Tag Archives: exams

Goals for 2011

Fuck resolutions. I don’t believe in them. Get yourself a pen and paper and set yourself some goals for the year. Goals are far more attainable and satisfactory since you can work through them and tick them off a list.

Here are some of mine:

  • Pass soddin’ exams!
    • I have been ‘doing’ my crappy tax exams for the last four years. ‘Doing’ entails sitting, failing, resitting, chickening out and passing. Enough! I am going to get them in 2011.
  • Sun holiday
    • Fuck culture! This year I am not doing cultural weekends away. I want to go on a sun holiday. I want to lie on a beach by day and kiss men by night. Sun, sea and sex awaits.
  • Have a passionate fling
    • I need to meet a man. I need to celebrate my youth and move on from the Great Break-Up of 2010. I don’t want a relationship. A fling, however, would be a treat.
  • Make a soufflé
    • The art of soufflé making has fascinated me. Is it really as difficult as people say? I want to master this skill and serve it to some friends.
  • Go on a second sun holiday
    • More sun, sea and sex, please.
  • Make more male friends
    • I love the many women in my life, but man if I have sit through one more conversation on detoxes, diets or weight gain/loss, I shall hit someone.
  • Stop biting my nails
    • It’s a disgusting habit. I want to stop. I shall try.
  • Acquire a hobby
    • Apart from blogging I don’t have a hobby as such. I need one. This one is vague for the moment.
  • Join a team
    • I’ve never been on a team of any kind. I think it would do me good. This again is vague. More research needed.
  • Have a fancy cocktail party
    • I am going to have a cocktail party in the apartment for my birthday. This is an easy one.
  • Do something creative using my hands
    • I want to learn carving or origami to stimulate the seldom used creative side of my brain.
  • Enroll in a Pilates instructor course
    • When I get my tax exams, I am going to become a Pilates instructor. ‘Nuff said.
  • Pay for braces
    • I am going to clear the balance of my braces by March 2011. No (expensive) clothes shopping or needless eating out for me until then.



I Beat You!!

I repeated a set of exams for the third time during April. This time round I did more work. Not only did I work harder, but I worked smarter. This morning, I received my results. I passed. It is such an incredible feeling.

I have to momentarily remind myself of my achievement. It’s yet to sink in. I owe my sucess to being mature about the whole thing. Stress, mickey fits and procrastination surprisingly do nothing to achieve results.

Fuck you exams! I beat you!

Daylight Robbery

After a long week of exams, I looked forward to last weekend. I planned to have a party to celebrate end of exams and my birthday. It was the perfect opportunity to catch up with friends, most of whom I had avoided to ensure time to study. Boyfriend intended treating me to the leather jacket I pined after. Was it any wonder I was excited? My weekend was going to be the perfect finalé to a long, arduous few months. Like all good things, they usually don’t happen as planned.

On Saturday morning, Boyfriend and I set off for Dundrum to buy the jacket. Despite suffering tiredness from a Friday night of drinking and dancing, I was excited. I skipped to the Massimo Dutti store with glee. My heart dropped when the store assistance told me the jacket was out of stock. I had fixated on that jacket since my encounter with it in London. It was to be my reward for my laborious few months. Needless to say I returned home from Dundrum disappointed. I consoled myself with the party that evening. I climbed out of the car and opened the hall door. The door swung open. I spotted a small blue card on the small table.

“Look at that!” I said. “There’s an Oyster Card on the sideboard. That will come in handy for the tube this weekend when we are in London.” I walked ahead of Boyfriend into the kitchen. The light was on. I thought nothing of it.

“Eh, Stephen …” Boyfriend called. “Did you mess around with the contents of the sideboard in the hall?”

“Of course not,” I exclaimed. “Why would I do that?”

I walked into the kitchen. The kitchen cupboard doors were open. It looked strange. A cold chill ran down my spine. Ohhhh, it looks like we had a poltergeist, I thought.  I continued to assess the situation. My housemate had recently moved out. She was due to come back and collect some personal effects. Wow, she did a really thorough search of the place. The cogs in my head whirred. When I think back, everything seems to have happened in slow motion. I surveyed the kitchen; the window was open. Boyfriend was still in the hall cursing profusely and rummaging through the white, wooden unit.

“What the fuck happened here?” I heard him yell from the hall.

“You might want to come in here,” I called from the kitchen. He arrived by my side and looked around. “I think someone broke into the house while we were out.”

He stared in disbelief. “No way! No fucking way.”

He left my side and ran to the bedroom. I remained in the kitchen with a rock in the pit of my stomach. He roared and shouted. I looked in the kitchen cupboards. Things were moved. An impostor had rummaged through our things. I scanned the dining area. Many items were disturbed; a cupboard that stores alcohol was open; a bottle of aftershave was in a new place; letters were open; and CDs were knocked from the rack. An eerie, cold feeling swept over me. Boyfriend returned to my side evidently stressed. He rubbed his forehead.

“You should see the bedroom. They’ve gone through everything. The laptop is still here and your camera is on the table. They don’t appear to have taken much. How did they get in? Was the kitchen window open when we left?”

“I don’t think so,” I replied, straining my memory. Had it been open? Was I to blame for this oversight? I asked myself. Guilt accompanied the rock in my stomach.

“How the fuck did they get in?” he asked in a bemused manner.

I went upstairs. I tiptoed and checked nobody was still in the house. I peeped into our bedroom. It was by far the worst of all rooms. Every wardrobe, box and personal item had been ransacked. My passport lay on the floor. My tax credit certificate and payslips were strewn around the room. It made for an upsetting sight. The mental image of some dirty knacker going through my underwear drawer and personal documentation made me sick. I couldn’t bear to remain there. I went down stairs and took a cross legged position in the living room. I remained there for almost an hour. The reality of the situation gradually sunk in. I felt light-headed and nauseous. I called friends to cancel the birthday/end of exam celebrations scheduled for that night. I recall having a few conversations.

Boyfriend called the Gardaí. Together we waited for their arrival. Now and again, Boyfriend returned to the bedroom to perform a stock take of missing items. We also played Nancy Drew by attempting to figure out how they gained entry. I walked about the house in a state of numbness. It were as if floated on a cloud of total disbelief. The Gardaí eventually arrived. They were dressed as by-standards. In reality, they were dressed like individuals from a lower socio-economic background. Their appearance leant towards characters that were more likely to rob a store than uphold justice in a community. Boyfriend walked them around the house, directing them to the various injustices. They looked at the kitchen and asked if any food was missing. Apparently, it was not uncommon for intruders to steal food. They knew of one case where an intruder had even cooked a meal in a house. Boyfriend led the Gardaí to the bedroom. From downstairs I could hear them talking. I still hovered on my cloud, which by now had taken me into the kitchen. I re-examined the evidence again. I checked the open window and contents of the food cupboards. I looked into one of the cupboards and noticed something was missing. I became panicked. I ran to the hall.

Boyfriend, Boyfriend” I shouted.

The Gardaí were at the bottom of the stairs beside the hall door. They looked at me a little wide eyed.

“Eh, I think your friend wants you” said one of the men.

I beckoned Boyfriend to the kitchen. One of the Gardaí followed him.

“What is it?” Boyfriend asked in a surprisingly calm manner.

I pointed to the shelf of the cupboard. “Look! The flour is gone. They took the baking flour.”

Boyfriend laughed. “It’s OK. I moved that last week.”

“Oh!” I answered a little stupidly.

The Garda remained in the kitchen. He neutralised the awkwardness; “We can remove any bakers from the list of possible culprits”.

“I suppose,” I said, while looking down at the floor. I felt a bit stupid.

The Gardaí departed and told us a forensics team would call in a couple of hours. Before leaving, they figured the intruder(s) had jammed the hall door open with a screw driver. The intruder opened the window in the kitchen as an escape route. Boyfriend and I spent the rest of the evening waiting for the forensic team, or forensic man as it turned out. He dusted down many surfaces with a black powder in search of finger prints. He spilt some on the wooden flooring of our bedroom. The black powder stain is very difficult to remove. The worst thing about the experience is that nothing appears to have been taken. The only item that was stolen is our feeling of security in our home. Since Saturday, Boyfriend and I have spent a few sleepless nights in the house. I realise it will get easier with time. It truly is a horrifying experience.

Important Announcement


In a Nark

This week, I am in a nark. I have, as Boyfriend would say, stopped off at the grumpy shop. I’ve definitely filled my trolley at the Grumpy Store. I am not entirely sure why I am in this mood. It must have to do with the fact my exams loom around the corner.

My emotions are heightened. So far this week, I have had a few small cries and lost my temper on one or two occasions. I am completely out of sync with my emotional state. The man flowers are definitely in town.

To create this state of mind you will need:

  • One cup of self-pity
  • A table spoon of contempt
  • A handful of exhaustion
  • A tea spoon of bitterness
  • A pinch of over ambition
  • Some depression to decorate

Mix the ingredients well. Fold the mixture and allow to separate. Extract any patience/tolerance to guarantee a good display of temper.

Cook at a high temperature in a pressure cooker until well done.

Hair Cut Gives Him the Cut

While lying in bed early this morning, the DJ of my favourite morning show debated a story that had broken recently. Apparently, a secondary-school student had been rewarded €3,500 by the Equality Tribunal for his treatment in a school he formerly attended. It was reported the student had been sent home because his hair style was non-compliant with school rules; ‘it was longer than collar length’. The school asked the student to cut his hair. The student refused. The radio show debated the harm in allowing school pupils to wear their hair as they pleased. The host asked where the harm lay in allowing students to express individuality. I was gradually awakening at this stage. After processing the information, I thought back to my school days. Guys in my school were often sent home for bleaching their hair. A school principal in the same town sent students home for having tight hair (any thing cut with a blade one or less). I discussed this matter with Boyfriend. We agreed it was pathetic.

Time passed and the news article was reported in further detail. The news report described the manner in which the school had asked the student to cut his hair. The vice-principal had told the student he was sporting “a girl’s hair style”. To make matters worse, all these trivial events took place while the student was studying for his Leaving Cert (his final exams). This incensed me. The school’s superior’s thought the trivialities of a student’s hair cut to outweigh the student’s performance in his exams. The school thought their fascist opinions on the art of coiffeur gave them the right to add emotional trauma to the already turbulent adolescent mind. Who do these people think they are? For the love of God, why are these people allowed contact with society? Why are these “teachers” allowed contact with our children? I wouldn’t permit individuals like these to train my fleas to perform tricks, never mind educate my children.