Owing to the multiplied power of numbers which made the self negligible

She won't know it until she reads this, and she may not thank me for pointing it out, but today is Rosie's eleven thousandth day of life. It's not that I have Rain Man-esque abilities, it's just that during a recent chat with some similarly-aged friends, I realised that we hit our ten thousandth day sometime after we turn 27 and grew curious about exactly how many days old I am. This site does the job nicely, but make sure you enter your date of birth in that backwards way that Americans do. Days are more significant than years, if you think about it. You don't remember the year of your first kiss, or the year you got shitfaced drunk and made a holy show of yourself in a Spanish karaoke bar, or the year someone ripped out your heart and pissed on it, do you?

We've still only been together a little less than a thousand days, Rosie and I, but we both have had a fair idea of what's gone on for the other one in every single one of them. Speaking personally, they were when things suddenly got a fuck of a lot easier. The first 10,000, though, are the ones we really talk about, slowly.

Aisha, we've only just met and I think you ought to know...I'm a murderer

What with there being nothing sad at all about sitting around the flat on your own watching the Eurovision semi-finals I am doing precisely that. Perhaps only for a few minutes longer though, as I'm starting to hate my ears, and the ironic appeal of all that kitsch has a limited lifespan before it just makes you start to despair.
Still, if there's one thing I dearly love it's a good and proper mangling being handed out to the English language, Engrish style.

And bless me if Latvia's entry, a mildly discordant, comely young lass in a dressing gown who goes by the name of Aisha, hasn't obliged me nicely. What for? Only Mr. God knows why. My favourite bits are in bold.

I’ve ask my angels why
But they don’t know
What for do mothers cry and rivers flow?
Why are the skies so blue, and mountains high?
What for is your love, always passing by?

I’ve asked my uncle Joe
But he can’t speak
Why does the wind still blows and blood still leaks?
So many questions now with no reply
What for do people live until they die?

What for are we living?
What for are we crying?
What for are we dying?
Only Mr God knows why
What for are we living?
What for are we dreaming?
What for are we losing?
Only Mr God knows why
But his phone today is out of range

The sun in colour black is rising high
The time is turning back, I wonder why
So many questions now with no reply
What for do people live until they die?

What for are we living?
What for are we crying?
What for are we dying?
Only Mr God knows why
What for are we living?
What for are we dreaming?
What for are we losing?
Only Mr God knows why

What for are we living?
What for are we crying?
What for are we dying?
Only Mr God knows why
What for are we living?
What for are we dreaming?
What for are we losing?
Only Mr God knows why.

Thank you, Aisha, thank you for the words.

An Béal Bocht

There's this grey coat I have that I bought in Milan about three years ago. I think it cost me about 240 eurolira - not exactly wildly excessive but way more money than I had ever spent on an item of clothing before. I swaggered around Dublin and various insalubrious parts of county Wicklow with it on, always confident that the coat lent me an air of respectability. I looked like the kind of man you'd be happy to have teach, and possibly even date, your children.

I still wear the coat in winter and, dubious strawberry yoghurt stain notwithstanding, it looks pretty good from the outside. Inside, however, the fancy satin lining is perishing to the point of non-existent and strands of it peek out most unwantedly from my cuffs. And lately I've been seen to meander into McDonald's and fumble for an unfeasible length of time in the inner breast pocket in search of Buy One Get One Free vouchers for sausage and egg McMuffins.

Aside from that, I don't think unemployment has made the slightest bit of difference.

Speeding

Driving back up the M50 tonight to my place of residence I couldn't help but notice I was really driving rather fast. Somewhat above the 120 km/h speed limit, in fact. I didn't feel remotely bad about this as there was absolutely no traffic around and my car felt well able for it. However, I was in no particular rush, as is sometimes the case when I break speed limits. More often than not though, I'm simply thinking it would be nice to have a cup of tea/ browse the net/ watch TV/go to bed/ see my ladyfriend ten minutes or so earlier than I would be able to do these things if I stuck to the speed limit.

All of which got me thinking: Do only assholes speed? Do only assholes, plus me, speed? Am I an asshole? It has been pointed out to me recently that I'm starting to become the kind of driver I've always given out about - speeding, lane-hopping for quick overtakes, tailgating (I really think I don't do that one but I'm told otherwise), even the occasional use of the phone. I recognise these things as wrong and try not to do them, but can't help wondering how others feel about the speeding issue. Doesn't everyone do it to some extent? Should we have laws more like Germany, where on parts of the autobahns you can do whatever bloody speed you want? Or are Irish people in general too incompetent as drivers to be trusted with that? It strikes me that people drive whatever speed they feel reasonably comfortable at, rather than what they are told to, particularly when its late at night and there is zero chance of being caught by a speed trap.

Which brings me to my next point: http://www.independent.ie/national-news/twothirds-of-speeding-drivers-get-off-the-hook-1367599.html
Recent figures showing that two thirds of drivers caught speeding get away without paying the fine or receiving any penalty points, simply by claiming they never got the summons of fine notice. Now, does this not make everyone incredibly ashamed of both our government and our police force? (Actually, mostly just the government, I'm certainly of the opinion that the average garda on the street is doing a wonderful job.) To me it just beggars belief that this can be the case. And it will surely get worse, now that the less cute whoors out there have been made aware of just how easy it is to get away with it. Despite my casual approach to speeding I have yet to be caught. But I fully accept that it will happen and, when it does, I believe I will hold my hand up and say "Fair cop guv". I really do think I hold the attitude of "Don't do the crime if you can't do the time."
This debate is already raging over at the Indo link I posted above but, if you're not speeding away already, I'd love to hear people's thoughts on this topic. Do you speed too? Does Brian Cowen speed? Is this speeding fine shambles the kind of thing that should bring down a government? Do we need a more liberal approach to speeding or a more zero-tolerance one? Am I just an asshole?