Not nesting...

still no dog...
sake

"You're getting on like a pregnant woman, look at the state you". The Cousin was quaffing tea on the sofa whilst I was fidgeting about and tidying up the detritus of the day, cups, paper, sweetie wrappers and that sort of thing.

"What are you on about?", I asked as I plonked my generous frame down on the couch.

"You're nesting!", exclaimed The Cousin in a fit of eurekaish excitement. It was as if he had been struggling to find the right word.

"Excuse me?"

"You're so nesting."

"Nesting? What are you on about you curious little man?"

"The tidying up and fussing about and that", he explained as he waved his chubby hands at my perfectly mopped floor and sparkly polished shelving.

Fat handed twat.

"Give over yerself man. I just like a tidy house. Nesting? My arse."

"No, you're definitely nesting. You'll be a great dog-mother some day." He was fighting hard to keep the laughter suppressed. Not fighting hard enough.

"Knock it off or I'm gonna kick your ass." Manuel is not really a kicker of asses but he can talk the talk.

"Nesting", persisted The Cousin.

"Seriously, quit it."

"Nesting", again he poked at me.

"You're cruising dough boy"

It went quiet for a moment as The Cousin rained in his verbal assault. I tried to hide my beaming red, but devilishly handsome, face behind my book. It didn't really help my situation that I was reading about Jack bloody Russell's.

Sake.

The considerable din emanating from the television wasn't masking The Cousin's snickering and poorly stifled guffawing and that was despite him having shoved his fat fist into his gob.

"What? What now?", I barked across the room. Oh ha ha ha, Manuel thinks he's a dog. Grow up, it's a turn of phrase.

HEE HEE HEE HA HA HA went The Cousin.

"I am so gonna batter you, you have no idea mister."

"I saw you in the supermarket yesterday....", he said through streaming tears of laughter.

"And? We were there together you clown"

HEE HEE HEE HA HA HA went The Cousin. Again.

"I saw you go all gooey as we walked through the pet food section." He was now struggling to make himself coherent such was the level of laughter. I may strangle him in his sleep tonight. We shall just see who's laughing then.

"I didn't go gooey in the pet food section. You're gooey". Ooh good comeback.

"Yeah, yeah you did. You went all misty eyed at the tins of Pedigree Chum. And....HEE HEE HEE HA HA HA...."

"And? And what?", I wanted to know what else he had seen imagined.

"And HEE HEE HEE..."

"I swear to god wee man, you are gonna get battered so hard..."

"And HEE HEE HEE...and you ran your fingers longingly over the top of the bags of Winalot in a very dreamy bounding-through-the-fields-with-my-lovely-dog sort of a way." He then proceeded to fall apart the place laughing. He was laughing so hard that he probably didn't hear my threat/promise to evict him by the end of the week.

It was just what I didn't need at the end of another fruitless day searching for a pooch. It had all started so promisingly too. Percy, the brother-in-law, and I arrived at the USPCA home for abandoned and unloved dogs and cats before they opened and before anyone else seeking puppy love had arrived. But by the time the gates finally opened and we were let in there was a right crowd of doggy wanters. To hell with chivalry and all that tosh, I bounded for the gates knocking people to the ground and gouging eyes as I ran.

Whilst Percy went on a one man meet and greet with all the dogs I stayed on-mission and sought out what I was looking for, that being a small, preferably shaggy, youngish dog with the ability to melt hearts at a thousand paces. And luckily I found him, a Jack Russell with little brown stone melting eyes. I found him at much the same time as a rather deathly looking woman in ill fitting tracksuit bottoms and grey tatty cardigan found him.

Our eyes met in opposition and I knew the game was on. Well it would have been if Percy hadn't been doing a Dr Dolittle with each and every pooch in the place. Terrible terrible wingman as far as wingmen go. She instructed her 75 year old looking toy boy to make haste to the office where the guardians of the kennels keep the keys and the deeds, or whatever they have, to the dogs. I, meanwhile was trying to catch the attention of Percy Dolittle who busy having a heart to heart with a sombre looking black labrador. I'm not sure if the black lab had been so melancholic before Percy introduced himself. But I needed him to go get the lady with the keys to come and give me my dog/dream whilst I guarded the kennel.

But it was all so utterly pointless. They lady came with the keys and handed my pooch to the woman in the ill fitting tracksuit bottoms and tatty grey cardigan and off they went to spend their days in front of the fire sucking on boiled sweets and watching Diagnosis Murder. It's little life could have been oh so different if Percy had just stayed on mission. I had to hide for a moment ot dry my weeping eyes.

I wonder if my sister is really so attached to Percy because he may get strangled in his bed after I'm done with The Cousin.

Old people and relatives, I'm against them....

Thankfully I go back to work today...

The Cousin and I were killing the torturous and seemingly interminable moments whilst the kettle boiled with frivolous chatter. This took the form mainly of stating the bloody obvious.

"Cold again today"

"Yup"

"Cold again tomorrow"

"Yup"

[Long pause]

"Evenings are getting longer?"

"Yup"

After a slightly less long pause things became almost raucous when the vexed and curly headed issue of Jeremy Clarkson came up.

"That Jeremy Clarkson eh....huh....."

"Totally......huh.....sake....I mean what's the point.......I mean of Clarkson?"

"Yeah......Clarkson, what is the point?"

We don't like Clarkson as evidenced by this particularly bombastic diatribe. And on and on went the chit chatting for what seemed like 37 years but was in fact about 3 or 4 minutes.

Pop went the kettle in the kitchen. This illuminated our little hairy faces (forgive me father it's been five days since my last shave) and we bounded to the kitchen with all the gusto of two very bored boys who just found a big bag of unguarded power tools. Except it was some rather mundane everyday tea and not a big bag of Black and Decker drills that had made us jump so enthusiastically. Personally I don't ever envisage the day when I will jump with enthusiasm like a giddy seal with a ball and the promise of a bucket of sardines at the sight of a shiny new power tool, a new set of cutlery maybe, but power tools not so likely.

Tea wet and late afternoon bacon sandwiches scoffed we found ourselves back were we didn't want to be, chit and indeed chatting about nothing and everything. I fear for our sanity if we don't secure the never ending and blind love of a suitable dog soon. A suitable dog, like good love it appears, is hard to find these days.

The Cousin returned to flicking through the newspaper whilst I engaged the TV's remote control in an imaginary game of tennis.

Ugh.....

"Have you....eh....secured Little Miss Manuel's St Valentines day present yet?", asked The Cousin without removing his gaze from the newspaper. This was odd as he doesn't tend to involve himself in such affairs. I was nervous, was he about to recommend something from the paper? How frightful. Heh, I could just see LMM's look of devastation/disgust when I told her I got it from the back of The Daily Mirror.

"No, I haven't really thought about it yet. Why?" I asked nervously.

"Well you may wanna check this bad boy out. Set your mince pies (The Cousin watches way too much Eastenders) to stun for I have the very gift for her". He was quite animated now. So much so in fact that as a precaution I took note of my nearest exit, should I need to make a break for it. The last time he got this ebullient he ended up explaining himself to a judge.

"What are you on about?" I was enjoying my imaginary game of couch tennis with the remote control.

"Here.....", and he handed me the newspaper.

Well readers all I can say is that I was shocked to my very core and having worked in a Pizza Hut for numerous years I don't shock easy. It was so hideously tacky and all round offensive that it made Adam Sandler seem positively acceptable. I did a sick in my mouth, mainly at the thought of Adam Sandler in that movie, fuck it any movie (except Punch Drunk Love) and went to reach the paper back to The Cousin who by this point was rolling round on his couch. His hysterical reaction to my shock was alarming. I felt I should dial 99 on my phone and hover my thumb over the 9 key just in case as quite frankly he was scaring me.

But I couldn't give the paper back. This was car crash giftery. In the end I could no longer hold back the laughter either and in a jiffy we were both laughing so hard that the room went silent for the briefest of moments. And what I hear you ask was the cause of this delirium?

Dear sweet readers I give you Dawn's Bright Herald....in the form of a fleece, obviously.

their words not mine

obviously....

It has a picture of a Robin embroidered on the front and back. It is simply awe-fucking-some. If we don't get a dog soon to distract us from this sort of thing I think LMM will arrive round one day to find The Cousin and I expired to the point of death with laughter dressed in matching garish fleeces.

Seriously.....

I want to be alone......

I was just home from work from yet another day/night of turkey shuffling and drink humping and was feeling grouchy. Belligerence oozed from every aching pore. The Cousin greeted me with his usual face of wariness and apprehension. He likes to wait for a moment to judge my mood before fully engaging me in conversation. Now, as I was threatening the kitchen door and swearing at the kettle and anything else that I deemed to be getting in my way he correctly assumed that I was in a less than favourable mood. I really am a joy to live with.

'tis the season to be sherry

or fucking not

This mood was due in part to my being utterly shattered and in no small part due to the last two guests I had served before I left. They wound me right up, and I was already so tightly wrapped it was gonna take very little to set me off.

"Can we get two sweet sherries please?"

Sweet sherry? That'll do it. And at that I crossed over from being slightly tired and emotional to being angry and combative.

Their simple request was met with a terse, "Sweet sherry? Yeah we don't do it."

"No sweet sherry Niles!"

"None Frasier."

Okay they weren't the Crane brothers but they may as well have been what with the way they went at the wine list and compared it to wine lists in other establishments. Was I not in the mood for this carry on. And you know you are in for a rough ride if the first thing they ask for is sweet sherry, especially if they aren't 65 year old women. They made do with a bottle of Bordeaux Supérieur 2005, obviously. Seriously the last thing I needed after a rather elongated and ball achingly annoying lunch service was two foodies out to pick holes in the carte de vins, as the portlier one kept saying.

I wouldn't mind but they were from Cavan or Monaghan or some other shite border town. Since when did they get so uppity and full of themselves? Ah the bog trotters appear to not only be able to stand upright but order wine too, cunts.

By the time Finbar and Niall, as I had taken to calling them, had considered, scrutinized and ingested three courses of late night supper I was fit to be tied. I approached them with a huge beaming, and obviously forced, smile hoping against hope that they were done for the night. But alas no.

"Some port would be wonderful", said Finbar

Zeebrugge sounds about right, I thought.

"Yes, sir some port it is" , I replied with a heavy heart.

It took another half hour for them to finish two small ports. But eventually they finished and did the right thing and fucked off home to fill in their journals and score their dining experience on one of those god awful internet review sites. Democracy is such a frightful bore. Who do these people think they are coming into a restaurant at night and ordering food? Sake. It took me about 2 whole minutes to clear and set their table and phone the wonderful people at Fon-a-Cab to come get me.

So there I was standing in the kitchen with The Cousin staring at me from behind the fridge as I muttered threats at most of the kitchen appliances for not working quick enough or too quick. He, as I said, was judging my mood and then hit me with,

"We have a problem." That invariably means I have a problem.

"WHAT? What fucking now?"

"Eh the heating boiler thingy-ma-jig (he is as technically gifted as I) is spewing out soot and black smoke."

"Right."

"And...", there was fear in is little bloodshot eyes.

"And? And fucking what?"

"Next door's kitchen is covered in it."

"Right......" I continued making a cup of tea and uttered a violent threat at the toaster for not toasting quick enough.

".....well there's fuck all I can do about it right now." And I shuffled off to bed leaving the cousin cowering behind the fridge. I am such a complete asshole sometimes. Sometimes.

In the end I got no sleep as I pondered the joy that is phoning the landlord. And how would I deal with the new neighbour? She was probably quite miffed, justifiably so, seeing as her kitchen was now coal mine than cooking room.

It's all too much. I don't respond well to adversity when tired. I did phone the landlord who greeted my call with his usual long pause which left me none the wiser as to what he intended to do. The house is baltic and if it hadn't been for a quickly delivered bottle of wine, chocolates and xmas card the relationship with her next door would be frostier.

Seriously I cannot wait for January and the expected slump. I'm gonna sleep for a week only waking to shout at something, probably The Cousin or the toaster.

Who needs neighbours?

The solitary painter working in the house next door assures me he will be finished in the next week or so. He's been the only person working next door that hasn't made me want to commit murder. He's an affable sort of chap, full of pleasantries and cheery hello's or to be exact what about ye's. We converse most mornings as I smoke my breakfast on the doorstep and he has his mid morning cup of milky tea. It's the normal run of the mill small talk, the joy of the Irish summer, sport, the economy, and so on. There was an odd moment though last week when we drifted onto the worsening situation in Zimbabwe. As neither of us really knew what we were talking about we both just ended up standing there shaking our heads muttering about what a scoundrel Mugabe is.

"Yup he's a bud un" says he and then takes a big gulp of tea from his, "Worlds best grandad" mug (cracked).

I sucked on my smoke and replied, "Yup, a bad un for sure."

Then there was silence followed by, "Probably rain again soon."

He sucked on his smoke and replied, "Yup, it'll rain all right."

I'll miss our chats.

In fact I'll be devastated when he goes. Not just because of our dazzling and illuminating repartee, I'm not that starved of conversation but because it will soon mean that the house will be available for rent. This fills me full of terror.

"crazy" students I hate students
fuck off and get a job.

That property has been empty for a very long time. The last tenants left, I assume though I never actually saw them leave, about four years ago. They were odd. You only ever caught partial glimpses of them, a leg as they scuttled into the house, a forehead as they peered out from behind the curtains. You knew they were there but you never got to see them in their entirety, much like the monster from Cloverfield. But without the head ripping and terrorising of Manhattan. That is until the night that the young woman who lived next door found her way into my house. That night she was every bit like the monster from Cloverfield.

I shared the house with my cousin back then. An odd boy for sure but quiet with it, so in many ways he was the perfect person to share with. He didn't bother much with the ladies or rather they didn't bother much with him. So when one literally fell on to his lap in the middle of the night who was he to look a gift horse monster in the mouth?! So the cousin and Ms Cloverfield got it on, as the kids say. This led to much awkwardness and more scuttling over the next few weeks and months as they tried to avoid each other and Mr Cloverfield obviously.

But since then the house has been gloriously empty. But not for much longer. Soon it will be filled, most likely with students. Oh mother of fuck I hope it's not students. But the large extension that now blocks the sunlight from my kitchen says it probably will be. I'd love it just to stay empty but unless I rent it as well as this place that ain't gonna happen.

Like I say I really don't want students living next door to me, especially first year students with their new found freedom and their college grants and loans burning holes in their corduroy pockets. Do students till wear corduroy? I don't know either, or care. Yes first year students from the country would be the worst possible result. No "off" button you see. Everything is conducted at full volume at all times. Why speak when you can shout? Why close the door when you can slam it? Why have a couple of friends round for some drinks when you can invite the whole of your university year group round instead? Why listen to decent music when you can shout/sing along to the Gambler by Kenny Rogers? Oh fuck, I'm frightened.

More Children of the Corn than Dawsons Creek, if you know what I mean

If I could decide you lived next door I would choose, deaf old people. But it's gonna be students. I'd prefer religious students, Buddhist, Christian or Muslim any really, as opposed to students who are religiously annoying. You see there would be no wild parties, lots of early nights, no drinking, no wild sex or even un-wild sex with which to torment me at 3 in the morning, no knocking at the door at 4am by people looking for "Seanies" house, no stealing my bin, no empty beer cans in my backyard, no bodies in my backyard. Oh yes, religious students are the way to go. And as a bonus the sound of their late night praying and chanting etc would be the perfect way to get to sleep. Sure there would be the occasional attempt to convert me but I'd rather that than the hedonistic hell that could be living there.

You can call me a grumpy old bastard if you want, I don't care.

Manuel needs his sleep.