Danger Mouse

I’m weird and I have way too much money. I rung Cassie yesterday and left her a message, telling her I was gonna go shop for clothes and generally hang if she wanted to meet up. She was busy, so I’m left to my own devices. And what do I buy? New jeans (that would bring my total jeans compliment to a heady three pairs)? A new proper jacket, as opposed to the hoody (my first-ever) I bought a few weeks ago? Perhaps new socks? New vests, underwear, anything remotely important? Nope. Yesterday I bought a new mouse.

Now it’s not any old mouse, in fairness. It’s a sexy Microsoft Optical Mouse, with a laser on the bottom instead of a ball. My mouse’s arse now glows red, and brightens up as I move it. That, and the fact that it’ll never get dirty and is hundreds of times more precise than a mice with balls, is about as sensible as my purchases got. It was €57. And not only did I buy that, I also bought a €50 USB 4 point serial bus-thingy. The terminology evades me right now, but it’s like an extension lead for USB plugs that allows you to stick four USB cables to your computer instead of the two I have. That’s for the scanner, camera, MP3 player and Zip drive. As I said, I’m weird and I have way too much money.

This evening’s festivities will consist of Cassie and myself headin into Embryo’s 21st do. I’m working tomorrow at 9.30am so maybe it’s a bit dodgy going for what seems now like a quick pint. But sure the man’s a god and I need to pay homage. And I need to get out more.

Elaine, my best friend from college, is leaving Dublin to return home for the summer. It basically means that everyone close to me is now far away. Not very far, but not very convenient. Maybe it’s selfish of me wanting people near me and mever ringing them or texting but I’m terrible at that. I’m one of those people that doesn’t see anything wrong in going out one night with someone and not contacting them for weeks afterwards. I’m a little eccentric. Must change that; I give the wrong impression. And as Natalie Imbruglia, Sex Goddess, once said: “I didn’t want to leave you with the wrong impression”

A few assorted thoughts, a bit like assorted crisps but without yucky salt and vinegar flavour:

Claim to fame – Y’know the Vodafone ad with “Bohemian Like You” in the background? Y’know, where they basically play the British ad and add in a token Irish part featuring a victorious GAA team returning home? Y’know the bit where the guys on the bus ring the bloke with the cup? And y’know the way ya see him on the couch asleep with the cup in his hands and it’s says “I’ve scored”? Y’know who that guy is? No? Well I do. His name is Ciarán and he lives seven houses down from me.

And apparently, in an amazing life-imitating-art incident in a local club, Ciarán fell asleep with a trophy in his hands (he actually plays for some GAA team) and was kicked out by the bouncers. There’s billboards out now with just him asleep on the couch, so stand beside one and amaze passers-by by proclaiming “THIS IS CIARÁN!!!” Don’t feel embarassed; his name is definitely Ciarán. I can give you his address if you want……

Kate is Great – There’s an impossible beautiful girl on my “team” in work named Kate. She’s tall with black hair and slightly tanned. She wears Anastacia-type glasses and effortlessly casual clothes and she’s quiet and so so gorgeous. Ans she has a boyfriend. Fine then, see if I care. But I like talking to ladies I cannot have, so on the way out of work today I offered her a lift to “the train station or whatever”. Rather arrogant and very like the scene in “Notting Hill” when the guy asks Julia Roberts how much she made in her last film and she says “fifteen million dollars”. Because Kate politely turns down Joe’s offer and walks to the car park with me. “No thanks, I have my boyfriend’s car for today”. “Oh grand” I said “just that I’m asking everyone if they want a lift cos I have a car all this week”. She smiled and walked towards her bloke’s car. Kate doesn’t look much older than me, so I laughed and said “what, is it the Beemer?” Kate smiled, effortlessly. Oh yes, Joseph. Oh yes, Joseph, walk to your mother’s Opel Corsa in your battered jeans, four year old wrecks of shoes, boggly jumper and put on one of the CDs you bought yesterday because they were 3 for €30. Do that, Joseph, and I will not care. For I, KAte, have my boyfriend’s BMW 318ci and a figure that deserves such a machine. You may watch BMWs drive in and out of the car park all day, snigger at how mundane they appear when every second car is one. But how does it feel to know someone who’s getting into one and driving away? Driving ahead of you, so petite in the cream leather seat. Indicating left and driving to the side of a speed ramp. I pulled up beside her and played some obscure 70’s music, avoiding her gaze. And that’s pure Joe. Those pointless, meaningless things I do.

Dubya Dubya Dubya – President George Bush was interviewed by hard-arsed British Veteran Broadcaster Sir Trevor McDonald this week. I actually, honestly laughed at some of the things he came out with. The man has been given phrases to repeat by Dick Cheney or something (he kept sayin about “he hasn’t performed” about Yasser Arafat), he seems incapable of coming up with something coherent on the spot. Which should really be a requirement for a world leader. And he said “infitada” instead of “intifada”. Infitada sounds like a Spanish dish.

Debya Debya Debya – Deb, the Girl from Galway, may be visiting Dublin this week. No rude stuff, just the two of us for the day. I don’t know what the story is with us, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me. If I was with someone else some night, I don’t think I’d feel that guilty. Gulp…..oh dear. Doesn’t the real truth come out in your diary sometimes……….

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