Tag Archives: pub

All Signs Point to …

I have been talking about relocating to a new city for a while.

Over pints, with a red, flushed face, did I all too often, dramatically announce, “I’m leaving! Remember this face! I am gone! I am sick of Dublin. Sick of it. There are too many ghosts in this city.”

Eyes were often thrown to heaven. “Yeah, yeah, we’ve heard this before”. Sometimes I even received, “what do you expect to get from London that you can’t get in Dublin?”

A month ago, Best Friend proposed he and I spend some time looking for jobs in London using the internet. We did an in-depth, intricate search on Google, using scant terms such as “London VAT jobs”. We received a few matches.

Best Friend  perused one particular job spec. “I think this job would suit you.”

I read the detail on the screen. I shook my head. “Oh, no, this sounds very technical. No, no, this is not for me at all.”

We came across similar jobs. I shooed the notion of them away.

A day or so later, I pondered the job spec. The more I thought on it, the more I realised this job was for me. I could do this. I could be good at this. This is my job! I called the recruitment agent. We chatted about my experience and interest in the role. He forwarded my CV to the recruiters, who instantly expressed interest in my profile.

Faraway, in another land, removed from flights of fancy of living the London Life, Best Friend and I addressed our living situation. The duration of the lease on the apartment, slowly wasted away; to extend the lease or not.

“I could just quit my job – for the first time in my life, throw caution to the wind and leave! Oh wait, no, I have no savings. This won’t work.”

Best Friend disagreed. “You need a job before you move. We’ll look at the matter of the lease, when the need arises.”

Meanwhile, elsewhere, away from employment opportunities and living arrangements, did I happen to meet a handsome, English man – London Bloke – in Dublin for a business trip. We arranged a date. The date went well. In fact, it went very well. I like him very much. I am lazy in romance and for what is a rare occasion, I made the first move on our date.

Roughly one week later, events progressed nicely. Before I knew it, I was required to go to London for a second interview.  London Bloke and I had been in contact prior to the interview. We arranged a second date, deciding to meet in Soho.

I arrived late, having spent fifteen minutes wandering around Soho in search of Compton Street. I walked into the darkness of the bar and looked around for London Bloke. I spotted him within seconds. He looked good. I awkwardly greeted him. I was nervous. Do I shake his hand or kiss him on the mouth?  What is the etiquette for a second date? I opted for a kiss on the cheek.

“It’s really nice to see you again,” he said.

My head spun. Wow, Irish men never say stuff like that. Well, the Irish men I’ve known never would. “It’s nice to see you too,” I replied somewhat coyly, looking to the floor.

“You’re in my city this time. Let me buy you a pint.”

We moved to a nook of the bar. Conversation and laughter radiated from that corner.

London Bloke supped his pint of ale. “So, how did the interview go?”

“It went OK. My head was completely fried afterwards. It was two hours long. I spoke for two hours! I am naturally talkative, but even I found that challenging.”

“When will you know the results?”

I hesitated. “Thing is … I already know the results …”

He raised his eyebrows in expectation. “Oh?”

“I got the job.”

A sexy smile crept across his face. “I am so happy for you. And, I am happy for me too.”

I was stunned. I’m sure my smile beamed. “Thanks.” I felt very strange right then, unaccustomed to the sensation of shyness.

I returned to Dublin the next day, slowly and gradually communicating my news to friends. Events were slowly settling in my own head. Since then, I have handed in my notice at work. I am due to finish my job 15th July; the same day the lease ends on the apartment.

I fancy the arse off London Bloke. As sad – or hopeful – as it sounds, I have not felt like this about anyone in years. I no longer feel dead from the waist down.

I never subscribed to the “whatever is meant for you won’t pass you by” train of thought. In my opinion, our lives are what we make them. Recent events have caused me to wonder if sometimes, now and again, things just go right and fall tidily into place.

It’s really quite nice when this happens.

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Wet Dream

Years ago, in a cosy corner of some pub in Ballsbridge, a colleague, over toasted sandwiches, revealed she wet the bed twice during her twenties. I can’t recall how it came up, but she described how she slept soundly, happening to dream of going to the toilet. She suddenly awoke to a wet bed. I found this hilarious. I had never heard the likes before. I laughed so hard I made a bit of a scene in the pub. Understandably, my colleague was unimpressed.

On Monday night, I slept very heavily, following a hectic weekend. I was in a deep sleep. I recall my downstairs muscles moving. I woke up and sat up in bed. What was that? I asked myself. I recalled the sensation. The muscular contraction I experienced was my sphincter. Oh dear Lord, I thought, as I realised what may have happened. I felt the bed around me. It was dry.

I had come very close to wetting the bed. Sitting in the darkness of my bedroom at 01.30, I recalled my colleague from the pub. My bed might have been dry, but I was drenched with guilt.

Karma is a bitch.

Listen to Aunt Eleanor

“Do one thing every day that scares you” are the words used by Eleanor Roosevelt. I think Eleanor’s words are powerful. In my opinion she recommends we shake things up now and again. It’s just too easy to allow oneself remain stagnant and blinkered in life. We only can only see and learn what we allow ourselves to. I don’t adhere to Eleanor’s advice on a daily basis, but every week I attempt something that rattles my cage. I do the opposite of what my instinct tells me and by doing so, I put myself outside of my comfort zone.

During the week, I received a message from Conortje, informing me he and his other half would be in Dublin for the approaching weekend. He asked if I ‘d like to meet  for a drink. I’ve read Conor’s blog for the last year or so. I’m familiar with his story. I knew much about him. I even knew of his other half, “Newfie”. I wanted to meet them for a pint, but I was nervous. I don’t know why. Perhaps, it’s down to the fact I’m a control freak. I hate surprises. I fear the unexpected. Despite this, I made arrangements to meet.

I arrived in the Front Lounge at around 21.30. I was only familiar with his appearance from photos. I tried to spot him with my best squint and unsurprisingly failed. I texted him for his exact location, ordered a drink and waited patiently by the bar. He replied. I spotted him in the distance and rolled up in my usual over-enthusiastic-compensating-for-nervousness-extroverted manner. This eventually subsided and I relaxed into the conversation.

Time passed pretty quickly. I learned much about Conor and his boyfriend. They were chilled, easy to talk to and very interesting. During one discussion, we realised Newfie had never heard of the Twilight Series, probably one of the most successfully marketed, teenage angst-romance novels ever. I found this amazing. Needless to say the night flew. The transition from the Front Lounge to the Dragon was barely noticeable. The laughs continued long into the night.

All in all I had a great time. Why I was initially nervous, I don’t know. By meeting Conor and Newfie, I heard some interesting stories, laughed countless times and made some new friends.

Eleanor Roosevelt could not have said it better.

The Punisher

Boyfriend said he would be home at 19.30.

It’s almost 00.50. Is he home? No, he is not. I’ll tell you where he is. He is in Donnybrook drinking pints. Yes, in Donnybrook, drinking pints of all things.

He deserves punishment. I’ll show him. I’ll teach him a lesson.

This is why I am going to eat his large Toblerone he brought back from London last weekend. Harsh, but necessary.

RED

I’m not a sentimental person. I’ve thrown school yearbooks out without the bat of an eye lid.  I once laughed at Boyfriend, when he told me he had the ticket stubs to our first trip to the cinema. I can be a harsh fucker sometimes. Lately, I’ve noticed, I’ve softened with age. I’m even getting  a little sentimental.

Two Christmases ago, Boyfriend bought me the RED IPod. It has to be one of the best presents I’ve ever received.  I absolutely love Felicity the RED IPod. I use it every day of the week. On the back of the IPod there is an inscription. It reads, “M-People, the definitive band of the 90s”. A far from credible claim, you might think.

This quote originates from one of our first few dates. Boyfriend and I were in a dodgy pub in town far too early in the morning. I was a little drunk. We discussed our musical preferences. I proceeded to tell him I loved “M-People”. When he laughed, I took the hump. I argued that M-People were the definitive band of the 90s. This claim made him laugh harder.

The next morning, while I had a sore head, he quoted my opinion of M-People. It was a hilarious claim. We still laugh about it to this very day. One morning this week, when I saw the inscription, I smiled to myself.

RED Ipod Nano - perfect for listening to M-People

Morto!

I was bold last night. I went out on a school night. I am not hung-over, just very tired. I have that light headed feeling. I should be at home on the couch, not sitting in work pretending to work.

About an hour ago, I went for breakfast with two of my colleagues. Pineapple seemed nice in theory. It sort of caused a gurgling from the pits of my stomach. It wasn’t enjoyable. One colleague returned to work, leaving two of us sitting at the table. We agreed it was time to return to our desks. Just as I rose from my seat, I farted. It wasn’t one of those secret ones you can drop and run. It arrived with a high pitched toot. This diva fart wanted its arrival known. My colleague looked a little puzzled at first and then burst out laughing. I am so grateful she and I are close. I probably would have resigned were it anyone else.

Purple Puke

I was so sick on Saturday morning. We were in Boyfriend’s parents’ house. I had been out with him and the clan the night before and awoke early Saturday morning with heaving stomach cramps. I am now familiar with the discomfort of child labour. Boyfriend and his parents speculated on the cause of the illness. Majority leaned towards the fuck off onion rings I had devoured on the way back from the pub a few hours earlier. They were huge; I’d never seen so much batter on anything. I begged Boyfriend to drive me home. During the drive home he and I fought.

“Oh my fucking God,” he roared while the electric window wound open. “That smell is unearthly. What the fuck?”

“Fuck you,” I roared back at him. “I can hardly do anything about the smell of my farts when I am so sick”.

“Don’t roar at me like that,” he protested angrily.

“Don’t complain about my bodily functions, while I am extremely ill.”

I seethed with anger. Neither of us spoke for a few minutes until we apologised to one another. The remainder of the drive was probably one of the longest journeys ever. I felt every bump and turn in the road. Stomach cramps washed over me every few seconds. Sweat covered my brow and back. I was suffering from a chill and felt so cold. Boyfriend’s parents had recommended a concoction of brandy and port to settle my stomach. The home remedy sloshed idly in my stomach. I felt increasingly nauseous.

The car eventually rolled up the driveway of our house. “Do you want to get out?” Boyfriend asked before switching the engine off. I was already out of the car. I scrambled to the hall door and fumbled around for the key. It was then I foresaw what would happen. I leaned forward on the wheelie bin and threw up purple bile all over the driveway of our house in broad daylight. I turned towards the car and looked pleadingly towards Boyfriend, who sat in the driver’s side of the car open mouthed and in shock. I turned away and puked again. I regained my composure quickly. Boyfriend drew my attention from within the car.

“Go inside,” he mouthed from within the car as he pointed to the hall door.

I tried to open the door again before heaving another amount of discoloured stomach fluid. Boyfriend joined me in the kitchen to fetch boiling and bleach to remove the street art from his driveway. “Tell your parents that I am grateful for their home remedy, but I don’t think it was useful in this case”. I set off in the direction of bed. I lay under two duvets and waited for my pain to pass.