Hey buddy, what a scoop!

I’M in need of some inspiration kids and I thought I’d ask for your help.

Following in the footsteps of the remarkable Red Mum (see the link in my sidebar there!), a Dublin newspaper has expressed an interest in me writing a column for them, based on my blog.

They seem impressed by what I’ve written so far and seem to think that their readers would also like to hear about my single life, battle with Weight Watchers and just general views on being a woman in Dublin. (I’m guessing their thinking behind it is their readers might not feel so bad about their own lives if they read about how desperate/fat/single I am, and it might provide some laughs into the bargain!)

Anyway, I’m all for it but I need to come up with some ideas for the name of the column, because, being a family newspaper I can’t call it Life’s a Bastard….and I’d rather not use Knackered Kaz either.

I’m really at a loss because I want it to be a catchy, witty, original name..not just Kaz’s Diary or anything like that (Bridget Jones beat me to that one) and Sex and the City has already been done.

I dunno…maybe Koncerning Karen? Or would people not get the deliberate alliteration and just think I can’t spell?

Overbearing, Overweight and Over here? Too much?

I’d like to come up with something to pitch them because otherwise I think it WILL end up being Karen’s Column or Karen’s Diary and I’d like something more original than that.

When I know more I'll let you know when (or if!) it's coming out and what newspaper etc but for now I'm still talking with them.

All help gratefully received! Get your thinking caps on!

One foot in the grave and the other on a banana skin

AS some of you may be aware, it was my birthday last week and sadly I have reached the grand old age of 27.

I had thought that I would be able to keep this ever descending slide into my thirties from you, but Blogger, being the omnipotent being that it is, changed my age on my profile here on the blog, about two seconds past midnight on my birthday, so I am forced to come clean.

My big day was on a Tuesday and as I was working til 9.30pm, I didn’t get to celebrate on that day (apart from the half eaten cake Mammy and Daddy Dunne presented me with, complete with guilty sugar-stained smiles) but I did go out on the weekend.

Dressed to the nines (well, maybe the seven and a halfs) in my black boobylicious Sasha top that I mentioned before, I sallied forth with some childhood girlfriends in tow to a pub and then a club.

Without exception, we were the oldest people in there.

Where do all the people in their mid-20s, early-30s go? And why do bouncers allow young-uns, who should by rights be down the youth centre, into their establishments?

Children, for that is what they were, rolled past us all evening complete with spotty skin, skirts up to their buttocks (ooooh Matron) sqeaky voices and Ben Sherman shirts, locked after downing two vodkas and red bull.

One fella even bore a shiny red rosette and medal from his Confirmation, I swear to God.

I was all for presenting myself to Mountjoy Prison for having inappropriate thoughts about a minor (Confirmation boy was cute) but the music was good so I partied on.

Seriously though, there seems to be an absolute dearth of any people my age when I go out and about, particularly men, so it’s no wonder I’m single!

Am I perhaps merrymaking in the wrong places? Do men and women my age go out to fine wine tasting evenings? Galleries? Museums? Doesn’t anyone go to pubs anymore?

Ah, just like it is with policemen, you know you’re getting older when the guy you have backed up against the fire escape in a club starts to look younger.

Pic www.pocketfactory.com