My usual teddybears can't make the picnic this year, so I've spent all week fretting over where to pitch my tent and how to wangle a man to carry my shit from the car to the campsite. There are plenty of people going that I am on wonderfully convivial drinking terms with, but almost all of them have a crew of their own and as my shower of poverty-stricken recessionites sold their tickets one by one, I had visions of me camping alone, spending the weekend sprawled in my deck-chair, sobbing with loneliness over a tin of cider. Wearing his underpants on the outside, a heroic friend last night agreed to my crashing with his party of five merry men so long as I promise not to make too much of a nuisance of myself. The Corkonian is bringing his girlfriend, he told me, so I shouldn't be too much of a problem. "Great!" I exclaimed "someone else with a vagina! We're sure to become BFFs".
His brow furrowed. "Actually, I have a feeling you might get on better with the lads".
His brow furrowed. "Actually, I have a feeling you might get on better with the lads".
