It be Hard Times Charlie.

 

That voice.

Dont you use 'that voice' with me, Daithi.

Ive been re-reading a lot of what I have written lately and have realized that at least every sentence has at least three 'I's contained within the lines. So, in an effort not too change the rhythm of each linguistic string, I am going to step the constant self referencing up a bit to see if this one dimensional words-smith can create anything of interest ( for others ) to read.

Me and I met Liz aka PychoAnaLiz (renamed by 'That Voice' Daithi) on the Green last night about six. Finished work early so I waited around on the Green for her to arrive with my sandwich. I, and me, did not dress correctly for February's out door drinking sessions, so I had to borrow a woolen cycling jersey of Mac (thanks). We had a few beers. Liz was a bit tired as she spent most of the previous night up puking in my toilet after smoking a joint and pulling a whitey. I didn't realise that women her age still pulled whiteys. I thought that was just an adolescent hangover. However, as usual, she proved me wrong.

Nonetheless we carried on.
Later on the canal as the alleycat ensued(somehow I told Kropper that I would marshal) Liz and Vinny and myself took the nearest checkpoint being Love Lane East (not quiet Love Lane as our bittered threesome couldn't cope with that geographical heart break). We continued drinking in the lane as the residence of the near by apartments entered and exited their gates. Nice.

6 cans of Hineken, beef curry and a pasta salad later. The boys arrived with envelopes looking for us to stamp something. We didn't have a clue what we were doing. Fucking locked at that stage.

Fast forward 3 hours and Im in Kimmage trying to retrieve my bag from under a heap. Grabbed what ever looked familiar and cycled like a drunken postman home. Of course I took the wrong bag. Sorry Steve.

It was a slow week in work. Everyone I know is seriously broke. My brother made five Euro in his taxi yesterday. Everyone is on the dole, cept me. All I hear is redundancy this, or suicide bankers that. This new community of poverty got me thinking the other day as I sat waiting for my 4km trip to Ballsbridge to arrive at reception(15mins wait) paying me 1.80cent. As I begun my journey through drizzling darkened rush hour traffic I tried to count the benefits of the current economic weather. The dark evening and brown drizzle of the rain as it hit my face, somehow captured the present financial bleakness. However a negative appraisal is too obvious. Life is getting a little harder to manage. Bills rent, cost of food, is taking so much away from the 'drinking money' that Ive actually cut down immensely. The pub? What? Yeah right.
But, its also getting a little more intimately funnier.

I arrived at my final drop of the day happier. Although my hair, clothes and runners had now gone a disgusting shade of gross (hair is recession curly, I cant afford to look GHD gay anymore) I felt brighter than the spring evening. Cycling to Rathmines from Herbert Park to an impromptu dinner In Izzy's house inspired me with promise. There is no more mid week pints to catch up with a friend. But, the alternative of dinner invites, glasses of cheap God-bless-Lidl wine and lit (or gas) fires has opened me up to the little things I have forgotton. In the last few months I have seen my friends in their homes or mine, more. Had more conversations about real things in comfort and ease.

A long tradition of my family to have friends round for dinner weekly has been sidelined for the pub for years. Now is the chance to dine with good food good people in a economic climate that has poured down our mouths but has, I think that I am sure, brightened up our evenings.....