And so another Monday finds Rosie battered and bruised at her desk, vowing not to drink again for at least a fortnight and contriving elaborate schemes to get tomorrow off work, as she cannot face the thoughts of five consecutive days of trying to amuse her work experience students very hard work. Not that her day off will be spent in bed, oh no. It will be spent doing all of the assignments that she hasn't bothered her arse to so much as look at for the last month. May's deadline is looming large and the last thing she wants is another panic attack like the one she had before last year's exams.
Why is she writing about herself in the third person? Is it not already weird enough that she keeps a blog?
I'm pleasantly tired after the weekend's fun and frolics. I was unpleasantly tired last night though; panda-eyed and frisky but without enough energy in my body to keep up with my brain. Not a nice way to be - you feel like you're going a little crazy. After Friday night's lapses in common sense and decorum I ended up with two houseguests for the weekend; the unfailingly polite Doc (whose only rival for talkativeness is the Swede) and Jeeps, the strange man with alarmingly straightforward manners. They'd come from London and Berlin respectively to celebrate the New Daddy's birthday with what was originally to be a curry-and-karaoke night and ended up being a free-beer-in-Hogans followed by shite-meal-in-overpriced-restaurant* followed by frolics-in-Rí-Rá followed by Campari-and-shitetalk-til-8am-back-in-mine kind of night. Scrubbed up in suits and dresses we were quite the dapper dozen and my outfit** earned me some much appreciated compliments, though I've yet to be featured in Dublin Streets.
I didn't kiss Jeeps again on the Saturday, partly because there'd been an annoying little butterfly fluttering around him all evening and I had no interest in vying with her for his attentions and partly also because I was beginning to see what the New Mammy had warned me about before I kissed him all of those months ago. I think with maybe one exception he'd had his way with most if not all of the ladies in our company, including the Poet, a college friend of mine that I hadn't expected to run into. "So, how do you know Jeeps?" I asked her, having apologised for him stealing the box of Ferrero Rocher she'd been carrying only to discover that she knew him and that they were actually his birthday present. "He picked me up in a club, and we've kept in touch" she replied, looking embarrassed. "I thought I was going out with him for a while, but he didn't." She did point out that the trail of women he'd left in his wake were rather attractive ones and that we should be flattered to be in such beautiful company.
Hmm.
My eminently wise flatmate the Leitrim Lady took another tack altogether and bollocked me once more for my short-sightedness. Herself and the Swede are both very taken with the Doc and are of the (loudly voiced) opinion that he and I should marry, and soon. "You have to stop kissing people just because they ask you to, you dopey bitch" she admonished. "Learn to play a longer game!"
She's right.
*An hour and a half late in seating us at our (pre-booked) table, no mention that the steaks didn't come with any side dishes (which left 8 of us sitting bewildered with a slab of meat and a €2 ramekin of sauce each) no side orders brought to the table despite my ordering some once this was realised, my "blue" steak a brownish pink medium, tough and sinewy and completely fucking inexcusable at €28. Bad service, bad food, disgraceful prices.
**I wore my diner waitress dress again: candy striped halterneck with a wide swingy skirt that I filled with layers of stiff blue, red and pink netting to make it stand out. Cute Stranger in Hogans - "your dress is fuckin' deadly! I mean it's, eh, beautiful!"
Why is she writing about herself in the third person? Is it not already weird enough that she keeps a blog?
I'm pleasantly tired after the weekend's fun and frolics. I was unpleasantly tired last night though; panda-eyed and frisky but without enough energy in my body to keep up with my brain. Not a nice way to be - you feel like you're going a little crazy. After Friday night's lapses in common sense and decorum I ended up with two houseguests for the weekend; the unfailingly polite Doc (whose only rival for talkativeness is the Swede) and Jeeps, the strange man with alarmingly straightforward manners. They'd come from London and Berlin respectively to celebrate the New Daddy's birthday with what was originally to be a curry-and-karaoke night and ended up being a free-beer-in-Hogans followed by shite-meal-in-overpriced-restaurant* followed by frolics-in-Rí-Rá followed by Campari-and-shitetalk-til-8am-back-in-mine kind of night. Scrubbed up in suits and dresses we were quite the dapper dozen and my outfit** earned me some much appreciated compliments, though I've yet to be featured in Dublin Streets.
I didn't kiss Jeeps again on the Saturday, partly because there'd been an annoying little butterfly fluttering around him all evening and I had no interest in vying with her for his attentions and partly also because I was beginning to see what the New Mammy had warned me about before I kissed him all of those months ago. I think with maybe one exception he'd had his way with most if not all of the ladies in our company, including the Poet, a college friend of mine that I hadn't expected to run into. "So, how do you know Jeeps?" I asked her, having apologised for him stealing the box of Ferrero Rocher she'd been carrying only to discover that she knew him and that they were actually his birthday present. "He picked me up in a club, and we've kept in touch" she replied, looking embarrassed. "I thought I was going out with him for a while, but he didn't." She did point out that the trail of women he'd left in his wake were rather attractive ones and that we should be flattered to be in such beautiful company.
Hmm.
My eminently wise flatmate the Leitrim Lady took another tack altogether and bollocked me once more for my short-sightedness. Herself and the Swede are both very taken with the Doc and are of the (loudly voiced) opinion that he and I should marry, and soon. "You have to stop kissing people just because they ask you to, you dopey bitch" she admonished. "Learn to play a longer game!"
She's right.
*An hour and a half late in seating us at our (pre-booked) table, no mention that the steaks didn't come with any side dishes (which left 8 of us sitting bewildered with a slab of meat and a €2 ramekin of sauce each) no side orders brought to the table despite my ordering some once this was realised, my "blue" steak a brownish pink medium, tough and sinewy and completely fucking inexcusable at €28. Bad service, bad food, disgraceful prices.
**I wore my diner waitress dress again: candy striped halterneck with a wide swingy skirt that I filled with layers of stiff blue, red and pink netting to make it stand out. Cute Stranger in Hogans - "your dress is fuckin' deadly! I mean it's, eh, beautiful!"
