When I say 'snooty' I'm talking about you

I had to go for a chest x-ray yesterday, which was annoying because it's not that long ago that I was making shit up on my blog about having had a chest x-ray. I fear I have brought this upon myself. "This chest pain, is it my ego acting up again?" I asked the imaginary doctor in my head. "No," said the real doctor in the real hospital. "It's most likely a stomach ulcer that's infected the valves of your oesophagus."

Gross. I went home and got back into bed, glad that I have a bed again and that I'm not still sofa-surfing my way around Dublin. I have moved to a small seaside town in County Wicklow that is within cycling distance of work and miles away from anything fun — unless you count fun as a bag of chips down on the pier. Which would be fun, I suppose, if I could ever get any of my snooty Dublin friends out this far to visit me.

It is a nice apartment though, in one of those crap "all mod cons" kinda ways. Louise and Derek say that all "all mod cons" ever really means is a dishwasher and a black leather sofa. Well, when I was a small seven-year-old girl it was my ambition to own a black leather sofa. Derek says landlords love them because they think they're 'classy', and Louise says it's just because they're wipe-clean. I have to agree with Louise, because unless all landlords are small seven-year-old girls I don't see how they could possibly think black leather sofas are classy.

Anyway, now I live in a small seaside town with a black leather sofa and a stomach ulcer. And that is all my news.

Wherever the hell it is that love hangs out

I am not in love with anyone at the moment, which is both comforting and boring in equal measures. Well, kind-of equal measures. Usually there are at least two men that I'm fixated on, rolling them around in my head like dough, making them better and better and funnier and cleverer, until it all inevitably ends in them 'letting me down gently' anyway. Even so, being in love is at least more interesting than not being in love, isn't it?

I thought I might find love in Belgium; under a crooked church spire or on an ancient medieval street, or wherever the hell else it is that love hangs out, but I didn't. I did meet a guy in the bar I worked in one night, though. He was drunk and smelt of boiled rice and looked saner with his hat on than off — which should have been a warning sign, really, as all hats are inevitable mistakes — but I gave him my number anyway. All I wanted was someone to eat an ice-cream with on the banks of an ancient medieval canal. I'm not sure that's what he had in mind. At one point he kind of lunged at me, I think.

He sent a text the next day. Would I meet him for a drink? Unfortunately for him I'd just been watching an Obama interview on YouTube when the text came in.

"I'm sorry," I was about to reply. "But my standards just went up."

But I didn't. I just dropped the phone back down on the bed and didn't send anything. Because that is what 'being let down gently' means.

Belgian soccer match

Dublin the Musical

Every time I leave Cork for Dublin all the people at the train station look at me with great pity in their eyes, as if to say "Bye now, sorry you have to be going back there, back to Dublin, the worst place in the world".

Well, I used to hate Dublin too, although I can't really remember why now. It's an unremarkable city with no distinguishing landmarks and a lot of shit pubs*, yeah, but that's not a reason to hate it. I think it's because when I arrived I was "in a relationship", I suppose, and I never bothered trying to have any fun, and then later because I was "coming out of a relationship", I suppose, and I hated everything except country music and cheese-on-toast.

But I actually quite like Dublin these days. Maybe I even love Dublin these days. I was so elated to be back that when I stepped off the train I threw down my backpack and broke into a spontaneous dance. Because, despite enjoying looking down on people who like musicals, secretly I have always wished that one day life will be less like life and more like a scene from West Side Story. One day I am going to step down off that train and fifty people are going to leap and sing around me, magically knowing all the words, while I spin through Heuston station flashing my knickers at the ticket-man because that's how happy I am to be back in Dublin after all these months.

*I mean the pubs are shit compared to pubs in other parts of Ireland, not that the pubs are shit compared to pubs in, say, Wales. That would be ridick.

In the attic at Plas Hall Hotel

I know this picture looks like it was set up, that I found a load of crappy old props in a junk shop and positioned them like that on purpose, but I didn't. I was in the old hotel on the hill in Dolwyddelan with Cathy when we noticed that the door had been left open to the attic. We climbed up and found the room exactly like this, so Cath sat down on the pot of paint and we snapped it and then got the fuck out of there again before the crazy hotel owner caught us and ate us for his dinner.

Our Nation's Great Capital

Sometimes life takes you to places that are beyond your wildest dreams, and sometimes life takes you to Cardiff. This is my first time ever in our nation's great capital, and I am taking a taxi from the station to Emma's house with all my stuff, on my way back to Ireland.

"This is my first time ever in our nation's great capital," I tell the driver, peering out of the window at the hardware stores, the pound shops, the Millennium Stadium, and the Spar. Which looks a lot like the Spar in the village, only bigger.

"Really," he says, sounding genuinely surprised. "Where are you from then?"

"Dolwyddelan," I say. "In the north."

"You'll be out on the tiles tonight, then," he supposes.

No, not likely. I'm taking the boat from Fishguard in the morning; tonight I just plan to spend the evening with Emma on her sofa, catching up, having her husband teach me to play The Green Green Grass of Home, and drinking a lot of tea. I'm getting weary of moving from place to place and I am bored of drinking, and drinking, and getting up too late, and drinking. Next week I'll be back in Dublin with a job and a desk and a bed and an alarm-clock and I can't wait.

"No, I think I'll just be staying in tonight," I tell him. "Chillin', like."

"Oh yes," he nods. "One step at a time. Must be a big shock after Dolwyddelan."

Everybody's in Dolwyddelan for Easter

I'm not terrible

"I'm here about the busking license," I say into the intercom on the door of York City Council.

"You'll need to fill in the form," a woman's voice crackles back. "Then just drop it in t' letter box and we'll be in touch."

"I've already done that," I explain. "And I'm waiting for my audition. But I'm leaving town this week so I'm wondering if you could just give me a temporary permit?"

There is a pause. And then what sounds suspiciously like a snort.

"You'll still need to audition, love, even for a temporary permit," explains the voice. "You could be terrible for all we know."

"I'm not terrible," I sigh, saying 'terrible' just like that in italics as if well, actually, I might be something like terrible, I suppose.

I want to play her a 16th century baroque piece right here into the intercom to prove myself, but actually I don't know any 16th century baroque pieces. And so instead I wander around town and consider just playing without a license anyway. Rock n roll! I mean, this is busking – how high can the standard possibly be?

On Coney Street a man plays reels on the fiddle while simultaneously operating a dancing puppet on strings. On Sampson Square a woman plays Hendrix guitar solos while her dog sings along in perfect key. On Stonegate a guy plays 16th century baroque music on the harp whilst standing on his head.

Yeah, I'm not terrible, just a little dull maybe.

Spending time with Cathy again... it's just like the old days.

1993

Er... I failed my driving theory test

I just failed my driving theory test. Also known as 'the easiest test in the world', it is impossible to fail unless you have something wrong with you. Eh? How did this happen? I have two degrees - two! - and an IQ of well over 190. Actually that's not true, I don't know what my IQ is, because only stupid people take IQ tests. But I know it is high enough for me to be able to pass the easiest test in the world.

Yeah, it's my own fault. I've spent the past three days sitting on Warren's sofa learning to play 'Walk the Line' instead of revising. I know, I know, but everyone kept reminding me that this theory stuff is 'mostly common sense'.

"Let me guess," says John. "There were no Johnny Cash questions in the test?"

No, no there weren't.

London baby

On our first night in London, Wies, Cathy and I got thrown out of a comedy club for not laughing enough. The comedian, Ray Jerome, was so bad that the entire audience just sat there in embarrassed silence until he lost his train of thought and shouted at us all to "fuck off then, the lot of you, get out, none of you are smart enough to understand my sense of humour, that's all it is." Which was the funniest part of the evening, in fairness.

On our second night in London, Wies, Cathy and I got thrown out of our hotel for being too rock'n'roll for London. And by "too rock'n'roll for London" I mean we had tried to get all three of us into a single-occupancy room and failed. Getting thrown out of a King's Cross hotel at one in the morning was both embarrassing and inconvenient. Which is one of the worst combinations, in fairness.

I also visited the one and only Annie Slaminsky in Hackney, who I've been bloggy-friends with for some years now but this was the first time we'd met in real life: cue blonktastic gossip-fest (yes, we were talking about you!). We met at a busy train station where I wasn't sure exactly who I was looking for, but I just kept an eye out for the best bum in London until I found her. Later on, on the night bus back to her place, a bloke said to her: "Cor, you 'ave got to 'ave the best bum in London, darlin," and it's true: she has.

And last but not least, I got to spend some time with one of my oldest friends Christian Oshi, who I grew up with in rural north Wales. He ran away to London many years ago to make his fortune and fulfill his "lifelong ambition of getting braces" — even though he already has perfectly straight teeth. I'm happy to report that he has finally found a dentist willing to help him with this entirely baffling fashion statement, as when we met up he was recovering from having had four teeth removed in preparation. And so this post is dedicated to him and all his suffering, after he expressed understandable contempt that I had "skipped straight from Belgium to York as if London didn't even exist." Eep!