And surprisingly enough, the petals, still they staid.
For several days, would you believe. And the little green near us looked like it had received a liberal dusting of pink Parmesan cheese.
And unfortunately it meant that for three nights in a row we were right beneath the flight path of the sun seekers coming back from Tenerife at 1.20 am (talk about a shock to the system, coming out of DUB terminal 1 at 2 am in your shorts and flip-flops and sniffing the cold drizzle while wondering how much of a mouthy fascist the taxi driver is going to be…)
A tale of waiting, and waiting some more, and bitter disillusionment.
Courtesy of Dublin Bus.
She got her bus in the end. Three of them in a convoy actually, bumper to bumper. Once the guys had finished their game of cards at the terminus.
It didn’t start well.
Some petty consular agent with a very different understanding of the French language to mine was going to deny me my civic rights. No way Jose!
Aux armes citoyens! My (civic) Liberty shall not be denied, I demand my Equality. But you can keep your Fraternity. I don’t want you as a brother, sister!
I was redirected to the Service Contentieux (you know you are in a French embassy when the complaints department is as big as the passport office) but knew I would get the same misinterpretation as to what constitutes a valid form of identity. My Irish driver’s licence fits all the criteria set out by them: an official document, delivered by a Member State of the E.U. with my name, photograph, date and place of birth. Why the fuck would you list it as a valid form of ID if on the day you will only accept a French passport or ID card (“même périmés”, I wouldn’t want to put that to the test… Might actually try in two weeks’ time).
I was lucky to spot the head honcho himself who was doing a bit of PR by taking the details of some of the thousands of voters (I am not exaggerating) who each queued for about two hours to vote.
I pleaded my case to Monsieur l’Ambassadeur, explained that this was not just a case of administrative misinterpretation (pettiness is a perk of the job for underpaid consular agents) but a much more serious case of denial of a fundamental civic right, as enshrined in the statute of the Republic.
I was upgraded to the top of the queue at the Service du Contentieux (my apologies to the other raleurs) with an express recommendation from the boss man that my little problem be addressed asap.
They still wouldn’t accept my perfectly valid Irish driver’s licence but issued me on the spot with a cute little Carte Consulaire, with a photograph of me that dates from twenty years ago when I was 20 kilos slimmer and wearing my cool leather jacket bought in Texas (that’s what they had on file).
I happily rejoined the snaking queue, and 90 minutes later voted for the guy I don’t like to try and stop the woman I abhor.
I discovered during the process that the under two years old are not very keen on civic practices. Or long snaking queues. There were a few meltdowns. And some very very stressed parents.
Anywaym, it’s done. Round one.
Back to the same craic in two weeks’ time. I think I’ll bring my Carte d’Identite from 1982 with me. The one that expired in 1992. It says on the form that it is a valid form of ID…
Today I walked for two hours with a teenager. It was, like, totally boring, like. We talked about films, and history, and video games, and sexual education, and the internet, and special effect, and art, and exams.
It was, like, totally boring.
And mega embarrassing.
Jayzus, I hope that none of my mates saw me walking on the streets of Dun Laoghaire, talking to him. The embarrassment. Total morto I am…
Spent two hours of my life (that I will never get back) watching the final address of the 11 candidates for the French presidential election.
Only a sprinkle of them actually said something. And an even smaller number actually said something that I would tend to agree with.
And none of them could remotely implement what they were talking about. None of the one I would tend to agree with, if pushed.
So nothing new there.
Except for the dangerous one. Very scary.
I have a profound dislike for the muppet I am going to vote for. In an attempt to stop the one I abhor.
Plan B is to leg it. Where to, I have no idea. I will just join the thousands of other headless chicken running around flapping their wings. Because we’re fucked. Running around with other headless chickens.
I’ll be good at it. The Mistake Factory has prepared me well.
Would you believe… I am going to vote.
Not in Ireland. My country of adoption. The place I call home. But in the old country. The land where moaning is a national sport practiced by the majority. Douce France, cher pays de mon enfance.
In dark times when lunacy becomes the norm, I think I will try and stick my chewing-gum in one of the millions of cracks in the Dam of Obscurantism.
It’s pretty much a lost cause.
Lepen may be stopped this time, but she and her cohort won’t be stopped for ever.
Let’s give it a try. Le vote utile…
I’d rather vote for the banana to be honest, but at the end of the day my first round ballot will go to the vote-whore most likely to stop Lepen in the second round.
Not someone I would vote for in normal circumstances.
It’s called damage limitation.
I’m doing it for Newgrange. I’m doing it for the next four generations.
Of mice that live under my kitchen sink.