Alisaura
Blue Crack Supplier
Just a little random stand-alone scene I wrote quickly... Nothing serious. Stupid muse started working at 1am, rotten timing but what can you do.
Hope you like it!
Standard disclaimer - total fiction, don't know the band, never been to Dublin, not true.
------------------------------
I'm starting to wonder why I moved here at all. What was I thinking?
Well, that was the whole thing, wasn't it. I wasn't thinking very much at all, which is most unlike me. Little Miss Thinks-Too-Much. Every decision I'd made in my life had been meticulously weighed and measured, every detail agonised over, examined from every angle in exacting precision. Every risk assessed. All the pros and cons listed and considered. And under scrutiny like that, all the risks took on a disproportionate mass, overbalancing the scales of my caution, and the net result was usually... nothing. I didn't risk it, I stayed put, where I was comfortable. In my familiar rut.
But one day, something snapped. I don't even know what started it, but in the space of a week I'd handed in my notice, and booked a one-way ticket to Dublin. Lucky for me the visa application went through smoothly, since I didn't even think about that until after my rash decision had triggered the avalanche of consequences. I had simply acted without thinking, for the first time in my life.
And why Dublin, you ask? Why, of all the cities in the world, did I pick that one off the top of my head? What was so special about Dublin that I would choose to re-start my life there? Or at least flee there for a while from my normal life.
Well, Ireland is an English-speaking country, for starters. That narrows things down, but still not by that much.
Dublin is also a beautiful city. I'd always wanted to visit it, but had never had the chance, or a good enough excuse. Or the gumption to simply get off my arse and go there... until now.
The exchange rate wasn't bad either, and I was fairly confident of being able to find work. And I'd been told it was a city you could walk in, so maybe it wouldn't matter that I couldn't afford a car straight away.
Those are all fine reasons, but the impulse that made me point to Dublin in the travel agent's office had nothing to do with any of them. No, it was all much simpler, and far more embarrassing.
One word.
No, not even a word. A letter and a number.
U2.
That was it. I'd flown halfway around the world, thrown my life into uncertainty and chaos, and the place I went was where U2 was. (Some of the time, anyway. Allegedly.)
And so here I am, six months later, in Dublin in the middle of summer. I have, eventually, found a job, and saved enough to get a car. It's tiny, but it works. And it has a CD player, which is all I really ask of a car. Well, aside from the basic elements of car-ness – the wheels and the engine and all that practical stuff.
(There are days I'm ashamed to fall so easily into the girl-knows-nothing-about-cars stereotype. I can fill up the windscreen wiper squirty thing and check the oil, but that's it.)
My new job is no more exciting than the one I had back home. I'm still paying rent and balancing my budget. In fact, the only real difference in my life now is that the money looks different and everyone has the most fantastic accent. But you can get used to anything after a while. Now, my ears only prick up when I hear an accent like my own.
Every now and then, however, I stop and remember that I am in DUBLIN. I notice all the fabulous buildings and history here again. That's nice when that happens.
I did the fan thing, of course, and wrote my name on the wall of the studio. No one else was there at the time; no fans, no exciting sounds from within. Just me in the rain with my black texta. I've been back there a few times, but aside from other wistfully hopeful fans, it's been just as deserted. I don't even know if any of the band have been in town – they're probably off in France or Africa or America or god knows where. All of the above, maybe.
I've just about given up on seeing any of them. It's silly to expect it, I know. I don't have that sort of luck; I've never won the lotto, or randomly met some long-lost friend in some random place. I never even meet people from work in random places. It's like everyone I know exists only in the context I've always known them in. Co-incidences just don't happen to me.
Maybe I should have moved to the south of France. Or America.
But America isn't Dublin.
It's Friday afternoon, and I'm driving home. I've had a long, boring day at work, to cap off a long, boring week. This weekend I am going to find a beach, sit on it, and soak up some of this rare sun. These last few days have been the warmest I've seen it here since I arrived, and it's glorious. My car window is wound down, and I'm treating the world to the music I have blaring through the CD player as I drive.
Shock, it's U2.
I can feel the locals rolling their eyes as I drive past. I smile briefly at the image of dozens of Dublin eyeballs bouncing down the street after me. The Pied Piper of Eyeballs.
Twinkling piano, sultry strings; and Bono's velvety voice fills the car. "Tonight, the moon is playing tricks again"... If I ever meet Jools Holland, I swear I will get on the floor and kiss his feet. But that hardly seems likely, not with my luck.
I can't help myself, I turn it up louder. The brassy abandon is probably drawing glances from other drivers or pedestrians, but I don't care.
The song goes quiet in the middle, as I pull up at a red light. I close my eyes for a moment, lean my head back against the headrest, and let the sounds wash over me. Easing away the worries of the week. "...Who'll catch the star when he falls...?"
I open my eyes, hoping the light hasn't changed – it hasn't. Someone would have honked at me if it had. In my peripheral vision, I see a sleek grey car pull up close beside mine, in the right-hand-turning lane. Its window is directly opposite mine. Without turning my head, I think that said window of this other car is open too, and suddenly I feel self-conscious about blasting Bono's voice directly into someone else's car.
"If you wear..." Blushing slightly, I turn the volume down until I can barely hear it. Eyes front.
"... that velvet dress...." Loud and clear. What? I look at the volume again. Four... and that voice hadn't come from inside the car, I was sure of it. But...
I slowly turn my head to the right.
Bono is in the driver's seat of the grey car, singing along to his own song, which he must no longer be able to hear from my car. The real, live, actual Bono. I can hear his real, live, actual voice.
I stare, open-mouthed. He's really getting into it.
"If you wear... that veeeeelvet dress...."
Bono. Right there. Short hair, green shades, purple shirt, scruff.
Well, I think faintly, I guess he's in town, at least. And I suppose that's what a Maserati looks like. Knew the name, never saw a picture.
And he's looking at me. Singing at me, and grinning. In a car, in the middle of a Dublin street. All I can do is gape like an idiot. That voice!
"If you weeeeeeaaaaar, that velvet dr--"
A horn honks behind the Maserati. There's a green arrow.
Bono glances around, winks at me, and careens off around the corner at what must be an unhealthy speed. I watch until the grey car disappears from view, mercifully unscathed.
I'm still recovering from that wink when my light turns green, and horns begin honking behind me. I drive off, slightly wobbly. The CD is still playing.
"You love this town..."
My stunned-mullet expression has given way to an incredulous grin. A beautiful day, indeed.
-------------------------
Hope you like it!
Standard disclaimer - total fiction, don't know the band, never been to Dublin, not true.
------------------------------
I'm starting to wonder why I moved here at all. What was I thinking?
Well, that was the whole thing, wasn't it. I wasn't thinking very much at all, which is most unlike me. Little Miss Thinks-Too-Much. Every decision I'd made in my life had been meticulously weighed and measured, every detail agonised over, examined from every angle in exacting precision. Every risk assessed. All the pros and cons listed and considered. And under scrutiny like that, all the risks took on a disproportionate mass, overbalancing the scales of my caution, and the net result was usually... nothing. I didn't risk it, I stayed put, where I was comfortable. In my familiar rut.
But one day, something snapped. I don't even know what started it, but in the space of a week I'd handed in my notice, and booked a one-way ticket to Dublin. Lucky for me the visa application went through smoothly, since I didn't even think about that until after my rash decision had triggered the avalanche of consequences. I had simply acted without thinking, for the first time in my life.
And why Dublin, you ask? Why, of all the cities in the world, did I pick that one off the top of my head? What was so special about Dublin that I would choose to re-start my life there? Or at least flee there for a while from my normal life.
Well, Ireland is an English-speaking country, for starters. That narrows things down, but still not by that much.
Dublin is also a beautiful city. I'd always wanted to visit it, but had never had the chance, or a good enough excuse. Or the gumption to simply get off my arse and go there... until now.
The exchange rate wasn't bad either, and I was fairly confident of being able to find work. And I'd been told it was a city you could walk in, so maybe it wouldn't matter that I couldn't afford a car straight away.
Those are all fine reasons, but the impulse that made me point to Dublin in the travel agent's office had nothing to do with any of them. No, it was all much simpler, and far more embarrassing.
One word.
No, not even a word. A letter and a number.
U2.
That was it. I'd flown halfway around the world, thrown my life into uncertainty and chaos, and the place I went was where U2 was. (Some of the time, anyway. Allegedly.)
And so here I am, six months later, in Dublin in the middle of summer. I have, eventually, found a job, and saved enough to get a car. It's tiny, but it works. And it has a CD player, which is all I really ask of a car. Well, aside from the basic elements of car-ness – the wheels and the engine and all that practical stuff.
(There are days I'm ashamed to fall so easily into the girl-knows-nothing-about-cars stereotype. I can fill up the windscreen wiper squirty thing and check the oil, but that's it.)
My new job is no more exciting than the one I had back home. I'm still paying rent and balancing my budget. In fact, the only real difference in my life now is that the money looks different and everyone has the most fantastic accent. But you can get used to anything after a while. Now, my ears only prick up when I hear an accent like my own.
Every now and then, however, I stop and remember that I am in DUBLIN. I notice all the fabulous buildings and history here again. That's nice when that happens.
I did the fan thing, of course, and wrote my name on the wall of the studio. No one else was there at the time; no fans, no exciting sounds from within. Just me in the rain with my black texta. I've been back there a few times, but aside from other wistfully hopeful fans, it's been just as deserted. I don't even know if any of the band have been in town – they're probably off in France or Africa or America or god knows where. All of the above, maybe.
I've just about given up on seeing any of them. It's silly to expect it, I know. I don't have that sort of luck; I've never won the lotto, or randomly met some long-lost friend in some random place. I never even meet people from work in random places. It's like everyone I know exists only in the context I've always known them in. Co-incidences just don't happen to me.
Maybe I should have moved to the south of France. Or America.
But America isn't Dublin.
It's Friday afternoon, and I'm driving home. I've had a long, boring day at work, to cap off a long, boring week. This weekend I am going to find a beach, sit on it, and soak up some of this rare sun. These last few days have been the warmest I've seen it here since I arrived, and it's glorious. My car window is wound down, and I'm treating the world to the music I have blaring through the CD player as I drive.
Shock, it's U2.
I can feel the locals rolling their eyes as I drive past. I smile briefly at the image of dozens of Dublin eyeballs bouncing down the street after me. The Pied Piper of Eyeballs.
Twinkling piano, sultry strings; and Bono's velvety voice fills the car. "Tonight, the moon is playing tricks again"... If I ever meet Jools Holland, I swear I will get on the floor and kiss his feet. But that hardly seems likely, not with my luck.
I can't help myself, I turn it up louder. The brassy abandon is probably drawing glances from other drivers or pedestrians, but I don't care.
The song goes quiet in the middle, as I pull up at a red light. I close my eyes for a moment, lean my head back against the headrest, and let the sounds wash over me. Easing away the worries of the week. "...Who'll catch the star when he falls...?"
I open my eyes, hoping the light hasn't changed – it hasn't. Someone would have honked at me if it had. In my peripheral vision, I see a sleek grey car pull up close beside mine, in the right-hand-turning lane. Its window is directly opposite mine. Without turning my head, I think that said window of this other car is open too, and suddenly I feel self-conscious about blasting Bono's voice directly into someone else's car.
"If you wear..." Blushing slightly, I turn the volume down until I can barely hear it. Eyes front.
"... that velvet dress...." Loud and clear. What? I look at the volume again. Four... and that voice hadn't come from inside the car, I was sure of it. But...
I slowly turn my head to the right.
Bono is in the driver's seat of the grey car, singing along to his own song, which he must no longer be able to hear from my car. The real, live, actual Bono. I can hear his real, live, actual voice.
I stare, open-mouthed. He's really getting into it.
"If you wear... that veeeeelvet dress...."
Bono. Right there. Short hair, green shades, purple shirt, scruff.
Well, I think faintly, I guess he's in town, at least. And I suppose that's what a Maserati looks like. Knew the name, never saw a picture.
And he's looking at me. Singing at me, and grinning. In a car, in the middle of a Dublin street. All I can do is gape like an idiot. That voice!
"If you weeeeeeaaaaar, that velvet dr--"
A horn honks behind the Maserati. There's a green arrow.
Bono glances around, winks at me, and careens off around the corner at what must be an unhealthy speed. I watch until the grey car disappears from view, mercifully unscathed.
I'm still recovering from that wink when my light turns green, and horns begin honking behind me. I drive off, slightly wobbly. The CD is still playing.
"You love this town..."
My stunned-mullet expression has given way to an incredulous grin. A beautiful day, indeed.
-------------------------
Last edited: