Breakfast of champions for Mimi, who’s made a decent dent in her stash of M&Ms before Mrs mememe2U and I came downstairs at 9 am.

She won it at her friend Saidhbhe’s birthday party.

Her guess of 109 M&Ms was the closest to the actual 117 total contained in the jar.
No better contestant than a sugary-shite addict to win the jackpot.

The problem is that she is just as accurate when it comes to identifying missing M&Ms from her loot.

She knows just how many Finn and I manage to knick during the only 30 second window of opportunity when she wasn’t jealously keeping an eye on the jar.

Let me tell you, you don’t want to mess with a junkie…

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M&M, elle aime!


the passive aggressive stance

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The passive-aggressive stance

Microsoft excel for morons

Bemused would be putting it mildly…

Mrs Raheny with her default expression for the last four days.
Trying to decide whether the book is wrong, or the laptop is wrong, or the teacher didn’t cover that particular point.

She is pretty adamant that there is no Sort Ascending or Sort Descending options in Excel.

She excels at faulting the fucking laptop. Or the shagging book. Or that teacher bollix, the one who snorts really loudly and doesn’t give a crap.

There’s been quite a bit of swearing in the house lately.

My years of teaching and my legendary patience are put to the test. “And what the f*&**” do you call that?! Isn’t it f**** obvious?! A button with a shaggin funnel and an A and a Z! That’s for sorting and filtering, obvious-fucken-ly. What else would you use a funnel for?! To bottle A and Z letters?!”

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xls wtf?!

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Christi natali horribilis


Today I discovered that there truly isn’t any speed limit on the extra mile.
This year is going to be the last End of Year report to Wall Street for the Mistake Factory.
Some big private equity fund with shitloads of money, and possibly a sprinkle of business acumen (the jury is still out on that one) decided that buying the Mistake Factory could be a sound investment.

So, this December, for the last time, I decided to pull all the stops to delight the shareholders and decided to wait until the first night of my Christmas vacation to get sick. Very sick.

On the penultimate day of Christmas, my Mimi gave to me, a strep throat under the tree-ee…
Not just to me. She was rather liberal. We are all sick. Except Finnzy, the jammy little bollix. But I would not hold my breath.

It’s been a truly difficult day. I managed to cook a couscous while struggling not to faint.
There were tears. Mrs Raheny’s, as she struggled with the shakes in a blanket that brought little comfort.
I did for a second entertain the notion of reaching for the camera but I was a) too weak to lift the DSLR and the poxy Windows Phone is banjaxed b) only too aware that her state of extreme debilitation would not last for ever, and I would eventually have to pay for my callousness. With interests.

With Nana having opted to keep 200 miles between her and the Place of Pestilence (smart move!), there was little else to do but try not to puke while cooking the couscous (that Pepe won’t eat anyway, any food stuff invented or prepared more than 30 miles from his place of birth is tapas non gratas), and listen to Luca occasionally croak a feeble “this is the worse Christmas ever”.

It possibly is. It definitely is one to remember. I’m sure we will laugh back on it with the passage of time.

But right now it is true and utter agony.

I haven’t eaten anything all day. Ok, a sirloin steak may have passed my lips around 1 pm, and I may have eaten a clementine or eight to help the Germentin go down. I have lost so much body mass that I am getting worried.
Mrs Raheny, who is a classy bird, is on Klacid. I wonder if our GP goes on weekends to the Algarve with different pharmaceutical companies every year, and prefers to hedge his bets.
He wasn’t all that surprised to see all five of us in the surgery at opening time today (we brought Finnzy along, as a benchmark for health and vitality).

Today truly is a poxy Christmas Eve.

And to make matters worse, Mimi has just decided that she will still struggle through Through the Woods.

I’m through with Christmas.






Not just an idiomatic expression.

My underwear does need changing.

Laura-Lucy, you big lunatic…










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Shit scared



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The voice of his conscience

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Screw you, unsmiley phone


I am more than a little bit chuffed with myself.
I managed to make a smart phone that works from two not-so-smart broken ones.

With the help of the Chinese guy from the New Paddy Electronics (phone unlocking, at reasonable prices), I have returned Mrs Raheny to connectivity and the joys of getting Whatsapp notifications every 3 minutes.

Her first phone she dropped in Don Mimi’s pizza, at a time when the kids were particularly odious (their way of thanking her for taking them for a pizza treat). That was a good while ago.

The second hone decided last Friday to display a blue screen with a rather pissed off unsmiley face. Not a good sign (the only worse sign is the blue screen with extended middle finger logo).

You’ve just got to love YouTube. Besides hilarious videos of pugs and kittens doing super cute things, there are videos for every sort of technical problem you can think of.

I am forever in debt to LE55ONS, a guy generous with his time and skills.

In the grand scheme of things, I have almost balanced out the destructive formative years of my youth.

My first wind-up watch
My second wind-up watch
My first electronic watch
My third wind-up watch
My second electronic watch
My mum’s travel alarm clock
My first walkman
My mum’s Renault 19
My first Discman
My first MP3

My second 35 mm camera
A Philips portable DVD player (from two broken ones)
My mum’s DVD player and home cinema amplifier
Mrs Raheny’s Nokia 520 (from two broken ones)

Ongoing project: fixing the chord of the edge trimmer that I cut last week, while trimming the edge.