Connecting all the dots…
Connecting all the dots…
That perspective thing…
The morning felt like I was drowning in a tsunami of corporate headaches.
Swept away by a gale of cross-departmental miscommunication and finger pointing.
And then I realised that the Coast Guards’ rescue helicopter was perhaps not taking part in a drill after all, not in that mad wind we had this morning and that the pedantic meteorologists qualify of “blowy as fuck”.
The windsurfers who launch from the little slip in Salthill seem to have a predilection for “blowy as fuck” weather conditions.
Guaranteed to provide a greater kick. Get the adrenaline pumping.
Twice a rescuer from the chopper over choppy waters was winched down, twice he came back up empty-handed.
I hope it wasn’t one of the windsurfers.
Sure they’re mad eedjits.
Sure they’re only asking for it.
Sure they are just selfish brats wasting valuable time for the rescue services.
Sure they totally remind me of me at their age.
In their twenties. Uncontrollable. Unaccountable. Invincible.
In search of the next buzz. The next rush of adrenaline.
Trying ever harder to feel even more alive.
Never contemplating feeding the Dublin Bay prawn…
These days I long for the rush of slowly slipping into my charentaises, fastening my paisley dressing gown, carefully embedding myself into therecliner… to watch base-jumping videos on Youtube while sipping Redbull.
That perspective thing.
Hope it wasn’t one of those windsurfing eedjits.
Leave da squairz to deir indoor fancy fussy nibbly eaty thingy.
Eat like da real baddass mofoz, yo!
C’mon sistaz ‘n’ broddaz.
Grab da chicky chicken quickass karkass ‘n’ rip a wing off.
Grab da canna stout an’ da canna Coooooooors light.
And chilly chill da chillout picnik in da drizzle.
Sit yo baddass butt on da wet wall an’ look at da sea, yo.
See da kickass sea, yo?
Badass Picknik Co, mofoz!
Thank you sweet ladies with very little English and even less French for allowing me to take a quick pic of your chicken picnic in the drizzle.
Your resilience and determination to have a good time paid off. I tip my hat to you.
I was going to go for a title as exciting as the Calm after the Storm but then I remembered Mrs mememe2U in her pyjamas and wellies, running hysterically around the garden in search of the two missing swimming costumes (hers and Mimi’s) and fancy Boden bath towel at 6.35 AM
I tried to tell her that the gale was over, that the swimming togs would not get much further now and that she had better wait for daylight and the calming effects of a hot cup of coffee and toast.
But she kept on rooting inside bushes and behind Wendy houses in her frantic search for the exclusive swim wear sourced in the sales.
Given the force of the wind last night, it could have landed anywhere between here and Navan…
I advised her to prepare some handwritten notes to drop in the neighbours letterboxes: “Hi, this is Mrs mememe2U, the woman with the blue Saab and the three very loud kids. I was drying my swimwear in the gale last night and I was wondering if my Arena swimming costume had perhaps landed in your garden”
She was not impressed.
I told her that things could have been worse, that the clothes lines could have been ripped apart, which would have resulted in me having to fix yet one more thing.
She still couldn’t take her mind of her disappeared items.
At 10 AM I got a text message saying that she had found them in the hotpress, where she had put them last night when it started pissing rain…
It was my turn not to be impressed.
I noted that the boys’ gear was left on the line overnight, to get a good aul rinse.
My Speedos smell particularly fresh this morning, having been aerated down to the most deeply woven elasticated microfiber by winds of up to 120 kph.