Friday was somewhat of a social experiment; I fancied getting bladdered in style and good company so I arranged a heady mixture of bloggers, friends, family members and flatmates to provide my evening's entertainment.
Thomas St. was my first port of call, to congratulate my sister on her graduation - first class honours! - and to ponce around drinking cans in the square and pretend that I too am arty, when I am patently not; the truly arty had brought their own booze and were not forking out €4.50 a pop for cans of warm Budweiser from the bar. They were heading on to the salubrious McGruders (memories...) but I had other plans, so off I trolloped.
My enormously flouncy candy striped dress and holy communion style white pumps and cardigan combo were entirely fitting for the NCAD Graduate Show, slightly less appropriate for the stroll into town at scobie-o-clock on a Friday evening and wholly inappropriate (not to mention impractical) for squeezing past drunks and playing table ricochet in the narrow confines of Bowes on Fleet St. But vodka knocks the edge off embarrassment as easily as a net underskirt knocks drinks off tables, I find. We cosied in the corner snug until the kindly bar staff pleaded with us to let them go home at which point we, somewhat inevitably, barrelled into Doyles. And "danced". Though at least in Doyles there's the comfort of knowing that no matter how much damage the drinking has done to your motor skills, you will not be the sorriest creature on the floor. I believe his name was Matt, and he was from Australia.
Home then for "cocktails" (clear as gasoline, came in a pint glass) and "bacon sarnies" (I lied, I had no rashers. Annie had to make do with peanut butter and toast) where I spent some quality time on the balcony, talking to the seagulls. I saw the last of them off the premises at 4.30am, tiptoeing around the glass on the street ("but your bare feet go with your dress") and laughing at the taxi driver's face when he clocked the stuffed dog peeking out from the collar of Annie's jacket.
Thomas St. was my first port of call, to congratulate my sister on her graduation - first class honours! - and to ponce around drinking cans in the square and pretend that I too am arty, when I am patently not; the truly arty had brought their own booze and were not forking out €4.50 a pop for cans of warm Budweiser from the bar. They were heading on to the salubrious McGruders (memories...) but I had other plans, so off I trolloped.
My enormously flouncy candy striped dress and holy communion style white pumps and cardigan combo were entirely fitting for the NCAD Graduate Show, slightly less appropriate for the stroll into town at scobie-o-clock on a Friday evening and wholly inappropriate (not to mention impractical) for squeezing past drunks and playing table ricochet in the narrow confines of Bowes on Fleet St. But vodka knocks the edge off embarrassment as easily as a net underskirt knocks drinks off tables, I find. We cosied in the corner snug until the kindly bar staff pleaded with us to let them go home at which point we, somewhat inevitably, barrelled into Doyles. And "danced". Though at least in Doyles there's the comfort of knowing that no matter how much damage the drinking has done to your motor skills, you will not be the sorriest creature on the floor. I believe his name was Matt, and he was from Australia.
Home then for "cocktails" (clear as gasoline, came in a pint glass) and "bacon sarnies" (I lied, I had no rashers. Annie had to make do with peanut butter and toast) where I spent some quality time on the balcony, talking to the seagulls. I saw the last of them off the premises at 4.30am, tiptoeing around the glass on the street ("but your bare feet go with your dress") and laughing at the taxi driver's face when he clocked the stuffed dog peeking out from the collar of Annie's jacket.
