Fat juicy meme, all for me
Apr. 28th, 2003 09:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
radegundAs ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
glitzfrau predicted, I can't (or, to be strictly accurate, won't) resist this one...
20 years ago: Eight years old. Third class in primary school, taught by one of those insane elderly female teachers (the ones who would have lost their jobs if they married and so never did; this one later went really mad - used to spend lunch break doing Irish dancing in a corner of the playground, muttering to herself). She was hot on spelling and sean-nós (Irish traditional) singing. I sewed a hideous orange flowery cotton bag, putting an "L" on the front in bias binding. I had a Best Friend (who duly switched alliances and became Chief Taunter the following year). I wrote stories derivative of E. Nesbit and C.S. Lewis.
10 years ago: Eighteen. First year in college, trying to prepare for exams while so depressed that I used to spend hours each morning lying in bed watching the angles on the clockface changing. I was in the process of breaking up with my first serious boyfriend, following two and a half years of almost unmitigated unpleasantness. (The breakup took us eight months to conclude; it was ugly.)
Five years ago: Twenty-three. Drifting through my Master's in creative writing, struggling with short stories and trying to plan my novel, living in the nicest rooms in Trinity with a good friend, singing a lot, drinking a lot, enjoying singlehood (read: scoring random people and daydreaming perfect futures), doing yoga every morning, revelling in my position as doyenne of a buzzing node on my social network.
Three years ago: Twenty-five. Two weeks into my new job, which was so many orders of magnitude better than its predecessor that they can barely be accommodated in the same brain. Living in DomesticBlissTM withniallm for a bit over a year and loving every minute. Life good.
One year ago: Twenty-seven. Beginning to emerge from the enormous energy hole that buying the house dug in my life (still not fully out of that one, am I? - but it's a lot better than it was!). Hoping to start work on the novel again soon. Absorbing the decision to stop taking singing lessons (this was reasonably momentous, in that I was finally nixing the idea that I might become a professional classical singer). Off to Amsterdam to pose as Niall's lovely assistant while he attended RIPE.
Yesterday: Nearly twenty-eight-and-a-half. Up at 8:30 to go and sing to the Lord for €30. Then a pleasant meander through the Grafton Street shops with Glitzfrau; tried on but didn't buy; browsed glasses frames for her. Went home, cooked lunch, ate lunch, consulted housemates, made shopping list, drove to Sandyford, negotiated the hell of Atlantic Homecare (including garden section), acquired various items to aid in domestic beautification, became bedazzled by three-for-two offer on 70L bags of organic compost, nearly broke self in two when radzhandling them into the boot, drove home, press-ganged housemates into helping unload car, drove to airport, sat in airport waiting for best friend's delayed flight, sat in airport some more, browsed bookshop, checked arrivals screen, made notes for a poem, bought junk, winkled further information out of airport staff, sat some more, ate junk, made more poetry notes, watched clock, gave up, left contrite voicemail for friend, drove to parents' house in Blackrock, arrived an hour late for dinner, ate delicious food and discussed such burning topics as political corruption, the Leaving Cert and compost, herded sister and grandmother into car (a lengthy procedure), drove to grandmother's house, unloaded grandmother, drove to town, unloaded sister, drove home, sank gratefully into bed, somewhat fatigued.
Today: Work somewhat blah and Mondayish. Evening pretty good. Wrote more than 500 words of novel, which is way cool.
Tomorrow: Is a new day.
glitzfrau predicted, I can't (or, to be strictly accurate, won't) resist this one...20 years ago: Eight years old. Third class in primary school, taught by one of those insane elderly female teachers (the ones who would have lost their jobs if they married and so never did; this one later went really mad - used to spend lunch break doing Irish dancing in a corner of the playground, muttering to herself). She was hot on spelling and sean-nós (Irish traditional) singing. I sewed a hideous orange flowery cotton bag, putting an "L" on the front in bias binding. I had a Best Friend (who duly switched alliances and became Chief Taunter the following year). I wrote stories derivative of E. Nesbit and C.S. Lewis.
10 years ago: Eighteen. First year in college, trying to prepare for exams while so depressed that I used to spend hours each morning lying in bed watching the angles on the clockface changing. I was in the process of breaking up with my first serious boyfriend, following two and a half years of almost unmitigated unpleasantness. (The breakup took us eight months to conclude; it was ugly.)
Five years ago: Twenty-three. Drifting through my Master's in creative writing, struggling with short stories and trying to plan my novel, living in the nicest rooms in Trinity with a good friend, singing a lot, drinking a lot, enjoying singlehood (read: scoring random people and daydreaming perfect futures), doing yoga every morning, revelling in my position as doyenne of a buzzing node on my social network.
Three years ago: Twenty-five. Two weeks into my new job, which was so many orders of magnitude better than its predecessor that they can barely be accommodated in the same brain. Living in DomesticBlissTM with
niallm for a bit over a year and loving every minute. Life good.One year ago: Twenty-seven. Beginning to emerge from the enormous energy hole that buying the house dug in my life (still not fully out of that one, am I? - but it's a lot better than it was!). Hoping to start work on the novel again soon. Absorbing the decision to stop taking singing lessons (this was reasonably momentous, in that I was finally nixing the idea that I might become a professional classical singer). Off to Amsterdam to pose as Niall's lovely assistant while he attended RIPE.
Yesterday: Nearly twenty-eight-and-a-half. Up at 8:30 to go and sing to the Lord for €30. Then a pleasant meander through the Grafton Street shops with Glitzfrau; tried on but didn't buy; browsed glasses frames for her. Went home, cooked lunch, ate lunch, consulted housemates, made shopping list, drove to Sandyford, negotiated the hell of Atlantic Homecare (including garden section), acquired various items to aid in domestic beautification, became bedazzled by three-for-two offer on 70L bags of organic compost, nearly broke self in two when radzhandling them into the boot, drove home, press-ganged housemates into helping unload car, drove to airport, sat in airport waiting for best friend's delayed flight, sat in airport some more, browsed bookshop, checked arrivals screen, made notes for a poem, bought junk, winkled further information out of airport staff, sat some more, ate junk, made more poetry notes, watched clock, gave up, left contrite voicemail for friend, drove to parents' house in Blackrock, arrived an hour late for dinner, ate delicious food and discussed such burning topics as political corruption, the Leaving Cert and compost, herded sister and grandmother into car (a lengthy procedure), drove to grandmother's house, unloaded grandmother, drove to town, unloaded sister, drove home, sank gratefully into bed, somewhat fatigued.
Today: Work somewhat blah and Mondayish. Evening pretty good. Wrote more than 500 words of novel, which is way cool.
Tomorrow: Is a new day.
