Monkeys. Definitely monkeys.

I've just re-designed LC's blog template to test my web-design skills. Our brain-storming meeting went like this:

Me: What's your favourite colour?
LC: Er... I dunno. I'm a bloke, I'm not good with colours. Maybe a kind of dark-burnt-orange-type-thing, I suppose.
Me: What's your favourite thing?
LC: Monkeys. Definitely monkeys.

See what happened here.

If you're sick of your generic blogger template and want a completely original header and a personalised feel to your site, then let me know. I'll do another for free, but then I need to be a dot com millionaire so I'll have to start charging.

Soggy shreds of paper all over the place

I finally got my place confirmed at University College Dublin, which is fantastic news because as much as I've enjoyed working from home, I don't know how much longer I can chase my own tail around the living room for before I go completely insane.

I applied to UCD because when I visited the campus last year I spotted a student sitting under a tree reading a book. I don't remember anybody ever doing that at the design college I went to in London, and I'm very much looking forward to taking part in some of this tree/book university-campus action myself.

But I also chose UCD because the course, an MA in Film Production, is exactly the way I want to spend the next year of my life: studying film and making things up. Maybe now I'll actually get somewhere with my script idea, instead of chewing it into little pieces every day and leaving soggy shreds of paper all over the place for Bjarni to pick up when he gets home from work.

On the 47th day of rain...

The latest public awareness campaign from Dublin City Council.

The trouble with making shit up

My father came over for lunch yesterday, with his massive dog, Pablo, who is the size of a small horse. I guess our neighbour is a little strung out after the junkies broke in, because he came running out of his apartment as soon as he heard those massive hooves clambering up the stairs, just in time to see my dad being dragged through our little door at the top of the house.

"It's alright!" I said, suddenly worried that small horses might not be permitted inside the building. "It's just my dad and his dog, y'know, one of those, for his, er, sight..."

I gestured at my eyes, my other hand feeling about in front of me, implying that my father is blind. Why do I make this shit up? It only complicates things, and I'm sure it was no problem for Pablo to have visited for the afternoon — it's not like he was going to hold up a knife and take off with somebody's iPod nano.

But the trouble with making shit up is that you have to keep it up, otherwise you look like a liar, and who wants to look like one of those? So, later on, as my father left the house again, I carefully took his arm as if to help him down the awkward front steps.

Then I guided him across the road and straight into his Volvo, so he could drive off up the busy Dublin street, his small horse panting away in the back.

Finally, junkie action on Dublin's northside

Our house was broken into by a pair of junkies yesterday afternoon, which was very exciting because we've lived on Dublin's northside for months now, and it's about time something happened to prove my friends in Cork right. They smashed into the apartment below without me or my friend Dolly Parton hearing a thing, but luckily the landlord caught them and wouldn't let them go until they gave back what they'd stolen — despite one of them waving a knife around and threatening to stab him.

Er, rather him than me. I'm not sure what I'd do if scary junkie dudes threatened to stab me with a knife. Probably whatever it was they wanted me to do... within reason.

"Give us everything you've got or we'll stab you with this knife!"
"Okay scary junkie dudes, here's my 43 euro, my beautiful slab of white computer hardware, and my famous pet rabbit."

"Let us off without calling the cops or we'll stab you with this knife!"
"Okay scary junkie dudes, I'll just call you a taxi."

"Skip that bleedin' Jolene track or we'll stab you with this knife!"
"Ah now scary junkie dudes, don't be like that."

Luckily, one of them left his phone here by mistake, so when his mam called to see what time he'd be home for dinner the landlord was able to get his full name and address out of her for the cops. Pfft, robbers are stupid. Which is why they're robbers in the first place, I suppose, and not doctors, or mega-rich Country & Western superstars that everybody pretends to hate.

The Welsh Blog Awards

Do you remember when I discovered the Irish Blog Awards and suddenly I emigrated to Dublin just so I could qualify? Well, turns out I was from Wales all along because now it's time for the Welsh Blog Awards, surprise surprise.

Unfortunately, they decided there weren't enough nominations to keep the "Most Fabulous Blogroll" category, otherwise I would've totally owned that prize.

Welsh blonkers! Badges for your blogs in the sidebar.

Have You Seen This Clown?

Not the crazy dude on the right, but the driver. They were stuck at the lights in Dublin so I whipped my camera out, not realising that I know her from Wales until I looked at the photo again later, in a moment of awe and wonder — I once played her daughter in the 1993 Conwy Valley School production of Fiddler on the Roof.

Her theatre career seems to have taken off better than mine has.

It's not a rave, it's an educational centre

I met my friend Sian in Wales last week, when she turned up at a dinner party with three bottles of wine, two packets of Regal, and no son.

"Where is he?" I asked, helping myself to a smoke even though I don't anymore. Smoking fags in Dolwyddelan is like eating lard when you're drunk — it just doesn't count.

"He's gone to Euphoria," she said, taking the unlit cigarette out of my hand and sliding it back into the box. "In a field over Llangollen way."

Euphoria?! Christ. Last time I saw her kid he was playing with a toy tractor and now he's spending the weekend at an illegal rave. I don't blame him, really. The outdoor parties of the 90s were the best thing that could've happened to Snowdonia when we were teenagers. All those crusties turning up in their smelly camper vans, chewing gum and waving glo-sticks in our faces. I had to sneak off to them in the middle of the night most of the time, as my parents seemed to think I was a bit young to be jumping around remote quarries with people from Liverpool at fifteen years old.

"I didn't even know they still had those raves!" I said to Sian, excited all of a sudden — maybe we could take our wine and her fags and go?

"He's only ten years old, Annie, it's not a rave," she said. "EWE-phoria. It's an educational centre — he's going to be a sheep-farmer when he grows up."

www.annierhiannon.com

In my quest to take over the world, I've bought myself a "domain name" to put my design portfolio on. I'm so excited about this that I'm tempted to introduce myself as Annie Rhiannon Dot Com at parties — but Bjarni tells me that's, like, so 1998, and how often do I go to parties anyway?

Fair enough, but at least all this hermitting has paid off, as I now have a fully-functioning website to show for it. At least, I think it's fully functioning. If something looks a bit odd in your browser, let me know.

Of course I owe a great big thank you to Bjarni for his help with it all, as he not only wrote the programme that I made it in, but also very patiently taught me how to write the code to keep it updated myself — "in case we ever split up".

I am touched and truly thankful.

Sometimes I miss Iceland so much

Sometimes I miss Iceland so much it feels like Jón Páll smashed his fist through my chest and grabbed onto my heart, twisting it around and around until my internal organs corkscrew in and I choke on my own tongue, gasping and spluttering for air.

So I started blonking for Iceland Express again.