jot. Because the perverted little creep – who cannot be named for legal reasons – is the son of a diplomat. Not a diplomat himself, merely the son of one.

In his late 20s/early 30s, with an eastern european accent he has been described as a danger to all women. But there is nothing anyone can do, even identify him, to prevent him from attacking another woman.

Diplomatic Immunity is there to stop political harrassment of diplomatic staff by hostile or corrupt governments. It is not and never was intended to be used as an umbrella protection for either diplomats or their offspring from the usual course of the law. Article 31.1 of the Vienna Convention “it is the duty of all those enjoying the privileges and immunities to respect the laws of the receiving state.” Including not molesting, raping and maiming innocent women.

 Christina Leech-Cleary deserves our gratitude for speaking out about this – her cowardly, anonymous, shielded attacker deserves our contempt and a long jail sentence. I hope his Diplomatic parent is feeling proud of him tonight!

Naked Breakfast….adventures in sharing.

This morning Ms. Narky Knickers, holder of The World’s Most Nuerotic Flatmate 2007 title, appeared in the hall outside the bathroom dressed only in a skimpy towel, an open and equally skimpy bathrobe and sans even the most perfunctory of undergarments. Mr BodhránBanger was in the shower and as he is as blind as a bat without his glasses anyway I am not sure who she was trying to impress – but as luck would have it I was queuing for the shower and it was my eyes that got the intended treat. I use the term “treat” very, very loosely by the way.

I am by nature a modest person; it took me years to get used to the fad for communal changing rooms in clothes shops in the 80’s and 90’s and no one is more delighted than I am that it’s over and sepreate cubicles have truimphed. I don’t walk around stark naked in Gyms and I tend to cover my bits in public. Admittedly I dont’ have the world’s best figure  but even at my most svelte I just wasn’t a tits and ass girl. But I know this probably places me in the minority and many of my friends walk around in the nude in front of other women without a second’s thought. Some dress to go out socially in clothes that my mother would term “Prostitute Chic” and good on ‘em if that’s what they like.

But when you share a home with a male you’re not sleeping with and especially one who belongs to another, some small nod to modesty is necessary. If only to prevent headlines of the “Flatmate Buried in Back Garden” variety.

Mr BodhránBanger, bless his modest little soul takes the attitude that she is desperate for any man’s attentions and that her main motivation is to feel she got one over on me, another female, by “winning” some kind of look or smile from him in response to her near nudity. I defend my sex naturally but the sad truth is he may well be right (though I think his loveliness may also be a contributing factor!) I think he is right about one thing though, she wouldn’t be happy til his eyes were out on stalks

It gave her a little shock to find me standing there smiling at her; I doubt she’ll be doing that again of a morning. Still it reinforces the need to move and move quickly – the alternative is putting up with another month or two of passive agressive childishness. And wobbly bits first thing in the morning, unless mine or Mr BB’s, kind of put me off my Crunchy Nuts.

Bring Back Bloodeagling: householders of the world unite

The arrival of the Viking ship has started me thinking about some of the vikings reputed activities especially Blood Eagling (Viking Atrocity and Skaldic Verse: The Rite of the Blood-Eagle Roberta Frank) which in brief was said to be the fate of King Edmund of East Anglia, who was tied face first to a stake for his ribs to be hacked away from his spine with a sword, pulled outwards like wings, before his lungs were ripped out. . Patrick J Smith in  Violence, Society and Communication: the Vikings and Pattern of Violence in England and Ireland 793-860 claims we can safely consign it to the realm of fiction and other scholars (eg Kings and kingship in Viking Northumbria Rory McTurk (University of Leeds) ) argue that it is based on a mistranslation and merely refers to a sword cut etc etc – it is a strangely beguiling concept and one which frankly I can see almost any ancient society embracing in some form. Most of our more robust ancestors practiced some kind of punishment we find abhorrent. Most would not have condoned our liberal attitude towards crime.

In our original Irish society Brehon law had a surprisingly lenient attitude towards violence allowing the payment of honour price to compensate for murder and maiming; but it never undermined the individuals right to defend themselves. If you were attacked there was no limit set to what you could do to defend yourself. An example less extreme then, of a society –our society – differentiating between punitive measures and self defense without any problem. Would we could do the same.

Every single examination of the rights of the householder to defend themselves – so brilliantly betrayed recently by Lenihan’s decision to throw out McDowell’s bill-  use emotive evocations, holding up self defense or defense of property as some kind of attack by the middles classes on the underprivileged. As if by attacking a burglar one attacks social reform. Our ancestors understood the difference between the idea of punitive measures (those enforced on the guilty criminal after trial as a form of social revenge, something circumvented by a complex and clearly outlined system of honour prices) – and the immediacy of attack. In the moment, when you or your home are under attack, you have a right to defend yourself. You don’t and should not have to spend precious moments evaluating what exactly reasonable force entails.

If someone breaks into a house they leave their rights at the door. Ok so I may not actually employ bloodeagling – damn Viking tourists – but I would see nothing wrong in following the instincts of my Tuatha and attacking to defend. Noone has any right whatsoever to invade my home. Their presence there is by definition a threat. I should not be held responsible for determining how much of a threat it is.

I am tired of being held to account for the actions of others, an increasingly annoying trait in Irish society. Can’t hold your dirnk? Let’s introduce laws to punish every other responsible adult who drinks, because of the fools who abuse the privilege! We no longer hold the perpetrators of crimes to account, we instead defuse the blame across all society, punishing the innocent along with the guilty. It’s easier on the paperwork I suppose!

So if you are a criminal, a skanger, a drug addict or a Traveller with psychiatric problems and a history of violent crime under your belt, the law will protect you when you illegally enter my property and invade my life, steal my hard earned belongings and destroy my peace of mind, (if I am lucky- if I am unlucky you will physically harm me) But if I hit you over the head to prevent all this, the law may well punish me? Worse, in the eyes of many people the mere invocation on your behalf of “deprivation” or “social handicap” absolves you of all blame.

Bloody hell, if this is the society we really want then we deserve everything we get. News Flash – everyone over the age of 30 in this country grew up with next to nothing up to the 80s and early 90s. We worked hard, we didn’t rob and steal and attack and mug and harm. Deprivation? My parents were born in 1930, ask them about deprivation! But we allow our elderly to live in poverty and fear and at the mercy of these bastards. At least Mc Dowell wanted to even the playing field a little (and no, I am not a pd supporter lol I can’t stand them)

You know, I’ve changed my mind…I vote for bloodeagling!

House-hunting…last legalised bloodsport!

We started our quest for a decent place to live yesteray evening, with a trip to a nearby gated housing estate (yes, a gated estate) where we were shown around a two bedroomed rabbit hutch, with a kitchen the size of a hanky (a delicate lady-sized hanky not a big man-sized kleenex) and no garden. No garden at all, except for a patch of grass outside the front window past which little brats on bikes sped past at 60 second intervals. Shrieking. It ahd its good points but it was hardly ideal, so we made our excuses and left as the better tabloids say.

On the plus side we broke the news to Ms Narky Knickers, the world’s most neurotic flatmate; she immediately claimed she was thinking of moving anyway to which we sighed in stereo and nodded as if we just about believed her. She is a nightmare to live with and i sincerely believe she should live alone (that way she could move the furniture around to her heart’s content and she wouldn’t have to hide the loo-roll in her room) but I fear she is planning to inflict herself on some unsuspecting people. I hope they have strong nerves because she would provoke the Dali Lama to murder.

So today I’ve been back scouring Daft.ie for houses to let – but so far nothing that suits. I think maybe we’ll skip it tonight and hope for the best tomorrow! All we want is a nice two bedroomed place in the right area – a house preferably rather than an apartment. And if we could find it right now, you know, without actually having to do much work or look at too many places, hey that would work for me.

Any chance?