The National Lottie

I’ve been tagged by The Hot One and thought I would give this one a go- Partially because it’s her, partially because it might guilt her into to showing me her bedroom and partially because I have nothing else rattling around up there at the moment.

Eight things I like:

Second-hand well-thumbed books.

The tingly feeling I get in my cheeks from drinking Moet & Chandon.

Steam rooms.

Fresh towels washed by the Mammy – so soft and worm and lovely.

Hot, bitter coffee.

Stolen kisses.

Lie-ins.

Floating in a quiet pool.

Eight things I did yesterday:

Listened to Samuel Jackson sing sweet heaviness into my ears.

Missed a free barbecue but took home some sausages which I just had for my lunch. Nyom Nyom.

Cleared my inbox.

Filled my inbox (in that order).

Discussed “The Great Shoe Plan” with @Sinead Keogh

Met Aoife McC from ‘I Can Has Cook?’ (She’s lovely)

Had lunch at my desk.

Ran from The Black Arm.

Eight things I wish I could do:

Give up chocolate

Quit work and live the high life.

Straighten my own hair

Play the guitar

Read more.

To be debt free.

Time travel.

Make better choices.

Eight things I don’t like:

People who don’t indicate.

People who smell.

Touching palms.

People who answer their mobile phone on the street and then stop mid flow getting in every-one’s way. Key word: “mobile”.

Bitching.

Having to pay for a TV license when I already pay for Sky + the VAT thereon (nabbed from SP).

Cold feet.

Waiting.

I’m tagging Ms. Steph.

Nausea, pounding headache, dry mouth, the sweats.

Yup, I got wine flu.

06/05/2009

We walked along the street to an unfamiliar stop and sat and talked and waited for a bus we weren’t sure would ever come. Occasionally I would glance at a passing car with the hope of catching the eye of some familiar who would stop and offer us a lift home, albeit I was perfectly happy where I was.

When we finally made it to Dun Laoghaire an hour or so later, after commenting on each passing house and spider  and we took a walk along the promenade. We bid a sardonic nod to the old alma mater and when the urge in both of us finally won out we crossed the road to Farrell’s (pronounced Fard-gels with an “h”) but quickly decided we preferred to wait at the station when we met Shane McGowan’s less fortunate, less pretty sibling in the doorway.

I’d like this in red:

And this without the weird pleating bit in the middle:

No rush.

(wow – total blogging fails all over the place today)

Only an Apple is Tom McIntrye’s new play currently gracing the stage of Peacock Theatre.

It is the haughty tale of an ailing playboy Taoiseach, (Don Wycherley-Bachelor’sWalk, Veronica Guerin, Fr. Ted )  on the brink of being overthrown by upstart Government Chief Whip McPhrunty . Desperate to choke McPhrtunty’s advances the big T sees the arrival of Queen Elizabeth I and pirate queen, Grace O’Malley as an answer to his prayers.

The brazen  fantasy creatures wreak havoc among the household without explanation or reason. The question the play poses (supposedly) is are these women sexual playthings or more sinister messengers of fate? The problem however is that is simply comes across as an orgy of sex and destruction. It tries to be smarter than it is…or perhaps fails to be as smart as it could be.

The play is visually beautiful taking full advantage of the space and quirks of The Peacock’s stage. The performances, from all but Wycherley are entertaining with particular nods to Cathy Belton (Grace) and Malcolm Adams (the butler) who added much needed quirk and humour to the  drama but over all it’s a bit flat.

Without reading the play, I can’t point the finger of failure at the writing or the direction but there seemed to be so much scope to develop the characters into more than one dimensional players.  It was arrogance or tempestuousness – either or-full stop. Had there been an effort to explore the characters it might have elicited more interest in their fates.

And the musical number at the end of Act 1…baffling.

Tickets: €15-€22

Plays until May 9th.

It’s Tuesday morning after a wonderful bank holiday weekend of drinking nuked coffee and laughing till my belly hurt and the lines are down. I am already late and I curse my own disorganisation. Then I decide it’s better to curse Irish Rail. They could have told us the train was going out of service before capturing us onboard and absconding with any grace period I may have had for the morning.

A bus to Dun Laoghaire first in rush hour traffic and as 9am comes and goes and I begin to make the calls, “so sorry”, “I’ll be there as soon as possible”, “Irish Rail are incompetent fuckers” depending on my audience.

Stillorgan, and I am fighting a vicious spell of travel sickness, made all the worse by my greedy desire to make it to chapter 3. I keep on reading and curse some more.

An hour late, I turn down page 77 and arrive to a delayed room, I thank George Hook for small mercies and fight the urge to throw up on the the barristers shoes.

On with the day.

I’m always interested to have a nose inside other people’s houses, and bedrooms in particular as they say so much about a person. So when that Chick Catherine tagged me with her “Welcome to my Room” meme I jumped at it. Not merely because I think my bedroom is rather purty but so I could in turn tag one particular blogger whose interiors I have been dying to see.

Since I share a room with a smelly boy I have to keep the girly stuff as localised as possible. I love my dresser though – it’s mine, not his, all mine. It only lacks Hollywood lights and a big comfy chair.

The jewellery board is made from an old cork board and some material we had lying around. It’s getting a bit crowed up there.

Since 2001 I have singlehandedly been keeping La Senza in business. My underwear drawer it probably the only organised thing in the whole room.

My baby-boas and just a few of our hats.

The ever growing stack books I have either to start, finish or re-read.

The magical shelf.

We made a pledge when we moved in that we would only hang art that we ourselves had created. Of course being entirely untalented in that department this placed quite the burden on D but he really has risen to the challenge. These three mirror art pieces hang over our bed. He has created other works for the spare room,  hall and sitting room. He’s really very talented. Anyone need to commission a poor stuggeling artist? Momma needs a new pair of shoes.

I once read that people who have lots of photos around their houses are happier in general. I really took that to heart and anyone who has been to our place will tell you that it is strewn with photographs. They are lurking everywhere. These two that hang in the bedroom (on our newly wallpapered wall) are snaps takeen back in 2004 of my two favourite places in the world, New York and New Orleans.

And when there’s no reasonable room for them on the walls anymore, they go into pretty boxes.

The remains of last Saturday night. Just one of the many, many, oh so many shoes flaoting about my house. Has anyone seen the left one?

So who am I tagging? It has to be the one and only Sexy Pedestrian. And anyone else who cares to have a go. Come on, giz a look.

Author Carol Ann Duffy, has been named the first ever female (and first Scot coincidentally) to be appointed to the post of Poet Laureate in over 340 years since the posts creation.

The 53 year old, who is best known for her collection The World’s Wife, said she felt “very honoured and humbled” by her appointment.

“I look on it as a recognition of the great woman poets we have writing now,”… “I’ve decided to accept it for that reason.”

The Role

The reigning British Monarch chooses the Laureate on the advice of the government and part of Duffy’s role over the next 10 years will be to write works commemorating royal events.

Her predecessor, Andrew Motion, told the has said in interviews that these are “very difficult poems to write” and there are signs Duffy may also struggle with this side of the job. After being passed over for the Laureate job in 1999, she commented: “I will not write a poem for Edward and Sophie. No self-respecting poet should have to.”

She has decided to donate her yearly honorarium for the new post to the Poetry Society to fund a prize for the best poetry collection of the year.

Her willingness to take on personal topics and her use of humour make her a popular poet. Her last collection, 2005’s Rapture, followed the course of a love affair.

Excerpt from Rapture:

Syntax

I want to call you thou, the sound

of the shape of the start

of a kiss — like this, thou —

and to say, after, I love,

thou, I love, thou I love, not

I love you.

Because I so do —

as we say now — I want to say

thee, I adore, I adore thee,

and to know in my lips

the syntax of love resides,

and to gaze in thine eyes.

Love’s language starts, stops, starts;

the right words flowing or clotting in the heart

[Photo: City Life]