Oh, For A Whole Month Of Sundays

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.

Ar Ócáid Ár bPósadh

Andrew and I were married in the registry office on Love Lane yesterday afternoon, at 3.45pm. "You have to be there at 3.30, Kitty, or they'll cancel our wedding!" I said. "I will, Pussycat" he said "I promise" and we repeated the same two sentences ad nauseum until he dropped my over to my nana's, where she fed me rice pudding ("your sister said you'd like egg and chips, but I didn't think it would suit today") and I pretended not to be nervous.

My parents picked me and nana up and we drove to Grand Canal St. "Ring me when you're ready for us" I said to mam, and I clambered into the front of the car to wait with dad. Andrew saw me get out and then in again, and decided that I mustn't want to marry him after all. And he'd been so careful crossing roads on his walk there, anxious not to get run over on the way to his wedding. I did still want to marry him. I always have.

My dad walked me in to the tune of Married Life. Well, he walked me in and they'd forgotten to press play, so he walked me out and in again. We sat and stood and sat again and signed on dotted lines, my head so close to the page as I scrawled that I look like I'm blind in the photographs. Andrew read a poem that he'd written for me the night before, and I read something as Gaeilge, because I never miss an opportunity to show off.

Bí Ann agus Leanfaidh Mé

Bí ann, bí liom
Be there, be with me
Bí gasta, bí cróga
Be quick, be brave
Bí cliste, bí cinnte
Be clever, be sure
Bí casta, bí glic
Be complicated, be sharp
Bí grámhar, gealgáireach
Be loving, light-hearted
Bí socair laistigh
Be steady inside
Bí doimhin ach bí éadrom
And be deep but be light
Gan teannas ar bith
With no tension inside
I do chorp, i do chroí
In your body, in your heart
I do cheann,
In your head,
Ins a tslí ina chuireann tú tú fhéin i láthair
In the way which you present yourself
I pé chomhluadar ina bhfuil tú
In whatever company you happen to be
Bí ann liom
Be there with me
Bí láidir il-dána
Be strong and be able
Nuair a chasann an domhan
When the world takes a turn
Bí ann dom
Be there for me
Agus buailfimid le chéile
And we will meet together
Nuair a thagann an t-am
When the time comes
Fiú má chothaítear fadhb
Even if there is a problem
Leanfaidh mé ar aghaidh
I'll keep going
Tá saol agam, tá súil agam
I have a life, I hope
Tá rogha agam, tá rún agam
I have a choice, I am determined
Tá bád agam, tá cuan agam
I have a boat, I have a bay
Tá tonn ar an trá
There is a wave on the shore
Tá scéal agam, tá siúl agam
I have a story, I can walk
Tá deis agam, tá duais agam
I have a chance, I have a gift
Tá cás agam, tá cúis agam
I have a case, I have a cause
Tá fonn ar mo ghrá
My love desires

I didn't have words of my own for the occasion (ain't that a rare thing! Rosie struck dumb!) so I borrowed some of Rónán Ó Snodaigh's. Mo bheannacht ort, Rónán, beidh mé buíoch díot go deo as d'fhilíocht. Agus mo bhuíochas duitse, Andrew, as an ngrá a bhronn tú orm.

Meet Me At The Wrecking Ball

The receptionist smiled blandly at me when we arrived, and there was a moment of awkward silence. I had expected Andrew to speak. "We have an appointment with the Registrar" I said, making sure to pronounce the capital R. "Rosie and Andrew". I don't know why I didn't give our surnames. I'm still trying to decide if I'll take his when we marry, and it somehow seemed important to introduce ourselves as a couple. She asked for them anyway, and I saw her finger trace the syllables in mine as she memorised the pronunciation, ticking us off in her appointments diary. She directed us through the hall, to an office down at the back.

I marveled at the seats. Fixed to the floor and bus station blue, there seemed to be so many of them. I wondered if our thirteen guests will fill the front row. I wasn't quick enough to count them. The Registrar's chair was down front, behind a desk and flanked by four more leatherette office chairs. We'll sit there, I thought, with our mammies. Behind them on the wall hung a reproduction of a romantic painting. I asked Andrew about it in the car on the way home. I wondered if it was Aoife and Strongbow. I was never very good at art history. Neither was he; he thought they had married for love. By chance, I saw later that the National Gallery have chosen the same image for the cover of their 2010 diary. There's a photo of it in one of the small advertisements hidden amongst the Irish Times' telly listings. So I look it up. The Meeting on the Turret Stairs depicts Hellelil and Hildebrand, who were indeed lovers. They died for it, though. There is no mention of them getting married. The painting seems an odd choice.

In the back room, we met Síle. She was pleasant. I was anxious. I kept making little jokes, though I couldn't say for sure now how many of them I made out loud. She talked us through the paperwork and had us read over the his n' hers laminated sheets that outlined legal impediments to a marriage before signing a declaration to state that we were neither related to one another nor bigamists. I'm a quick reader. She gave us plenty of time, so I spent a few minutes of it working out who'd be what on the list of persons given. A woman may not marry her...Husband’s father’s brother. Father’s sister’s husband. Daughter’s daughter’s husband. The list is 28 persons long.

There was some confusion over the jumble of names on Andrew's birth cert. Síle compromised by putting two of them in brackets, though what difference that made neither he nor I was sure of. She then gave us a quick run-through of what to expect on the day; an a-la-carte menu for our ceremony. I got a lump in my throat when she mentioned vows. She gave us a slip with a reference number to give to the receptionist, and wished us well.

We kissed on the street before climbing back into the car. "She didn't ask me if I love Pussycat!" Andrew said, sounding surprised. He calls me Pussycat, from Edward Lear's The Owl and the Pussycat. I call him Kitty, because even before he bought the purple and turquoise jumper he reminded me of James P. Sullivan. I know, I know. People like us make me sick. Turns out he was expecting Green Card. A civil service quickfire round of Mr. & Mrs. An Interrogation. I laughed, thrilled that I am marrying this silly, sweet man who's dismayed at not being put through his paces to earn the right to marry me. He never misses an opportunity to declare his intentions. Nor, it would seem, do I.

Do You Realize???

Nobody warned me that once I'd committed to spending the rest of my life with my love, I'd become entirely preoccupied with death. His death, my own and that of anybody else you'd care to mention. I feel like I'm 8 years old again. I blame Disney, mostly. Up had me snotting into my 3d specs while my widowed Nana sat stoically beside me. "I don't know what yiz were all crying about" she told us after the film. "I didn't think it was that sad". She lost her fella after more than 50 years of marriage. 50 years of Aston Villa and pitch and putt. She misses him something fierce, especially this time of year. I wonder, when he asked her to marry him, did she sit down and have a good cry when she realised that some day, he'd die?

Probably not. She didn't have a blog.

This Little Piggy

My brother had swine 'flu some weeks back and I joked about calling down to Kildare to lick his cutlery. I fancied a few weeks off work. I had romantic notions of staying at home with Andrew, snug on the couch with the Gilmore Girls and a touch of the sniffles. Then I remembered the 'flu I caught last February, the subsequent chest and sinus infection, the antibiotics, and the subsequent yeast infection. The Gilmores are a lot less fun with fever and a dose of galloping gee-rot. So I asked my brother if there was anything I could do for him, knowing he'd say no, and then left him to rot. Or recover. Whatever. He's fine.

I wish I'd sent a fruit basket.

On Wednesday morning I tipped along to see nurse Margaret for my biannual blood tests. "Dr. Murphy!" she hollered. Not to greet me, but to alert her backup. She sighed at me, and smiled with the kind of patience I reserve for when I catch small children chewing crayons. I'm her most difficult patient. I know this because she has told me so, numerous times. I'm calm and compliant, but I have deep veins. I think Margaret thinks I've done this on purpose. Once Dr. Murphy had done Margaret's dirty work and drawn enough blood, I tried to placate her with smalltalk about H1N1, except that I called it something else and further fuelled her suspicions that I was trying to show her up as a Bad Nurse. I asked about the vaccine and she told me that I couldn't have it. "After Christmas" she said, in a placatory tone. She'd have patted me on the back but she doesn't like to touch me. Happy to have avoided further mutilation, I made a joke about laying off the swines this side of Stephen's Day. Hardy har har.

By 5pm I was burning up with a fever. I'm not saying I blame her, like. I'm just saying.

I arrived home in tears and Andrew put me to bed. He calmed me down, warmed me up, undressed me and stuffed me into some flannel pyjamas. I spent the night crying and shivering. I spent Thursday and Friday night crying and shivering too. He spent them mopping my brow, holding my hand, making me meals I pretended to eat. The fever broke on Saturday, and I celebrated with a new pair of pyjamas and a hacking cough. He blowdried and ironed my hair. On Sunday, he took me to Farmleigh and we had a cup of tea. I went back to bed again when we got home. I stayed there on Monday. He snuggled in beside me, my Nurse Ratched, visibly relieved to see me on the mend.

And he asked me to marry him.

An Cion Go Dtí Seo

I left a vase of roses to rot on my kitchen table last Tuesday. I should have thrown them out once their petals drooped, but I was drooping with them and I hadn't the heart. Or the stomach. I hate the smell of dank water and my skin crawls at the thought of touching their slimy stems. I sat for a few minutes, looking at them, wondering how I might fold them so that their stalks wouldn't tear the bin liner. I didn't want to touch them. I thought I might smother them with a paper bag.

I didn't realise that I was crying until a tear tickled the side of my nose, making it itch.

I wasn't crying about the flowers. I'm not sure what I was crying about. I left them there and went for a walk. I stole a cigarette from his sock drawer and stuck it behind my ear, then spent ten teary-eyed minutes searching for it before leaving the flat.

I had calmed down by the time I reached the Rathmines Road, but I smoked it anyway. When I got home, I made tea and took it to bed with me. He called and said that he was sorry not to be there, sorry that I was alone and feeling so low. But I was glad. He shouldn't have to hoosh me arse-first out of every ditch.

He was home and elbow-deep in dishes when I got in from work on Wednesday. The flowers were still there, looking like a prop of Miss Havisham's. He hadn't wanted to throw them out without my say-so. I wondered, for the 385th time, what I have done to deserve a man so considerate. I worried, briefly, if I deserve him at all.

On Thursday evening I sat staring through the snot-smeared windows of the 128, taking in the misery of the North Strand road and a city clogged with taxis. I'd finished my book. I'd forgotten my headphones. I was running late for Fat Fighters and edging closer to that dangerous deadline whereby you have to wait til the meeting's finished for your pat-on-the-back weigh-in. The bus driver dumped us on Hanover Quay. It had taken us twenty minutes to cross the bridge. "But I need to get to the far side of Rathmines!" I hissed as he hurried us off his bus. He didn't give a fuck. His day had been long enough.

I had blisters biting at my heels by the time I reached Camden St. I stopped at a stall to pick up some strawberries for tea. She was finishing up for the evening, plastic packing crates and slim black buckets filled with flowers. I thought of the roses, and asked her for four sunflower stems. And for the first time that day, I smiled from the soles of my shoes.

"How did she get them already?" he wondered, seeing the yellow bloom against my red coat as I came down the cast-iron stairs to the front door. Inside, on the kitchen table, he'd laid a bouquet of lus na gréine.

Sleepyhead, Get Out Of Bed

I still wake at nine on Sunday mornings. I don't mean to. When he's hungover, I think he thinks I do it just to annoy him. But I don't. Sunday mornings are too good to waste. I lie in my lovely bed and think of happy things. It's a four-poster bed, an antique, wrought iron and narrow. One of the brass bedknobs is missing; I've put duct tape over the sharp edge and trailed plastic flowers from the hollow.

The bed is lovely and warm. The window's open to allow any fetid farty smells to float free. It's chill outside and my nose is cold, it thinks it can smell the autumn. I can still taste the tea I drank earlier, pressing my nose to the mug between sips to warm it. Thinking about it makes my tummy rumble for its breakfast. I'll make porridge soon. Microwaved and made with water, it sounds like prison fare. But I'll add berries and honey, and savour every spoonful before tracking it in my Fat Fighters food diary. I'm nine and a half pounds down. It doesn't seem like much to me as I survey my still muffinlike midriff, but nine and half pounds is a fine-sized baby or a fair-sized Yorkshire terrier.

Upstairs, the other Rosie's wide awake and waggling her tubby bum. She's a wet-nosed chocolate-brown labrador, and the sound of her fat and giddy skitterings across the neighbour's wooden floor is a cheerful reminder that on sunny days like today, there's a whole world waiting out there. Like her, I can't fucking wait to get out for a walk. On rainy days, Rosie snuffles under the net curtains and presses her nose to the window upstairs, doleful eyes pleading with passers-by.

My love stirs and mumbles in his sleep. "Give him half an hour more, then whip off the covers and put his shoes on" advises Annie, a braver woman than I. But my pitter patter pottering at his laptop piques his curiosity. "Are you writing a post? What's it about?" "Sunday mornings". He snuggles in closer, sandwiching my cold feet between his thighs. "Is it the longest post in the world about Sunday mornings?" It might be. I've been awake, like Rosie upstairs, for some time, luxuriating in his warmth and dreaming of a gambol on the beach. We'll go to Bull Island today. I'll bring my kite, my aeroplane one with the tail that makes a propeller sound. He'll hold my hand and tell me that I look pretty in my red coat, and my cheeks will redden to match it. I'm glad of the cold as I'll have an excuse to wear my woollen hat - it's red too, with a knitted green stalk and two leaves sprouting from the crown. Apple-cheeked and Rosie. It's going to be a good day.

Níl Aon Leigheas Ar An nGrá

"He's my brother from another mother" said the Jaffa Cake, nodding in Rob's immaculately coiffed direction, "and she's my common-law wife".

I sit back, sip my caipirinha, take stock. How much has he had to drink?

Later, I introduce the Jaffa Cake's brother to another friend, to whom I have only just introduced the Jaffa Cake. "This is my common-law brother-in-law" I say, by way of an explanation. Ben looks confused, then grabs me by the shoulders, shouting "CONGRATULATIONS!!!" before wrapping me up in a bear-hug. "No no" I splutter, "I just mean that we have spouse membership at the gym".

Share And Share Alike

A jam tart, because I'm on a diet. A coke float, because I'm on a mission. A cup of tea, because he didn't want one but then he did and I wanted one but then I didn't. A banana, because my potassium levels are too high and I shouldn't eat a whole one. I shouldn't eat a half one either. Socks. The only plus to my having plus sized feet. A toothbrush, because he forgot his. Or I forgot mine. Or maybe we only have the one now. And my pillow. My pillow, though it's our bed. I bought him an fancy memory-foam one of his own, but still he insists on snuggling up with a mouthful of my curls.

Which is nice.

Felis Catus

The batteries had run low for the light in the pantry, so I pilfered four from my Rabbit and thought my, how times have changed!

Not By His Measure

On Monday evening I arrived home to find he had left a Bretzel Bakery treat wrapped in a sweet note on my pillow.

On Wednesday night it caught up with me. It and all the other delicious things I have eaten over the course of my entire life. "I need to go on a diet" I mumbled in a teary, accusatory tone. In bed, at 11.45pm. Because that is when I start all of my diets - on a full stomach before a night's sleep. "I'm too fat". He made reassuring, soothing noises and I nodded off.

On Thursday evening I arrived home to find that he hadn't left a Bretzel Bakery treat wrapped in a sweet note on my pillow. He made the bed! I thought, making mental lemonade. My plummeting sugar levels stomped huffily into the kitchen, where he'd laid out a spread.

~

~

Bualadh bos mór don bhFo-choiste Ad Hoc Tae agus Brioscaí

Alt. Title: 2 Years And 653 Posts Later (in which the Jaffa Cake waxes lyrical on my behalf)

Rosie cares so much about her devoted readers that she's asked me to whip up some sort of a second birthday cake for you all on her behalf. The lazy fuckwit.

See, I met Rosie through blogging, and now I'm about to good-n-proper grown-up move in with her. It's a little strange, when I think about it. And I thought about it a lot at first, because I suppose I started off by having some weird form of blogging crush on her. I started reading here when she wrote that post that seemed to hack a few very insecure people off in a big way. Flak was flying, and every cunt in the blogosphere (how I hate that word!) was flying in to give their tuppenceworth. She wasn't so much saying what everyone else was thinking, as saying what everyone else hadn't quite managed to get around to thinking yet. "Why are people being mean to this lady who speaketh only the truth?" I thought to myself, and, like the cunt from the blogosphere that I am, waded in with my tuppenceworth

And I read more, and I back-read (but only a little bit, I don't read so fast).

She often speaks the truth! She's pretty funny! She swears ever so elegantly! She uses italics effectively! She's loquacious! She's uses clever words I don't always understand!*

Today, after being landed with this commission, I did a little more back-reading, just to see what she was writing about in the immediate aftermath of beginning this blog. I had to be careful, though, there might be talk of other fellas' mickeys if I looked in the wrong place. It seems she began with this post and has carried on banging on about herself in much the same vein ever since, only with more bad language and a few posts so emotive that you could feel the tears splashing on the keyboard. Lots of people do that, but she's one of the few who have managed to do it and keep it compelling. If Rosie has nothing to say, she'll generally say fuck-all. But the thing is, and I make my apologies to you all here, since we got together her posting-rate has taken a nosedive to rival Ireland's GDP. Mine has too. Because when you're inclined to telling anyone who'll listen about any little thing that has needled its way into your attentions today, then it comes as a blessed relief when you find that there's one solitary person who's delighted to hear about every little one of them.

She'll carry on posting, she's too talented and far too fond of your affirmations not to. And, with any luck, she'll be asking me to do this again next year.

*Incidentally, she tells me she realised that we'd definitely hit it off after I wrote a post denouncing those who use exclamation marks excessively.

The Static In The Flow

Another 6am in front of the bathroom mirror. My skin has a bluish pallor. There is a red handprint on my stomach, the outline of his fingers clearly visible in the harsh bathroom light. He holds me tight while I sleep.

10am in bed, and he's mooching in his sleep. He lifts his head from my chest to roll over and I trace the perfect red impression his ear has left on my shoulder. I think about breakfast, and my worries evaporate in the fading seashell sworls.

An tArdaitheoir

"You're a lazy hobbit" he laughed "always getting the lift". I don't always get the lift. Just with him. When we take the lift, we stand close and he kisses me. It's very romantic. But when I walk ahead of him up the stairs, he puts a hand up my skirt and pinches my bum. And that's just distracting.

Laundry Service

"Give me a hand hang these up, will you?" I'm short on pronouns and full of domestic intent. I don't really need help to hang the armful of washing over the clothes horse, but it's important to me that he be involved. Because then I am not washing his grubby knickers. When he hangs clothes and makes tea, we're living together.

"Sure" he says, and sets to puzzling over the best way to drape the jammies. So I show him. I shake out the trouser legs in as unpatronising a manner as I can manage and then turn to see him lurching towards me with my opaque black tights pulled over his head. He's pouting through his mask, giggles stifled by the nylon. "Give us a fuckin' kiss" he demands, in what would be a menacing Belfast brogue, were his mush not mashed into the gooch of my tights.

The Odd Couple

I noticed him at the traffic lights in Portobello. It was the little bag of jelly babies that caught my eye - everything else about him was cigarette coloured. His slicked-back hair made me wipe my hands in my skirt, greasy just at the thoughts of touching it. He wore jet-black jeans in that slim fit favoured by cats of his vintage, with black loafers and a beige bomber jacket. The fag hanging from his mouth set his tone. He was the kind of ratty-faced louche I'd avoid at a bar. He looked like he might hit on you.

She had a crown of curls; thick brown ringlets that made me want to bury my fingers in her hair, that made me want to bury my nose in it to see how it smelled. She had a friendly, open face and a gloriously round, full arse. It was a pleasure to follow her up the path. She took his hand in hers and he was transformed. I was transfixed. I followed them to Charlemont Bridge. They left for the Luas, I took a seat on the canal bench. To capture their moment.

As I sat scribbling in my notebook, I saw a kid coming my way. He was wearing an emerald green tracksuit, and had ding-a-ling ginger hair. His freckles had been pencilled in, and the rosy bloom in his cheeks made him look like he'd been sketched in technicolour. The city seemed drab by comparison. Writing faster now in an effort to draw him in nouns and adjectives without losing sight of my odd couple, my script turned to scrawl. I laughed.

Go home, Rosie, you fucking weirdo.

You'd Have To Laugh

Last night he cooked me dinner and I brought him flowers; role reversal rolled over into this morning. He's never so tired as when he wakes, but this time it was I who straggled down the street, a grumpy little face and a leaden pace. He bounded along. Like I normally do. It was very annoying.

"Will I make farty sounds on your face?" he asked, before blowing a slobbery, squelchy kiss on my cheek. At Holles St. he stroked my temples with mock concern. Diddums has a sore head. "How about I numb the area?" he said, before diving into my collarbone, mumbling "num! num! num!" as he laughed at his own joke and nuzzled my neck. Well, my boobs, if I'm honest.

We got as far as Clare St. before we passed the small man who works on my street. He, like me, had a nasty cough. "See" the Jaffa Cake squeezed me "it's a very phlegmy dwarf. You don't see that every day."

Another Thing That Happened On Saturday

My brother called, sounding excited and maybe a little drunk. He wasn't, though. "Guess where I am!" He was in New York, that much we knew. He was calling from Macy's. Hardly newsworthy in itself, but he did seem uncommonly giddy. I was reminded of the last time I was in Macy's, the time I found the Nine West stiletto heel dolly shoes in my size for $14. I say the last time I was in Macy's like I go there all the time, but you and I both know that it was only the once. $14, though! Bargain! I still wear them all the time very occasionally when I have to dress up for something that I know will be a strictly sitting-down affair.

Anyway. This is his story.

"What's that Beyoncé song?" he asked. I could smell a pun coming, but my knowledge of popular musics is paltry enough for my palate to have trouble sniffing him out. "Put a ring on it..?"

"DONE!"

He had, too.

Romance Isn't Dead

But she's very fucking ill.

Don't turn into one of those people that disappears once they start getting a regular ride... don't do it... cautioned the Dublinista. Unlikely, my dear, unless he learns to breathe through his ears. We share most everything (including, to my dismay, the occasional toothbrush) so karma saw fit to divvy up a dose of febrile disease for us on Valentine's Day. Nothing says "I love you" like a giftwrapped box of Uniflu.

He got me a card too, but that will probably have to be burned along with the bedlinen.

Review: Revolutionary Road

I expected to be moved, but Frank and April were so self-absorbed that it was hard to imagine they'd ever been in love with one another. I saw no tragedy in the demise of their relationship, just a dull inevitability. Watching them wring the drama out of it felt like another indulgence of their egos.

When Howard Givings turned the volume down on his hearing aid, that was love. When the Jaffa Cake asked his sister to swap seats with him so that he could hold my hand, that was embarrassing.

But, you know, nice.