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Posts tagged ‘teenager’

More from the archives

But you would not believe how much shite I had to wade through to uncover these nuggets. It appears that, during my teenage years, my parents were engaged in a conspiracy to ruin my life. I think it best not declassify this information during my lifetime.

Holiday in Wales, aged 16 – 1988
I was severely depressed, and headed outside to have a good yowl and perhaps throw myself under a truck

All my love to your parents and your brother (well, I don’t really know him)

I’ve thrown in a few postcards for you, and a duck brooch

If you see Sarah give her my love, I suppose

UCD, aged 18 – 24 November 1990
<Unintentionally and regrettably hilarious. Confirmation that I was a Loser> I know four or five second years, and two fifth years actually started talking to me on Friday! Believe it or not! They’re selling me books

PS – Did you see ‘Ghost’? Shit, wasn’t it

PPS – Hope everything is going well. I was too busy waffling about myself to ask earlier in the letter

From UL, aged 19 – 5 November 1991
PS – Those things after my name are kisses, not swastikas

Tragic Argyle

Husband stays connected

I used to hate cycling. (NB: in this context, ‘hate’ is too mild a word, but I am not aware of a single alternative that fully conveys my deep-rooted, fundamental, bone-chilling, teeth-grinding loathing. There can be no more perfect confluence of distilled misery than of being a teenager in Ireland in the late eighties. Add cycling to the mix, and we’re talking about a diabolical form of torture. Cycling to school was an exercise in thriving/surviving against impossible odds, what with drunk truck drivers and waterlogged potholes that extended to the centre of the earth, and the wretched awareness that my arse was the biggest in the known universe, and the mobile audience who stared at it incredulously. Not forgetting the tragic grey Argyle I used to think was cool, but was actually so unfashionable that when I wear it NOW it would almost qualify as trendy. And the plastic Dunnes Stores bags secured to my feet with elastic bands.)

Over the years, I have grown attached to my arse and adept at dodging potholes. Also, it is impossible to dislike cycling where we live. Husband bitches about the number of hills, but freewheeling down them is such fun, it more than compensates for slogging back up.

During the week, I made a Trademe purchase from a seller who lived in Waitakere.

“She’s just up the road,” I informed Husband. “I’ll pedal over on Saturday morning.”

I was surprised when he volunteered to accompany me, although it is perhaps less surprising when the alternative was cleaning the gutters. I tried to avoid distance-related discussion, and told him it was ‘all downhill’.

We shoved the bikes up to Scenic Drive – with a minor detour back to the house when we realised Husband had forgotten his helmet – and cycled north. Scenic Drive is a fair illustration of the word ‘undulating’. However, just before Scenic Drive intersects with Swanson Road/Waitakere Road, there is a kilometre long downhill. This was terrific fun, although a section of uneven tarmac reminded me how vulnerable a bicycle is.

We took an alternative route home, opting to traverse Christian Road and along the Pipeline Track to Mountain Road. We walked the Pipeline Track in summer and even then it was greasy; however, it is only a kilometre long and downhill.

Front brake accessorised with plant


(Not to be confused with anti-freeze.)

Me: I always look like such a ghoul in photos. I used to practice pouting in front of a mirror, but-

The Bro: Stop, stop, STOP! THAT – right there – that is why you were never cool

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