Sunday Segues Into Monday

Stranded with 23 cent to my name, work in the morning and a hangover waiting for me under my bed, I sent him a message to see if maybe he might like to come fetch me. Because every ATM in Fun Laoghaire was fucked, because he's kind and I knew he wouldn't mind. When he called to see where he should pick me up from, I was sitting down to a late supper of paracetamol and milk, having realised that taxis can also be employed to drive one to a cash machine.

He turned the car around and dropped over anyway, just to kiss me goodnight. I apologised insincerely for my tipsy state and sighed into his shoulder, wishing he didn't have to leave. "You're about 40% proof alright" he laughed, and kissed me again. "40% proof but 100% honest" I mumbled, gee-eyed but trying to channel doe-eyed and winsome.

"Have you fallen for me?" he asked.

Fuck.

Because I have, just a very tiny little bit, though I have tried hard not to. The call came on Saturday morning; next Monday he leaves for London, indefinitely. And the rug is pulled out from under my feet once more.

Iascaireacht

Cé gur gheall mé dom féin nach ndéanfainn gearba a scrabhadh a thuilleadh, ar ndóigh sin go díreach a bhí ar bun agam ag an deireadh seachtaine. Chuaigh mé thall go Londain le cuairt a thabhairt ar fear atá mar chara agam, agus mar leannán anois is arís. Nó b'fhéidir mar leannán agam agus mar chara anois is arís... ní fheadar. Thar a bheith simplí ach casta mar sin féin, mar a bhíonn na cúrsaí seo i gcónaí. B'fhearr dom deireadh a chur leis an caidreamh, b'fhéidir, ach níl an misneach agam seasamh siar agus rud éigin níos fearr a éileamh dom féin i láthair na huaire. Easpa féinmhuinín, an ghnáthrud.

Agus le breis crá agus creach a tharraingt orm féin, chinn mé ar teagmháil a dhéanamh le fear eile fad agus a bhí mé sa chathair, iar-leannán eile, an fear céanna a chur fonn filíochta orm ar an mblag seo i mí Dheireadh Fómhair (I know, an náire. Filíocht!). Theastaigh uaim bualadh leis arís chun go bhféadfainn mo cheann a réiteach, ionas nach mbeinn ag brionglóideach air a thuilleadh. Bheadh deoch againn agus thuigfinn nárbh é an duine céanna a bhí i mo cheann agam, bheadh díomá orm, agus faoiseamh, agus rachainn abhaile arís le leanacht lem' thóraíocht.

Pfft. Ar ndóigh, níor oibrigh sé. Bhí mé ag insint do mo dheartháir mar gheall air agus bhí mé buíoch dó as an tuiscint agus an chomhbhá a léirigh sé dom, mar a bhím i gcónaí. "It never seems straightforward for you alright..."

I'm even more grateful to him because he didn't say what I was thinking - that I really don't make it easy for myself.

FortyCoats

On rainy days like today, I love my raincoat. The big hood covers my dorky headphones, keeps my beautiful new €17 bob dry and frames my impish charm. It does impair my vision slightly, however, so my sincere apologies to the driver of the 15A bus (I was never the best at crossing roads anyway). Still, at least he saw me coming.

They saw me coming at the weekend too. I wore my favourite coat for my weekend's fishing trip, confident that I looked every inch the city sophisticate. "Look at you in your loud coat!" said Fish #1. Cue a silent and indignant huff, which went completely unnoticed. "Look at you in your loud coat!" exclaimed Fish #2 on Sunday evening, oblivious to Fish #1's earlier faux pas.

Sigh.

Favourite Coat (Detail).
Not Loud, Pretty.
(You know, like me...)

Dating Service

I see that that Disgrace has been pondering his single status of late, which I suppose makes a change from him just muttering direly about his last relationship.

My honeymoon period as novelty single guy has come to an end. I'm now becoming an embarrassing loveless lump of drunken typical single sleaze bag.

[in conclusion] Ok girls, come and get it...

This has me thinking once more about blogging as a dating strategy. I read recently (via JazzBiscuit) about the British Psychological Society's advice to women on choosing an online dating name, advice which seemed to support my previous feminist(ish) rant about men not being attracted to clever or funny women. "She advised female lonely hearts to avoid screen names which attempt to be classy, or show how clever they are."

I've had two affairs* as a result of this blog, though you know that already. It makes for an interesting way to meet someone and I'm not sure if I prefer it to conventional methods (getting wankered and seeing what fate has to offer by way of entertainment). I met LC sight unseen and took my chances, I ended up spending two fantastic long weekends with him. I went out as a pretend friend with OneFor (whom I had met once before but didn't pay any mind to) and ended up sticking my fingers in his beard and asking him to kiss me.

Neither of my affairs were disasters, exactly, but nor were they raging successes; I still sleep alone. Both were short lived and disappointing in their way, both were a little easier because they keep blogs too (and I had read them) so I knew more or less what I was letting myself in for and both were a little more difficult because they had read my blog (and it was far too late to try to make a good impression). It can make for frustrating conversation, having your own flippant remarks and faux pas quoted back to you almost verbatim. It also drastically reduces your stock of witty anecdotes with which to fill conversational lapses, "I read that!" effectively unravelling your yarn and leaving you looking like a one-trick pony.

I'm not sure how accurate a picture I paint of myself with my writings here (SWF reckons I'm pretty true to form) but I do try to be classy and even when recounting my most idiotic adventures I try to do it in an articulate and clever manner. Because I find classy and clever attractive, though I suspect my definitions of both are a little different to the ones one might find in a dictionary. So am I fishing for romance through my blog, in some long winded form of online dating?

In between odes to my family, my friends and the demon drink, maybe.

*What else to call them? They were neither relationships nor one night stands. Can anybody suggest a more suitable term? (Note: anyone suggesting "thing" will be barred.)

GreasyLocks

After my recent hair-raising tale I've been inspired to share another hirsute horror story with you. It's long enough ago for me to laugh at it now. Just about.

For years I've had patches of psoriasis on my scalp. I've found that what works best for me is the occasional application of a coal tar pomade, which is every bit as unattractive as it sounds. It's a thick, sticky brownish goo, it smells like old person's soap but does the trick if applied before bedtime and washed out in the morning. I'd run out of the offending substance and high-hoed to the chemist's to get some, planning on having shining tresses for the following evening's trip to London. I went home, smeared it in, wrapped my hair (which was lovely and long at the time) in a turban and went to bed. The following morning I got up early and washed it, as usual, but it wouldn't wash out. In fact, I couldn't get the shampoo to lather. So I washed it again. And again. And again.

Four washes, and still not so much as a bubble from the shampoo, despite all of my exertions. I emerged prune-fingered and raging from the shower to reexamine the container my coal tar goo had come in. Only to discover that it was not in fact my coal tar goo. The pharmacist had given me the wrong stuff; this was some kind of petroleum jelly based unguent. I had smeared my hair in Vaseline and left it to soak in overnight.

I scraped it up into a sloppy, sticky bun and stormed down to the chemist's to demand an apology and a miracle solution. The assistant helpfully suggested that I try wearing it in a "wet look style" for a few days. I punched her on the nose and stormed off home to call the hairdressers.

They advised me to put talcum powder in it to soak up the excess grease, and then to try washing it again. My sister was drafted in and we spent an unhappy hour making a hair, Vaseline and Johnson's Baby Powder paste. Three goes of this (that's seven washes now) and still no progress so I called up to the salon to see if they could do anything more. They applied some kind of nail varnish remover solution to my hair that they usually use to remove years of Dax Wax from pimply men's hair and left me under one of those space helmet dryers for a half hour before washing it another three times, and then spent a fucking lifetime trying to blowdry it. "It'll take maybe a week or two to get back to normal" the hairdresser sympathised. "It's nice and soft though..." she trailed off, hopefully.

Thankfully greasy looking fuckers were all the rage in Brixton Academy that night. Though it took weeks for my curls to come back.

I Heart London

Highlights:

• Seeing the dinosaurs in the Natural History Museum. While I will concede that the London museum is bigger and better has more educational stuff than our Dead Zoo in Dublin, ours has far more stuffed animals. I like stuffed things.
• Meeting Davey and his bandaged finger. He'd want to mind where he sticks them in future. He's funny, cute, a DJ and has a beard. I think it might be love.
  
• Going for a walk in the park in Acton and seeing squirrels, a black swan, a woodpecker and parrots. Wild ones, in the trees. In London, in winter.
  
• Drinking in Camden and thinking I'm much cooler than I really am. Realising that I'm cooler than I was, at least, as am drinking in Camden.
• Getting found again after getting lost on the tube and being pathetically grateful for it. Drinking in the city is fun. Commuting back to outer space is not.
• Curling up on the couch in front of the ridiculously large television and drinking the many cups of tea made for me by my gracious, charming and generous host.
  
• Laughing at LC (my gracious, charming and generous host) when a be-dreadlocked man-lady at the bar takes umbrage to him staring at his/her arse and gives him lip as he-she struts his (admittedly fine) arse back up the stairs.
  
• Waking up on a cold Tuesday morning in February with nothing to do for the day other than snuggle back down under the blankets again to see what I could find there.
  

The High Life

Things you do not want to hear when you've just strapped yourself in on the 7.45pm 8.15pm 8.30(ish)pm flight from London to Dublin:

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen! This is your captain speaking!"

Not Enough Hours In My Day

I meant to write lots of lovely posts today but I've been up to my teeth. Next week I'll tell you all about:

• My night out on Thursday which left me with a sore head and a handbag stinking of chips
• The haircut that I didn't actually get but which was admired by all and sundry on Friday
• Ego massages Talking blogs with Rua while stuck in traffic for about 486 hours yesterday
• Eating shoeleather for dinner in a fancy hotel
• Being interviewed for local radio ("every farmer in Cavan will be ringing me looking for the lovely Dublin girl's number after that...")
• Talking shite to a captive audience because I was too hungover to prepare a proper lecture for them, and getting away with it (I hope)
  

It'll all have to wait though. I'm off to London in the morning and I have a bag to pack.

Woohoo!

Things I Want To See On My Trip To London

• The Terracotta Army at the British Museum, home of the most wonderful collection of treasure and plunder (I visited once before and walked around open mouthed with awe like a geeky bumpkin)
• A burlesque show, because I've always wanted to be a naughty cabaret lady but am severely hampered by my inability to dance, sing or grow proper breasts (I'll be a month too early for the festival, but that gives me an excuse to go back)
• The Tate Modern, where I shall dress in black, wear my trendy glasses and look knowledgeable and not at all intimidated by works I do not understand (though I'll miss Louise Bourgeois' exhibition by a week or so... boo)
• Hyde Park, which I'm hoping I'll enjoy more than I did Central Park in New York (where I started crying because it was so cold but then stopped crying because the tears were freezing on my face and that hurt). I imagine Hyde Park to be very posh because the wardens have seen fit to publish guidelines for picnics on their website. Paper plate and napkin etiquette, one assumes. I'll be Yogi Bear, then.
  
• LC. Probably.