On Sunday evening we sat in Kelly's restaurant, dressed for dinner and too tired even to talk. The waitress brought our dessert menus and we did the usual dance to decide who'd order what, though we eat from each other's plates anyway. There were tears in Andrew's eyes as he dithered somewhere between a pavlova and a passionfruit tartlet.
***
On Monday we skittered across to the hotel carpark to open our presents. It was like Christmas in the boot of our Carisma. Every kind word in each of the cards made me smile, so I took them back to our room and lined them up on the dresser. Then I had another nap, while Andrew read his book and stroked my hair. Later, we took tea and cake in the garden and then had a walk on Rosslare strand. "Our kids can send us here for our anniversaries" I said, streaking merrily ahead of myself. It's nice to have the confidence to do that.
***
On Tuesday afternoon we took a mudbath. I smoothed the dark brown clay over my skin, making swirls with my fingertips. "Look!" I said to Andrew as I rubbed my brown pot belly "This is what I would look like if I was black and pregnant! Or white, fat and covered in mud..." I added hastily, lest my new husband took me for a racist. He looked like Al Jolson, but I didn't like to say so.
***
We ate lunch in a café in Waterford on Wednesday. "Would you like to pay together or separately?" asked the waiter. Andrew glared at him. "But we're married!" he didn't say. He just handed him over the money.
***
On Wednesday night we went to Connie Doolan's in Cobh for a drink. I didn't think it was open, but Andrew gave the door a good shove and we landed in, looking a bit lost, to find a fella dandling a little Pomeranian on his knee and a lady tending bar though there wasn't a sinner in there. "Are ye open?" They were, so I bolted for the jacks and left Andrew to settle us in. By the time I'd washed my hands he'd told them we were on honeymoon and the first round was on the house. We spent the rest of the evening idly chatting, the owner illustrating his anecdotes with the pictures taped to the pub walls. On the way back to our hotel, the taxi driver told us that the pub had been won in a raffle. I dunno if he meant the Guinness "
Give a Yank a Pub" grushy (a painter from Boston won the pub for a poem) or if there'd been a subsequent raffle where Danny and his doggle lucked out. I'd like to think so. We promised to drop in the following night if we were in Cobh. We were, but we didn't. I feel bad about that now.
***
On Thursday morning in Fota, the waitress brought tea to our table and asked me if my husband would like any sauces to go with his breakfast. I beamed at her and asked for some brown sauce pleasethankyou. "She called you my husband!" I said to him when he returned from the buffet. "Why'd you get brown sauce?" he said.
***
We went on a ghost tour in Kinsale on Friday night, with about 40 kids. One fella told flowery tales about the town while the other hid around corners and in wheeliebins, jumping out on cue with a bowel-loosening BOO! It was brilliant.
***
We took our kites to the beach in Garrettstown on Saturday morning. Mine is a little blue biplane. Its wheels fell off mid-flight but Andrew rescued them from the surf, even though he had shoes on and I didn't. He's my hero.
***
On Sunday evening we went up to Johnnie Fox's for a game of Pitch and Putt. "I'd use your putter for that one" said Andrew, every fucking time I went to take a shot. It didn't matter a damn as I was using my pitcher as a putter anyway. We didn't keep score, but I reckon I won on account of me not coming close to killing anyone, and Andrew coming perilously so. We tried to get dinner in Enniskerry afterwards, but everywhere was shut, so we took a spin to Bray to get some chips. I had romantic notions about eating them on the seafront, but it was choked with carnies so we ended up snarfing them in the car on Novara Avenue, for want of a place to park. They were cold by then, and heavy with grease. I didn't mind. Bray's where my grandparents honeymooned many moons ago, and as my nana said, it didn't do them any harm. Mind you, they weren't staying in the Ritz. We trailed back to our room there smelling of salt and vinegar, dodging the doormen on our way in as they swarmed to wish us well. "Were you greeted enthusiastically by our staff? Did they bid you a fond farewell?" asked the comment card on the bureau in our room. I felt sorry for them, reading that. Still, I didn't tip.
***
I was ill on the Monday. Good livin' doesn't mix well with Glucophage, the medication I take to treat my polycystic ovaries. And we'd been livin' so good that by rights we should have come home with gout. Andrew is quietly sympathetic and solicitous when I'm sick. It reminds me why I'm taking the stupid medication in the first place.
***
We came home last Tuesday. "You're my lovely wife" he said to me, and his big brown Labrador eyes looked wet with pride. He's said it most every day since, even on the days when I'm being a total arsehole. Long may this honey moon last.
A film that's every bit as funny as its poster suggests. 
