When Becoming a Blanket is the Only Answer

 It all started with the electricity bill. Which was everybody and nobodies fault all at once. 

This was bad. We didn't turn on each other though. We all shuffled off to our various rooms and sulked. But then the really horrendous thing happened. The heating died. Ours is not the sort of house that retains heat. It sort of eats it and spits it out the windows. As each of us realised our rooms were becoming slowly more refrigerated we emerged in our various cold-proofing outfits.

It got to the point where I looked like a walking thrift store. 

It then escalated to the point where I could not actually move my arms.

I was insistent that despite all this we should remain positive. That running and being proactive was the answer to this Frankenstein-type January that was trying to bring us down. 

I was spending most of my time curled up in bed writing. This was quite cosy until my hot-water bottle started leaking.

Any normal person would have checked to make sure they weren't just imagining the bed was wet. But I kept typing, sure I was just being dramatic as my bed got soggier and soggier. When I finally realised that I was indeed sitting in a rather warm and soggy puddle of water, I of course had words with the deflated excuse for a hot-water bottle. 

I then spent the night huddled in one corner of my bed feeling more than sorry for myself. With no hot-water bottle and no heating it felt like the cold was settling in my lungs.

But I was still determined to make sure January wouldn't get me down. So I decided to go for a long, long, long run. This would a) dispel all bad feelings towards the month and b) ensure warmth for the duration of the run. But then this happened...

By the time I got home I was soaked to the skin and colder than when I'd started out. 

I then spent a couple of hours clutching the kettle in search of warmth. 

Shortly after this I decided to retire to my blanket and stay there until the cold has passed.

Why New Year Resolutions Turn the World Into What Feels like a Bad Apocalypse Movie

January is a terrifying time of year. Someone has to say it. Otherwise we'll all go around thinking this is normal, that it's OK that we do this to ourselves on an annual basis. I'm just as bad as everyone else. It's like a weird zombie apocalypse movie out there- just less slashing and no heroes.

There are just so many of us roving about in the various stages of our withdrawal symptoms. Mothers chewing curtains because they've renounced sugar in all its forms, people twitching at their desks and falling asleep on their keyboards because they've quit coffee, arthritic looking twenty-somethings wander the streets after taking up jogging.

The smokers glowering at their cats because it's easier to blame a cat for a sense of loneliness than the absence of tobacco.

And then there's the breakdowns, the so-called failures.

The people that thought ANYTHING was possible, but then tripped on a doughnut on the way home from boot-camp.Then there's the people who after giving up whatever crutch they were using, be it sugar or caffeine  related,  realise they have feelings and attempt to eat all of those feelings in one sitting.

However none of this is as  annoying as the people who simply proclaim they are going to be better people without ever specifying how.

I NEED to know how. Do they mean better- as in become more generous when playing monopoly and help the poor person pay off their mortgage-or better- as in become an activist and raise awareness of important issues-

Or perhaps they simply seek to emulate someone they feel is better such as their favourite sports star.

It's all a little ridiculous really. All this time dedicated to telling people HOW we are going to better ourselves and it makes January a scary time in all our lives. There are consequences besides a nation of zombies. Think about it: Mars Bar vendors might go out of business if we're not careful- and they have families too. Or what about the increased sense of smugness in the world. As all the people who decided to become lactose-intolerant for the year yammer on about Soy Milk and how their complexion has never been so vital.

And what do we achieve really in January. Lose a few pounds of fat and gain a few of self-righteousness. People feeling superior as their less successful friends weep over the potato slathered in butter that they danced with last night. 

I mean the way I see it New Years can be this big scary thing with all these terms and conditions or we could decide to do it differently. Be a little kinder to ourselves and stop the zombie-esque apocalypse. It could be as simple as this: I shall no longer answer the front door with a hot-water-bottle stuffed up my jumper because it's unfair to shock people with what appears to be a very sudden and unexpected pregnancy.

My Duck Fetish Housemates and Where it All Went Wrong (Part Three of Three)

Between their duck fetish and my inability to clean to their heightened standards. I knew things in the apartment were not going to work out. However I was biding my time as I couldn't really afford to escape. I, of course, was assuming I had a choice in the matter.

At first I thought we were going to have another argument about tooth-brushing the skirting boards. So you can imagine my surprise when I was given my notice.

That was it. One weeks notice and then I'd be homeless. I looked to my quiet roommate for sympathy.

But she was less than forthcoming. I had to find somewhere to live, someone to live with these nut jobs and move all my belongings to some other godforsaken apartment all in one week. I started to panic.

After a lot of time spent pacing I decided to get my act together. I arranged viewings around the city and spent the next few days running in and out of apartments and showing my apartment to people. In order to get someone to take it as soon as possible, I decided to act like it was a sales pitch.

I even managed to distract viewers from the fact that my housemates were sitting on the couch glowering at them as they walked around the apartment. They were even occasionally growling and making strange hostile murmuring noises.

After the first round of showings I had several enthusiastic candidates. But my housemates had a few additional no-nos. They wanted to make sure that their new housemate had none of my traits. They also ruled out several nationalities as potential housemates based on their perception of that nationality. This included their own country-men.

So I started the process again and eventually found a very quiet girl who was willing to take the room. I tried getting her to sign the rules without actually reading them.

After an hour spent convincing her the rules were just a precaution she eventually signed. I was all set to move out. On the day of my departure my housemate came to the door. I assumed it was to wish me no hard feelings. But instead he was looking for money for the next months bills.

That was it. I'd had enough of these duck-loving loons. So I told him I'd pay him in the kitchen in a minute. I waited for him to go in there and start pottering about. Then very quietly I grabbed my stuff and legged it out of the building, down the street and made my way to my new home.

My Duck Fetish Housemates and Where it All Went Wrong (Part Two of Three)

So needless to say I was finding it hard to deal with the knowledge of the duck fetish. I could barely make eye contact with anyone and I spent my days slipping out of the kitchen to avoid mentioning it. Tensions in the house started to rise. I think they knew I was freaked out by their bedroom antics and they started cracking down on the house rules. I would stumble out of the shower to the sound of a stopwatch beeping.

I was determined to make it work. It was my week to clean the apartment and knowing I'd insulted them with my comments about the "cleansing week" being religous I decided to make amends. I was going to make the apartment squeaky clean. So squeaky and clean that they would love me forever. I donned my cleaning clothes and got to work. I broke into the cleaning routine lightly. With a little dance around the kitchen to Dirty By Christina Aguilera. It's important to note at this point that I have a terrible habit of cleaning to my own off-key renditions of terrible pop-songs.

It might also be a good idea to mention that these renditions are complete with compulsive dance moves.

My housemates steered clear of the operation. They walked in on me scaling the kitchen cupboards and belting out a motivational tune and that was enough to convince them to remain in their rooms while I scrubbed.

I was determined. I cleaned and scrubbed and sang and cleaned and scrubbed and cleaned...

Until I was sure I had cleansed places no man had ever cleansed before.

I informed my housemates. Sure we would now, finally, be friends. There would be no weirdness about the duck thing. We would be united in our dust-free apartment. I was alarmed to find that was not quite the reaction my efforts resulted in.

I was then frog-marched into the kitchen. Where my housemate walked straight to the couch and ripped the cushion cover off of one of the cushions and pointed with a look of contempt at it.

But apparently he wasn't looking for the English word for the cushion. He was simply horrified that I had not hoovered the insides of the cushions. I stood gaping at him as he donned his cleaning outfit to show me how to do things properly.

After an exhilarating tour of the various dust traps in our house and a scintillating step by step guide on how to clean a skirting board I was still in shock.

When the tour was over he told me to ask him any questions I might have. So I did.

When he didn't answer I simply went on a small rant about his duck antics. How if I could put with the duck fetish, then perhaps he could be a bit lenient if I forgot one of the several steps involved in removing dust from the skirting boards. It became clear from the look in his eyes that he was considering the best way to dispose of me.

My Duck Fetish Housemates and Where it All Went Wrong (Part One of Three)

About two years ago when I first moved to Dublin City I was really excited. I had this vision of a New-York Sitcom type life. After spending my formative years in bog holes and blackberry bushes, in the back end of nowhere, I was ready. This was going to be a new beginning and I tried as usual to have realistic expectations.

But Dublin was pricey and I soon realised that there is no such thing as the dream apartment. There is the apartment that will have you and you accept gratefully whether or not the toilet works and the ceiling is caving in. So I ended up in a teeny tiny shared room. There was barely space to stand between my bed and my roommates.

The second issue arose when I tried to unpack. It soon became clear that by Dublin standards I was something of a hoarder and there just wasn't enough space to accommodate all my belongings.

But this was not going to deter me. I decided to befriend my new housemates. After all this was never going to be like the TV sitcoms if we didn't get to know each other. I was living with what appeared to be a lovely Brazilian couple and a very shy girl who barely spoke. So at our first house-breakfast I attempted to make conversation.

I assumed of course that they just weren't morning people. Having grown up with my mother not being able to piece a sentence together until the coffee kicks in , I wasn't surprised.

However, my quiet roommate made it rather clear that they simply weren't chatty folk. That afternoon I was presented with the official house rules.

 A most welcoming list of laws to abide by.

The list had at least twenty rules varying in levels of normalcy. Being my usual tactful self I tried to make light of the situation.

Needless to say nobody was impressed.

I made a few more light-hearted and sarcastic remarks.

 That fell heavy on what was a very silent audience.

After that I got a bit nervy. I tried asking about the girl I'd replaced and why she had left. But my shy roommate didn't offer much in the way of useful information.

Despite my misgivings it seemed like it was too early to give up on the living arrangement yet. After all I'd only been in Dublin a week and they were just quite people. I could cope with silence and perhaps the awkward feeling would subside. I was going to make the best of it. That was until I discovered a weird and disturbing thing. One day I came home earlier than planned and heard duck noises coming from the Brazilian couples room.

At first I thought they might just be watching a documentary. But is soon became clear that this was not the case. I hoped then that perhaps this was a once-off. But a few days later, when it happened again, I realised I'd moved in with some rather unusual people.