The Almond Bun Trilogy (1) – A New Almond

The Almond Bun Trilogy is just my way of typing something to keep going, it’s thoughts on a page, flow of consciousness kinda thing. I’m consuming almond buns a lot these past few days, I’ve been off work sick. The first time I ever had an almond bun was when Cassie bought me one, so it’s OD relevant. Thanks. there’s a lot of wank in this, feel free to ignore. Just exercising the brain.

p.s. Could those in the know please inform me as to what the story is with Saturday night?

I have nothing due in, I now have a life without deadlines. Well, apart from catching buses and getting into work. But these days, life is pretty much on my terms. Nothing’s hanging over me, no projects, no articles, no nothing. And I shouldn’t be happy. Around now, I should start to realise that life without some kind of occupation, a real occupation, not working in a call centre, is fundamentally being untrue to yourself. Joe isn’t meant to work in a call centre, this isn’t destiny. It’s drudgery. Have I ever mentioned that stupid, but nonetheless honest, theory of mine that I can see into the future? Not so much “this will happen” but more “this’ll probably end up happening and that shouldn’t happen”. I can tell when there’s a glitch in the Matrix. What a wanky first paragraph.

The week’s been wanky. No substance to it at all. I had Tuesday off and I hadn’t seen Elaine in ages so I headed into town on a gorgeous evening and met her outside Clery’s. She had my birthday present with her; she hadn’t got round to giving it to me. A wooly hat, gloves and a Billy Connolly CD. One of the nicer presents I’ve got. So I had said to her that I’d like to go to Howth, a village on an almost-island north of Dublin city (geography for the Yanks). On the way to the train station, I bumped into Emer, the girl I mentioned in five previous (and concurrent) entries. Awkward semi-chatting and semi-smiling ensued, Emer had to go and so did I. It was 4pm and the day was nearly over. Hopped on the Dart, an electric train that goes up and down the coast of Dublin in a fashion similar to a fairground ride except the fairground ride is faster and less congested. 45 minutes later, we were in Howth.

I was in Howth years ago, where I took a picture of my parents in front of the marina. This picture turned out to be rather…..perfect and so for their 20th anniversary Sis and myself got it enlarged and framed. A few people that’ve seen it thought it was taken in Spain or somewhere out foreign and can’t believe it’s Howth. That’s because it was such a beautiful evening, the sunset there is really something. So between the crowded sails in the marina behind them, the dark blue sky and the pier extending right around them in a yellow, sun-drenched line, it’s hard to believe sometimes that the picture was taken a few hundred yards from the stop for the 32 bus.

I couldn’t find the way up to the Hill of Howth, where you can walk along an unguarded cliff face hanging over the Irish Sea, so we went up the inhabited side of it and walked back behind the cliff. If you know what I mean. I’ve wanted to go to Howth for ages, it just knocked me back really when I was there before and I always wanted to go on my own. And then I decided I wanted to go with someone else, so I could have someone to remember it with. It’s the kind of place I’d always imagine I’d go to in a crisis, if I needed to think I’d just sit on the cliff and look out into the horizon. There I was, on a sunny day with no clouds anywhere to be seen, the kind of day some (hallucenogenic nutcases) say you could see as far as Wales on. And it didn’t feel very special.

I really like Elaine, believe me she’s great. She’s there for me at all times and she’s so warm and kind. But I can’t for the life of me connect with that girl on a higher level than two people who just got talking in a queue. It’s strange, I mean I know she knows me more than most people. But all we do is talk about things that happened, are happening or may happen. There’s no talk about life, love or what makes each other tick. I’ve always wanted to show Elaine my diary (and no, I’m not a flasher trying to be symbolic here). If she could only read what I’m like. Then she might know me. It’s strange because this week I might be meeting a good few of the OD diaspora (the Grand Munster Lodge) and I can’t help wondering if they’ll think there’s been some kind of mistake. I’m nothing like the way I write, honestly. I’m rude, insensitive, I like to hear the sound of my own voice, I’m bad with words, I mumble, I’m clumsy, I have nothing to say of any substance unless I’ve got four Jack Daniels and three pints down me and even then it’s so incoherent you may think I have a speech impediment. And I must change. I really think if I was the person I am in this diary, I’d be making a start. Believe me, it’s that bad.

I hate self-loathing, I don’t know why I’m doing this. I’m sick, that’s why. No seriously, I’m all coughy and stuffy and my throat’s sore and I’m getting headaches. I paid a doctor €32 today for him to tell me that I’ve got a viral infection, possibly from two ulcers I had on either side of my tongue who’ve since disappeared. The waiting room was the average front room of a regular house. All the seats were taken. I had to stand at the fireplace, with everyone looking at me. They stared. I freaked and sat on the table reading Company magazine. They were testing butt plugs. Women. Testing butt plugs. On themselves. Maybe one time I would’ve found that fascinating but….em, no. So then I dropped that and starting reading Business & Finance, three issues of it. And each one had a sob story about some IT company with vague ambitions and even vaguer management who *shock!* went belly-up after the economy stopped taking all those steriods.