Going Straight

I was the eternal fan of the flare and boot cut, but even I can be turned by the strongest tides of fashion. Actually, a mere splash would redirect my opinion. I have for the second time in five years bought straight leg jeans. Is the age of the flare officially over?

Last weekend, I purchased a narrow fitting, dark, navy Diesel jeans. Slim fitting just makes me feel slimmer. On this basis, would skinny make me feel skinny? Probably not, seeing as they are likely to come no higher than my knees and narrow calves.

Some Just Can’t Say “Good Bye”

I can be dreadfully intolerant of other people’s differences. However, time has taught me tolerance and lessons. There was a moment in canteen last week, when I was able to impart wisdom to a colleague. Colleague complained that a co-worker left our work place for the last time, without giving a proper good bye. I regaled her with a story:

“I once moved in with a friend. We lived together for almost a year. We weren’t the best of mates, but we were close. Circumstances changed for her and she moved to London, intending to rent her house to me and other tenants.”

“I remember the day she was due to move out. It was a week day and she was up earlier than I. I was about to leave for work and remember noticing how little of her belongings were packed. She complained about how much work she had to do. ‘You’ll be fine,’ I comforted her. She said she would see me later that evening. I did not say good bye.”

“I purposely came home straight after work to catch her before she left. Approaching the house from the driveway, it was obvious there was no one home. I turned on the lights and realised how stark the house was with my housemate’s belongings. All her personal effects were gone.”

“It was a little upsetting. I couldn’t believe she wouldn’t make the time to give a proper good bye. Everywhere I looked, I noticed absent items; photos, paintings, books and ornaments. I did my best not to get upset.”

“Weeks later, I told my friend  Angela of the events. ‘Why could she not even make the time to say goodbye?’ I asked her. ‘We lived together for a year. I find it upsetting’.”

“’Sweetie,’ said Angela. ‘Some people just can’t say good bye’”

“My friend left Ireland a few years ago. Since then, I’ve been in situations when this experience has proven valuable.”

“Some people just can’t say ‘good bye’.”

12 Pubs of Christmas

This Friday I will endure a new experience. For the first time in my relatively young life, I will undertake what is called a “Twelve Pubs of Christmas”. Boyfriend has done Twelve Pubs for years; in theory it sounds fun. I’ve decided to have a go for myself.

My friends intend visiting twelve pubs in six hours. It doesn’t take Einstein to figure this is going to be messy. Generally, one should consume one unit of alcohol per hour. This festive pub crawl intends for the attendants to consume one unit every half hour. To make matters worse we have been instructed to wear “Christmas Jumpers”. Naturally, some goers will not be outdone. I’ve been informed one of my friends is wearing lights; does she intend bringing a battery?

I have two days to throw a pile of Christmas tack together as an ensemble. I’ll have to get the thinking cap on. Suggestions are most welcome.

Too Fat to Eat Like That

For my nephew’s christening last weekend, I packed a pair of brown slacks I bought about four years ago. I overestimated my swine-flu-weight loss. The pants were skin tight; we are talking spray painted. Even Mum asked if I had anything else to wear. Imagine! I was a little self-conscious at first, but eventually didn’t give a shit.

I returned to work on Monday and swore I would take action to lose weight. “No more junk food,” I declared. I am proud to say little sugar and carbohydrate touched my lips this week, until today that is when the canteen hosted a Thanksgiving lunch. I initially stood my ground, opting for salad. When I saw the desserts on offer, I caved for some mixture of mango, biscuit and cream; apparently, titled a Syllabub.

I carried my heaving stomach to my desk to find a large tin of Cadbury’s Roses. Since we are at year end, working hard, my boss treated us. Despite my earlier gluttony, I stuffed my face with Roses. I am sad to admit these Roses were not of the floral variety. I pretty much climbed into the tin of chocolate like it were a bath and I was some unwashed bastard. I stuffed my face.

Sometimes, I disgust myself.

Happy Fiscal New Year

To an accountant, fiscal year end is a New Year’s Eve of sorts. Fiscal New Year, like New Year’s Eve, is about starting anew; new spreadsheets, clean accounts and elimination of aged items. Coming to the end of the fiscal year, much hard work is required. It is necessary to plug away like a trooper to “zero” your balances. Accounts must be in order.

“What if you don’t get your work done?” I hear you ask. If you do not adhere to your deadline, you are in trouble. If your accounts are messy, the auditors will scrutinise your work with magnifying glasses. They will sit at your desk and seek explanations. Apparently, this is a lot of work. If unsatisfied, they take out a big red stamp and deem you “non-compliant”.

This is supposedly a very bad thing. Are auditors like the Boogie Man of the corporate world? No offence to any auditors out there.

Queued to Get Chooed

I did as planned for Saturday morning. I queued outside H&M to avail of the limited edition Jimmy Choo products on offer. I arrived at 08.00 to find an orderly queue of around two hundred – most of whom were women – snaked around the corner of South King Street. Anticipation filled the air; it were as if the crowd might suddenly break into a sprint. The line contained just a few men accompanied by girlfriends. The best pickings of Jimmy Choo’s men’s range were as good as mine, I thought. My brother, Catherine and I waited patiently in the drizzling rain, making chit chat with some of the others in the queue.

At 09.00 the doors of the store swung open. The queue slithered at a quick pace until it was consumed by the entrance.  In mere seconds, the ground floor of H&M descended into chaos. Countless women bounded for the centre of the shop, rummaging and throwing garments aside. Many grabbed anything they could, paying no heed to size or colour. I have since learned that a member of staff received a kick in the back by an aggressive customer. I am grateful to have given the lady-shoppers as wide a berth I did. I left Catherine to her sorority of fashion-enthusiasts. I made my way to the refuge of the men’s section. As the Bro and I descended on the escalator, I briefed him on the rules of engagement.

At the foot of the stairs was the Jimmy Choo range. It easily stood out from H&M’s regular collection. The clothes were adorned with lush, royal blue tags. The shiny, blue stacks of shoe boxes were a sight to behold. On my wish list was a leather jacket and suit. I rushed to the suits to secure my size. I quickly learned there were limited sizes on offer. I tried on a jacket. It was a little baggy. I opted for a thirty six waist trousers instead of a thirty four. Unfortunately, the men’s changing room had become an overflow to the women’s. There was no possibility I could try my suit on. My Bro suggested I strip in a quiet corner of the store, if I were desperate. I did consider it for a moment. The Bro and I separated to find the leather jackets.

“Find the leather jackets in size large!” I instructed him firmly. “Grab one in black and brown, if they have both colours!”

Minutes later, after no success, I scanned the increasing number of bodies to locate him. His eyes met mine.

“Any luck with the jacket?”

“Is that them?” He pointed to some shabby looking, fake leather jackets.

Frustrated, I glanced around the men’s section. Suddenly, it was obvious that this little island of fancy clothes and shoe boxes was the entirety of the Jimmy Choo men’s range. Only one third of the men’s range was on sale. There were no jeans, scarves or jackets. I located a member of staff.

“Hi, can you tell me where the leather jackets are?”

A young – and quite attractive – guy with a British accent shrugged. “Sorry, mate. This is the extent of it. They sent no leather jackets.”

“Oh!” I responded. Young, Sexy Shop Assistant turned to accommodate a pushy customer.

I stood there a little dumbstruck. What was I to do with the remaining few hundred euro I budgeted to spend? Catherine appeared from nowhere out of the bustling group of men. She carried a few items. I recognised a grey dress from coverage of the celebrity launch party earlier that week.

“How did you get on?” she asked in expectation.

“There are no leather jackets, Catherine! I am disappointed. What do you have?”

“I got these,” she replied as she held out her prizes. Two dresses draped from hangers. “I like this grey dress, but it’s not my size. It’s expensive. This other dress is pretty much all I could get. I am not mad on it either.”

We concluded she would not purchase either dress. She was not completely happy. She hung both Jimmy Choo dresses on a rail. Both garments were pilfered within seconds.

“What do you think of my suit, Catherine?”

She looked about my person. “Where is it?”

My brother howled with laughter.

“I’m wearing it now,” I said dismissively. “You are obviously astounded by its fabulousness.”

We all laughed.

“Is it a little big for you?” This question was put gently.

I turned to the mirror. I made an assessment of its size. A nearby woman advised the suit was a “fine” fit. My doubts were quashed. On the way to the pay point I stumbled over one or two shoe boxes that carelessly littered the floor. Maybe shoes would cater to the void my leather jacket would have so perfectly filled. I opened a shoe box to find a brown pair of suede boots. A second box contained the same.

“I hate suede,” I said to Catherine as I opened yet another box. “Behold! More suede boots.”

I reached for my fifth box. I could sense my brother’s impatience. There was no horrid suede boots. This box contained a pair of breathtakingly beautiful, black, leather boots. I gasped. I placed a hand to my chest.

Young, Sexy Shop Assistant reappeared in front of me. “Try them on,” he said (in probably less a provocative manner than I recall).

A good looking man need never instruct me twice. I sat on a display shelf and wedged my wide foot into the boot. They fit perfectly. I strutted up and down the shop, wearing one boot.

“I’m taking them,” I announced aloud. “And I am taking this Jimmy Choo wallet too.”

I proceeded to the pay point. Young, Sexy Shop Assistant had just opened a till (especially for me). He beckoned me forward. We made conversation as he meticulously folded the suit.

“You’re very lucky to find these boots,” he said. “These were the most popular item of the range.”

I lapped up the attention as I handed over my cash, momentarily considering suggestively throwing it at him.

Leaving the store, I felt good. I had just flirted outrageously with a sexy guy and bought some Jimmy Choo threads. I can’t exactly recall how I vacated the store; it may have been on a large, white, fluffy cloud.

Back at home, Boyfriend failed to conceive the idea of owning such amazing footwear. Nor did his basic mind grasp my suggestion I was now out of his league.

“I own Jimmy Choo boots,” I advised him. “The stakes are much higher now.”

He did not respond.

Boyfriend will not cease pestering me to remove the boots from the middle of the floor in the living room. They are a focal point; to be admired by all. Someday, I might have to wear them outdoors, but for the moment I desire to savour the perfection that is my black Jimmy Choo boots.

Remembering Banzai

Sitting in on Friday night, scouring the airwaves for something day-cent to watch, I stumbled across the home of repeats, the Dave channel. A long forgotten show, Banzai was on. Maybe it was the whiskey and coke laughing, but this show was quite good.

Banzai was a comedy, gambling game show; a spoof of existing Japanese shows. Banzai first aired on E4 and was eventually repeated on Channel 4. The content is off the wall, occasionally shocking humour. Arguably, the most well known character was Mr. Shake Hands Man.

Art of Stinginess

I went looking for advice on how to improve my blog-networking-skills and the creator of Art of Stinginess replied and suggested we post links to one another’s blogs on our site. I’ve just clicked him up and I am totally impressed with what I see. First off, his blog is slick and polished. The content could not be more relevant in this current r*ces!&*na%! climate. A spend thrift like me could definitely do with picking up some money saving tips. Thrifty suggestions include saving cash cash through magazine subscriptions and buying cheap Iphones. Give it a look! You might save yourself some doh.

Pick and Choos

I shall be queuing for the below outside H&M on Saturday morning with Catherine. Warm coffees will be essential. This suit retails at €200. I need it for my nephew’s christening in two week’s time. I also have (yet another) wedding to attend in January for which the suit is needed.

I have a few days to convince Boyfriend to get me an early Christmas present of the leather jacket also on offer as part of the collection. So far, he’s having none of it, but as I said, I still have a few days. I can be convincing when necessary; there are ways and means.

I’m coming out …

My first day of college was daunting; I did not know a soul. Luckily, day one of college involved what can only be termed an “integration exercise” to facilitate students’ getting to know one another. My “integration group” consisted of ten people. Everyone took part in tasks such as learning one another’s name using association games. Hours later we were blind folded and touching one another (often inappropriately), trying to guess the identity of the misfortunate subject. At the start of the day I knew no one. Hours later, I knew the name of my entire group. I even knew some random information about them.

At the end of our get-to-know-each-other-day we hit the pub. By three in the afternoon I was sitting the Hill 16 on Gardiner Street with my group, making banter over a pint of Bud. This was my first day of college. I hoped everyday thereafter would be the same as that day. As the hours creeped in, the numbers dwindled. Eventually, I was left with two red heads – Aoife and Fiona. This was the day I met Fiona, the girl I am good friends with to this very day.

Fiona has been a great friend over the years. We have never lived in one another’s pockets, but always made time for one another throughout college and our working lives. If one of us was blue, the other listened. We have had seriously funny moments in the past and will continue to do so long into the future. Fiona moved to Australia last year. I spoke to her by phone for the first time in a year on Sunday night. Although the line was bad, it was nice to hear from her. I have been thinking of her a lot since then.

She and I often make reference to the time I came out to her. This was around the end of my first academic year. I had worked through countless issues with my sexuality and was gradually revealing myself to one and all. Fiona was someone I wished to tell. The moment came late one night when Fiona and I were on the Mystery Tour*. We had been drinking almost ten hours at this stage. Booze always made the task lof coming out seem less daunting.

Fiona sat at a table with some students from my class. I shimmied in next to her. We attempted conversation over the loud music that blared through Rockin’ Robins, Carrick on Shannon. I stooped as close to her as I could without disturbing her friends.

“Fiona, I have something important to tell you?” I shouted into her ear.

“What, Steve?” Fiona clearly struggled to hear me over the music. She leaned forward, almost falling off her stool.

“I have something to tell you!”

“What?”

“I need to tell you something you probably already know. It’s important for our friendship that I tell you for the sake of it”

Fiona leaned away from me. She looked down and placed her hands on her lap as if contemplating something. “I think I know what you are going to say, Steve.”

“You do?” I asked. I was elated she would make this easier on me.

“I’ve known for a while. I have been meaning to talk to you. I know how you feel and I can honestly say I just don’t feel the same.” She looked at me sympathetically.

Shock coursed through me. “Eh, I’m gay.”

“You’re gay?” she asked in surprise.

“Yes, gay.”

Alcohol deleted my remembrance of her reaction to this news. Since I know Fiona well, I imagine she laughed uncontrollably in the incredibly contagious way she does. She probably even banged the table in front of her.

This was been a defining time in our friendship. I even laugh away to myself as I recall it. When we are alone, and I suggest we do something, Fiona will often respond by saying “sorry Steve, but I just don’t feel the same”. It never fails to induce laughter.

I miss you babe. Look after yourself.

*The Mystery Tour involved setting out around 11AM with the intention of visiting three mystery nightclubs over about fourteen hours. The freakiest moment was dancing in a nightclub in Enfield at 3PM in the afternoon. Some windows had been blacked out with bin liners. We finished up in Rockin’ Robins in Carrick on Shannon. I remember getting home at 6AM the next day. It probably took me a week to recover.