Slide

I am having a bad week. There. I’ve said it. I really wanted this to be a place of positivity and good vibes. The amount of bitching and whining that goes on the internet is a shame. Sadly today, I’m going to keep with the trend.

So far in the last ten days, I have crashed my car, dealt with some of the most unhelpful people in the world, some of the most automated people in the world, forgot my keys, forgot my wallet, realised that while my lifestyle is great, having no money has its drawbacks when it comes to paying bills, fallen down the stairs and generally just been faced with the kind of challenges and test to make the old testament vengeful Trial of Job, God look like Pat Sharp in Fun House.

All this and the realisation that I am starting to look like some kind of homeless person.

The motor accident. Firstly, the most important thing. thankfully no one was seriously hurt. I was giving a friend a lift home and ended up going into the back of another car. Its in the hands of the Insurance company. I probably shouldn’t talk too much about the accident itself in case I violate some clause or other.

The ramifications of the accident. As I said thankfully no one was badly injured and that’s the most important thing. Doreen, however is probably heading on her last journey. The people in the insurance don’t seem to any value on sentiment (heartless swines) and will probably decide that the cost of repairing her is more than her actual value and will consign my good friend to the scrap yard. This hurts deeply but at the end of the day if its Doreen is the only casualty of this mishap I cannot be too ungrateful.

While the injuries weren’t serious there were obviously some bumps and bruises. The lady whose car I hit as been sore and stiff since and I wish her a speedy recovery. My friend had some nice bruises on her hip and shoulders and an all round soreness. She was very good about it all and I need to thank her for not holding it against me.

I had a couple of bumps and cuts. The worst was the effects of the airbag. I’m not sure if it was burns or a reaction to the powder that they case that stuff in. Either way, parts of my face were beautifully pink and blotchy. Kind of like the Singing Detective with less dancing nurses.

And by the way if you’ve never been around an activated airbag its disgusting. It smells like something with really wet hair crawled inside something smelly, died and then set itself on fire.

The guards were very helpful and understanding. I didn’t have my licence and Insurance Certificate so I had to present these to my local station within 10 days. Now I’ve never really had any dealings with our police force so I was suitably intimidated and petrified. I brought what I thought was the requisite paper work to the Sundrive Station as soon as I got home.

However, it appears what I thought was my Insurance Certificate was not. It was in fact my policy schedule. Ah!

Here’s the thing. You remember that super, funny, little piece about how great it is to de clutter and free your life of unnecessary crap that you don’t need. Well one part of that was to go through all my paper work and get rid of any old stuff that was basically duplicating other stuff…

I think you know where I’m going with this.

So I rang my insurance company. You know the procedure

Press 1 for cars. Press 2 for vans. Press 334 for Intergalactic/Time Vehicles.

Eventually I got through to a voice and explained to him what had happened. How I had had an accident and needed a copy of my Insurance Certificate.

“Ok Mr. Holohan, that’s no problem at all, I’m just going to put you through to our renewals department” said R2D2

I wasn’t really sure why I was being put through to renewals but ok. I then spoke to CP30. I explained to him what had happened. He seemed a little confused.

“I see your policy is up for Renewal Mr. Holohan. Would you like to that now.?”

“Emmm. No. See I don’t actually have a car at the moment that I need to insure.”

I then explained again what I needed. My protocol droid friend was really confused now. I shouldn’t have been put through to him at all. Customer service should be dealing with me. He was going to transfer me back to them, but to ensure I didn’t have to go through all this again he would leave a very detailed note on my a/c. So off I went again.

“Hello T-800 speaking, how can I help you Mr Holohan. Ah I see your policy is almost due for renewal I’ll just transfer you to our Renewals Department”

No!!!! Stop. I had to raise my voice and get this Austrian accented robot to listen. I told him there should be a note explaining what I needed. There wasn’t.

I explained, again, what had happened and what I needed. I told him that I needed to do what ever is normally done when people lose their insurance certificates. T-800 then put me on hold and went to speak to his supervisor. Eventually he came back and told me they could re issue my certificate but it would cost me 20 Euro.

Fine. I just wanted to get it sorted and over and done with. He called out my details and asked me to confirm my address. When I gave a different address to the one he had on the system T-800 self destructed.

I then spoke to Bender. I explained to Bender that I had moved house since I took out the insurance and I had informed the brokers of this and that should it not be them that informs the insurance company. Bender was sure it was just a clerical mix up and it wouldn’t be a problem sending the cert to my address, however….

I did not like the sound of that however. Apparently because I had moved address into a new post code I could be liable for a premium on my insurance. How could this be right. Padraig Harrington could hit a ball from my old house to my new one. I really couldn’t take much more of this. I couldn’t deal with lowly androids anymore. I needed to speak to the Big Cheese. I needed to speak to the supervisor.

“Get me Optimus Prime” I demanded.

Optimus I have to say was very good. He listened to me whinge and gripe. He gave the positive listening noises like they are trained. He apologised for any inconvenience. He accepted that I had a point but of course insisted that the company is perfectly within its rights to apply these charges. However as I’ve had a poor customer experience he would resolve it with out charge.

You have got to admire quality programming like that.

And that my friends, was just the beginning of what has been one of the shittiest, most stressful 10 day periods of my life. I could tell you about the unhappy little trolls that live behind the glass in the social welfare office. Or how utility companies have decided that I should give them money first so that they can then charge me for their service.

Its just too bleak. And like I said I want this to be a place of good feeling and high 5’s. So I need to end on a positive note.

I have been reading a book called “The To Do List” by Mike Gayle. It is a very funny story of the authors attempt to do his Ultimate To Do List. He gives himself a year to do all the things he feels he needs to get done just so as he can be a proper grown up. At first I thought it was just a self help book cynically disguised as a slice of life to trick me into reading it. Now I don’t mind if it is (I don’t think it is), I just really enjoyed reading it.

I looked up the author and judging by his website he seems pretty cool. He gives tips for wannabe writers and generally just seems like a nice bloke. And his brother used to read the news on The Big Breakfast… which is pretty cool in my book.

So in honour of The To Do List and to get my good vibrations back on track I’ve done my own little to do list for the week.

It goes

• Get a haircut
• Apply for Tax Credit/Claim back Tax
• Write Short Story about a guy trying to write a Romance Novel
• Email Mike Gayle and tell him I enjoyed his book
• Try and get him to read my blog
• Contact various financial institutions about stuff I’ve been putting off
• Do some more exercise.
• Enter different short story into a competition.

So check back next week and see how I went with that. And I promise next week my hippy manifesto of good times and happy go lucky tales will be back in full effect. Hopefully.

Flamingo

Have you ever wondered what kind of person bares their soul on such a public forum as a blog? Why would anyone want to reveal their innermost feelings and thoughts? How can I sit here and candidly broadcast to the world (that’s right, the entire world reads my blog)my most intimate secrets?

Its not that I set out on my little writing “journey” with the intention of it being so personal. It started when I was supposed to be writing a light hearted little review of my 2009. It was supposed to delivered in the standard glib, sarcastic, one trick pony, jokey manner that anyone who knows me will have become accustomed to in the last however many years I’ve been rocking the grumpy smart ass gimmick.

However as I started to write that piece what flowed from me was the most open and honest I’ve ever been with anyone. Especially myself. I revealed stuff about myself that, while was never a secret, I was afraid to put out there for public judgement. And it felt great. It was cathartic and therapeutic. It made me realise that if I was going to this writing thing properly, it was the only way I could do it.

And what it has actually done is teach me to be open and honest in reality too. I think I’ve always tended to be up front about my opinion on things or how I felt if I didn’t like something. I’m not sure that was the case though when dealing with myself and my feelings. And if you can’t be honest with yourself, can you really be honest with anyone else?

That’s one of the reasons. Its not, however, the only one. Another of the main reasons I do this is much less noble. I do it because of ego. Simply I like to show off. I always have done. I write for the same reason I did stand up comedy and the same reason I was in the drama society. Its my way of saying “Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!….look at this” (proceeds to do cyber cartwheels…in a skirt…while wearing no underwear.)

A lot of people would find it funny that I call myself a show off. To some people, I’m a quiet unassuming chap who would never be so bold. These people don’t really know me. I have a tendency to hang back and weigh up my options before throwing the real me out there. Its something I’ve always done. I’ll probably continue to do it. I’m ok with people having the wrong opinion of me for a while. I like to be a surprise.

When I say I like to show off, I don’t want you think that I go around winking at people going “That’s right. Its me. From the internet” What I mean is that its always nice to be good at something. And if your good at it you should let it out.

I think I’ve always been capable of being a good writer. Back when I was in school, I was pretty good but then what was I being compared to. The teachers seemed to think I was good though. They always gave me competitions to enter. Always encouraged me. Recommended things I should be reading.

Frank Connolly, Br Declan Power, Br. Lynch (never figured out his first name) Paddy Furlong (he encouraged me to write in Irish) and Timmy Cullen were all an enormous influence on me in secondary school. They seemed to recognise that I was good at something and in a system that didn’t necessarily allow for much individual attention, they ensured that I got enough of an ego boost from my writing that I didn’t stay the shrinking violet I was headed towards becoming.

In primary school Denis Costello dedicated Friday afternoon to reading a book of our own choosing. He helped me find the escape that could come from literature and the thrill of finding a piece that excited and challenged the mind. He would play music that eleven and twelve year olds from Crumlin wouldn’t normally listen too. I’d like to say classical but there was a bit too much James Galway and James Last for it to be called that. However it did open my ears and tastes to something different than Top of the Pops.

Who knows if they’ll ever get to read this, but if they do I’d like them to know I appreciated it then and I really appreciate it in hindsight. When I finished school I wanted to be writer. Fifteen and half years later. I still do. Thanks to them. It’s just taken me a while to do anything about it.

There are other people who I know read my stuff that have been essential in crafting my style and direction as a writer. I won’t name them. There is only room for one big head on this blog. One day I will thank them. Properly. If (when) I ever get to publish a book, their names will be there in the dedication page. That’s the way we writers do it.

Twelve Inch

How much ‘Stuff’ do you own? If you had to move house tomorrow how long would it take you to pack? How many car/van loads would it take? How many storage containers or cardboard boxes or black bags would it take for you transport your life from one place to another.

For anyone who has seen the latest Jason Reitman movie, Up in the Air, starring George Clooney you may already know the answer to these questions. You’ve probably thought about it just recently. In the movie Clooney’s character Ryan Bingham is a sometime motivational speaker who likens a rucksack to life and the stuff we pack into life to baggage. He encourages his audience to think about all they own. And all the people they know.

He beseeches to those in attendance, that the less they have to pack into their rucksack, the easier life is.
Of course it’s a movie, and that’s a bit bleak for Little Tommy Popcorn. And while the ending is somewhat ambiguous, I think its clear that Bingham comes to realise that life is more important than travelling light and keeping it simple. We get from life what we put into it and sometimes all we have to carry are our happy memories…or something like that.

And that’s great. We do need to search out happiness and we only get back what we are willing to put into it. Our connections and relationships with those around are what define us.

That said, there is a case to be made about the amount of clutter we bring into our lives.

Have you figured out how long it would take to pack your stuff yet?

I have moved a lot. If I exclude the first two times I tried to move out but quickly made my way back to buxom of the family home, I have moved seven and a half times. (I’ll get to the half in a minute). I have also helped friends move on multiple occasions. And let me tell you, in case you didn’t know, it’s a giant pain in the bottom.

The amount of times I have lumped boxes up and down stairs would but Jack, Jill and the Grand ol Duke of York’s ten thousand men to shame. Piles of books, cds, DVDs, stereo speakers, black sacks of pornography (not mine, I swear) have all at one stage been moved into or out of mine or friends houses.

And I have to be honest. It all seems a little pointless to me now. All that sweat and energy, wasted. Not because helping out a friend or moving house was pointless. But all that stuff. It just weighs us down.


I recently moved for the 7th and half time. And by that I mean I moved room in the same house. Not necessarily as big a deal as moving house, but it still meant moving all my stuff from my first floor up to the 2nd floor attic conversion. It’s still a flight of stairs. I was not looking forward to it.

When you house share with relative strangers, you tend to fit most of your stuff into your room. Of course there are the communal areas but the majority of stuff you don’t want to get mixed in with others or lost in a pile you keep in your own space.


I’ve tended to need more personal space because over the years I have hoarded a lot of stuff. 300 dvds 300 cads, around 200 or so books. On top of that I also have storage to hold all these nick knacks. I have so many pieces of crappy pine flat pack furniture that I have picked up in Argos, that it looks like Richard E Grant and Julia Sawalha are my interior designers.


Then there is the problem that I am loathe to throw anything away. I’ve never done it. I’m always able to justify that I might need it at some stage. That nuts and bolts statue of a stick figure couple of having sex over a garden fence? A birthday gift from Donal and Martina ( you’d imagine Donal was the dominant voice in that purchase, that said Martina was the soul buyer of the penguin posing pouch…hmmm ). Who knows when that will come in handy. The WWE Dudley Boyz t-shirt? I could wear it painting…or gardening.

Enough. When do I ever paint or garden. I have to draw the line. I have too much stuff which is essentially just useless shit. And I don’t mean to offend anyone who bought me these really nice gifts. I really appreciate them. But what I appreciate more is that you thought enough of me to buy if for me. In this case…it really is the thought that counts.

So that’s it. The De Clutter starts here and now.

CD‘s? Gone. My music listening these days is done through Windows Media Player or my MP3 player in the car. If I buy a CD these days I open it once, pop it in my laptops disc drive and rip. Boxed up and stored in the attic, so if anyone wants some quality music come take a look.

DVDs? Some people have collections of DVDs and have no interest in movies. I’m not one of those people. Movies are something that are very important to me but they are just taking up too much John Space. So. Lets reduce the amount of space they take. All I really need is the Disc. So lets file the disc in those disc storage cases that people use for bringing just the disc in their car or wherever.

The boxes I just advertised for free on boards and people with more space and a better use for them took them away. So right there I have gone from eight shelves of DVD’s to two.

Books? Half of them I’ve no interest in ever reading , and frankly are kind of embarrassing, (where did I get Sushi for Beginners by Marian Keyes?) The local Scout Hall does a book drive for a sale of work every month so they get all the literature (and I use that word very loosely in some cases) that I now no longer want

Clothes? No one needs 79 tee shirts. I live in Ireland for Christ sake. Its rare that I don’t need gloves never mind have the luxury of going sleeveless. And no one should have clothes that are older than his now teenage brother. Clothing recycling bin, here I come.

And I have to say. I feels great. I’m not surrounded by so much clutter. I think sometimes people are stressed by the weight of the things they have and the things they own and want to own. And if you are carrying a weight and you get rid of some of the burden… it feels good.

I don’t to come over all preachy and anti materialism. That’s not who I am…yet. But I could see myself becoming that guy one day. I feel liberated by having less stuff. Simple, clutter free living is the way forward for me.

The Bigger Than Jesus Bonus Blog

I said last week that if I got past a certain amount of followers I would post a bonus short story that I've done. Well the figure I had in mind was 13...because essentially Jesus had 12 apostles (in this situation apostles= followers) and I really wanted to use the John Lennon line in relation to me. Oh and I know it says I have 14 followers but one of them is me...so...

If you like this short story and you want to read more tell your friends about my work, get them to follow me. I'm trying to get this stuff out there. So spread the word people, and I will reward you with my Sermon on the Mount.

Am I starting to sound like a cult leader?

Anyway. Here it is.


The Customer

One by one he rooted through the large selection of pens. The shop carried 54 different varieties of writing utensils. Pens. Pencils. Different sizes. Different styles. This guy was picking up each one and examining it as though it were alien to him. Like he’d never seen a biro in his life before.

In fairness, the layout and positioning of the pens was designed, with its many colours and shapes, to draw the attention of passers by. This customer however was entranced.

Carefully his eyes scanned the point of sale. Along each row until he settled on his next selection. Then with the care of someone afraid of picking the short straw in a who goes into the haunted cave first contest he plucked his next victim. His fingers danced with excitement as he clasped a .5 liquid roller pen in light blue. His stubby fore finger and thumb, caked in a grimy black substance, gripping firmly around the pens lid.

He raised the pen to eye level. Turning it slowly, he drank in every molecule of it with his eyes. He pushed his metallic rimmed spectacles further up his nose and coughed. Spluttering all over the pen.
The Cashier behind the counter winced. “That is just vile” he thought. And this wasn’t the first piece of stationary in the shop that he had expunged his germs over.

He had been in the shop for just under an hour. The cashier knew this because he had come in to start his shift at just the same time the customer had entered the store. Stepping in out of the icy rain and skin blasting wind, The Customer had announced his presence with the most disgusting hocking and cacking sounds ever heard by human ears. He then pulled a tatty handkerchief out his pocket and shook it. Various debris fell from the once white hanky including a cigarette butt and enough loose tobacco to buy a conjugal visit in Mountjoy Prison.

He drew the handkerchief to his face. Clasping it around his nose with a two handed grip, one on each side of his proboscis, he blew violently. Satchmo himself would have been proud of the sound. A sonic boom that would almost be musical if it wasn’t so disgusting. He switched the surely now contaminated cloth to his left hand and swiped it across his face and back again, wiping clean away any mucel residue that might have been left behind on his nasal hair or moustache…it was had to discern where one started and the other began.

The Cashier, held his breath. He knew in the most clichéd retelling of a tale such as this, what the customer would do next. Surely he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He did. The Customer held the hand with the handkerchief in front of him. A little jiggle of the wrist. The handkerchief spread open so that its owner could investigate its contents. With a look which was somewhere between surprise and pride, he balled the handkerchief and stuffed it back into the pocket from whence it came.

He turned and looked at The Cashier. With the bunged up tones of someone who might have accidentally snored up their pillow he proclaimed “Mawning”. And with a heavy sniff, the Customer made his way to the back of the shop.

The Cashier observed The Customer carefully. He was a stub of a man. No more 5ft 4. He was round but not in the way you might think. He wasn’t fat as such. His shoulders seemed to naturally curve into the top of his head. Not actually. But The Cashier imagined an imaginary dotted line and that is what he got. Added to the fact that The Customer had a round bottom that stuck out at the side , The Cashier was now picturing Humpty Dumpty in a fleece.

The fleece was black with grey sleeves. It was zipped all the way up to The Customers Adams apple. The small elastic hoop that was tied to the hole on the zip convulsed every time The Customer spluttered another of his infested coughs. The fleece smelt damp. Not just the damp of someone who had just escaped the inclement conditions. This was the damp of someone who slept in a cave. In a pool of water. With a thousand mushrooms in each pocket. And hugging a mackerel instead of a teddy bear.

The shoulders of the fleece (at least where the shoulders would be if you discounted the oeuf-ness of his torso) were flecked with dandruff. His hair was short around the side with a little length on top that was brushed from the front to the back. It had an almost wave like pattern in it. It contained some product that not only held it in place but gave it an almost rigid quality. The color of his hair was mostly grey. It was obviously originally a dark colour. Traces of dandruff were visible from the 10 feet away that The Cashier was standing.

The Cashier started to picture what The Customers comb would be like. Black probably, greasy definitely. Large pieces of dry scalp trapped between the teeth. The image was too strong for The Cashier. He shuddered to snap himself out of it. He wiped his hands in his jeans. Up and down the lap of his trousers, trying to wipe away the imaginary sticky feeling from his fingers

He wore silver colour bifocals on his round podgy little face. The frames must have been too big because the kept sliding down his nose. When he would push them back up he would never use his fingers. Always the balls of the palm of his had. He would raise his arms to the side of his face. Hands under the spectacle rims. And, then with a second for consideration he would push. It was as if the glasses were too heavy to move any other way. It required a lot of effort to get them back into their appropriate position.

From the moment he had come in, The Customer had handled almost the entire range of the stores merchandise. Starting from the back of the shop and working his way forward. Picking it up. Examining it. Tilting it. Examining it some more. At one stage he sat down on the floor. Cross-legged. Like the American Indians sometimes do in the movies. Come to think of it, thought The Cashier, so do the Indian Indians.

The Customer was sitting, legs tucked beneath him, scrutinising a set of envelopes and letter writing paper with picture of the Snoopy characters on it. The Cashier decided to approach him. “Is there anything I can do for you , Sir?” he enquired. The Customer looked up at him. “No Danks, I’m Fin-de” was the smothered response. The customer then turned back to the stationery and promptly sneezed something green all over Charlie Brown.

The Cashier retreated back to the safety of his till. He tried to put The Customer from his mind. Dealing with the other members of the public gave him some respite. This was usually fleeting before The Customer would crash back into his consciousness with a splutter or a wheeze or a disgusting sniffle. And so it was for the last 53 minutes.

Now here he was. Back at the top end of the shop. Perusing pens. Plying each one with so much attention that it almost felt perverse for The Cashier to be watching. He picked up the dark wood clutch pencil. His face lit up. He gave it the same detailed treatment that he had given the others. But his face began to smile. Not just his mouth. His whole face began to curl up and beam happiness from every pore.

He approached the counter with the chosen implement gripped close to his chest. He smiled at The Cashier as handed it over. The Cashier smiled uncomfortably back. He scanned the barcode that was stuck on the pen.

“That’ll be €6.95 please”
“Dorry, Dhow Much?” was the bunged response.
“6.95 please”
“For a Pen-d? Dats re dic les” The Customer was trying to speak loudly but it just made him sound more muffled. “I dond wan it”

He looked as though he was about to walk out of the shop, but not before he drew back. He seized his shoulders up to his head. He Gasped. And then he sneezed all over The Cashiers hand which was still holding the clutch pencil. He then turned. And left.

The Cashier, in what seemed like an eternity, dropped the pencil and went over to his supervisor.
“ I need to go home” he said, holding his soiled hand as far away from his body as he possibly could.
“What’s wrong?” asked the supervisor.
“I need a shower…and I think I’m coming down with something.”

Headlights

"So you're leaving the country and you can't give me a lift to work anymore? You're actually going to let me get two buses every day while you go and live in some island paradise, walking around in your bikini, drinking mojitos and eyeing up tanned muscleheads? You Selfish Bitch"


This is not an actual conversation that I had. It could have been if I weren't so socially intuitive. I didn't feel it was the right place to express those feelings.


So here we are in the second month of 2010. February marks the one year anniversary of an occasion of mixed emotions for me. For it was this time last year that I was abandoned (that 'might' be a bit harsh) by a loved one. But I did get a car.


My best friend Lisa had just gotten a new job in the Cayman Islands and would be leaving the country. I was conflicted. I was disappointed to be losing my drinking buddy and confidante. I was excited for her wonderful opportunity. I was kinda wondering would she sleep with me before she left...youknowwhatimsayin... (I should point out that she didn't, she wouldn't, I never suggested it out of respect for our friendship and she is probably going to punch me for writing it down. ) And I was worried how the hell I was going to get to work every morning.


On top of being my go to guy (girl) for good times and laughter, for the past two years, more or less every day, Lisa had been giving me a lift to and from work. Unless she had a meeting or I was too hungover to get up on time, my good buddy Lisa B. drove me to work in the mornings and most days waited an extra 30 mins to give me a lift home. Now she was leaving? That was just...downright...inconvienent.

I don't know if any of you take Dublin Bus these days. It smells. Its dirty. Its full of people hacking and spluttering strains of germs that could lead to the type of global hysteria that you see nowadays when Miss Piggy gets the sniffles.

The latest phenomenon to hit Dublin Bus is two fold. Both of which lead to your aural senses being attacked by bad music being played on poor equipment. You either have the seemingly Eastern European with the incredibly loud, hardcore/electro/techno/noize (thats with a 'z' to emphasis its shitness) played through cheap earphones which offer no protection to passers by. Or you have the school girl in her fake Ugg boots minus the pyjamas this time, it is a school day, and Le Coq Sportif school bag, playing Rhinanna or Akon on their phone. Over and over and over again.

Either way, it's rubbish music, with rubbish speakers, making a rubbish noise, listened to by rubbish people on a rubbish bus.

So what i'm trying to say is, I don't like public transport. And as someone who lived in Harolds Cross and worked out in Citywest this was going to provide a problem. Someone who at 32 years of age had still not bothered to learn to drive.

Its not that i never bothered. I had tried before. But i just didn't follow through. And my confidence in my ability to master an automobile was fairly low. I could drive a car. I just couldn't stop, turn, park or reverse it. But when I weighed up the options there was only on thing for it.

The next time I went to visit my soon to be departing buddy, I presented her with my idea almost as soon as she opened the door. "Lisa", i said as i unveiled my brilliant concept. " I want to buy Doreen"




This is Doreen. She's 12 years old. She's from Waterford. She's smart, reliable, responsive and despite a bit of a rough start she generally treats me well. Which is more than can be said for most of the women in my life.

For the previous seven or eight years she had belonged to Lisa. First as a little run around in Tramore Co. Waterford before laterly being part of Lisa's move to the 'big' city for her new job and career in Account Management and Sales Marketing.

So from a Bumpkin-Mobile to a Sex and the City style runaround (Yes, I know those women didn't drive, but i'm going for a certain imagery people) Doreen had been good to Lisa and Lisa was good to Doreen. She christened her Doreen because she was green. And well, Doreen rhymes with green. It makes sense if you know Lisa.

However, as Lisa prepared to leave the Emerald Isle (not the Doreen Isle, you'll notice), she was faced with the harsh reality of leaving the most loyal dependable friend that she is ever had (not to mention me) behind.

She also needed cash. And fast. She needed as much start up capitol as she could lay her hands on before starting her new life in Grand Cayman, and while Doreen had been a companion, now she was an asset that needed liquidating.

So as she was starting to consider placing an ad in the Buy and Sell, and all the hassle that that entailed my idea to buy Doreen saved her a lot of hassle. The benefits for her in my purchasing were

She knew where i lived if there was any issue with payment.
I was willing to wait until she was actually leaving so she had a car up until her last day in Dublin
I was unlikely to sue my good friend if I wasn't happy with my purchase
I would continue to call her Doreen

The pluses for me taking it off her hands were

I knew the car. I knew she was generally reliable
I needed a car that i could learn to drive in. And while i hope to have Doreen for years to come shes a sturdy mature lady that doesn't need to rely on her looks to get by. The odd scratch her and there would not bother Doreen.
It saved me having to go to a dealer and pretend I have any kind of clue about cars. Going around kicking the tyres and tutting isn't fooling anybody
I would be doing my friend a good turn before she left me.
I would be able to call my car Doreen without anyone being able to question my motives. It had that name when I bought her.

So we agreed. I would give Lisa €1000 and for that I would take ownership of Doreen Greene (yes, of course she has a full name). A 98 Waterford reg Nissan Micra GX 1.1ltr engine with 70,000 miles on the clock. As a couple of bonus sundrys that came with Doreen I got, a functioning car stereo with CD player, a hands free kit and phone charger that Lisa 'forgot' to return to her old job, an in-car dirt devil vacuum and a bright yellow lock for the the gearstick/handbrake.

Oh...i've recently discovered that I also got an ashtray full of chewed gum, that the seller was supposed to clean out before she gave me the car. Luckily I don't smoke so I can forgive her. Besides she had other things on her mind.

Someday, I will tell you all about the stresses and strains of learning to drive, dealing with mechanics and clipping the side of a Bin Lorry. I might even tell you about saying goodbye to Lisa, tearful train station hug et al. But for now, I just want people to know. I'm on the roads.

So as the old sergent from Hill Street Blues used to say. Lets be careful out there.

So how am I doing so far. Are we all liking the blog? Well if so why not click on the follow button on the side there. As a reward when I get a certain amount of followers I will post a little short story i wrote. Its funny and gross. I can't tell you how many I need before I post it. Like George Clooney said in Up in the Air. "I have a figure in mind but I haven't hit it yet"

So follow me...please. I'm a very needy person