Tag Archives: Irish

Ditched on VDAY

Posted on February 13, 2013 | Leave a comment

Okay, I have a dilemma.

I had it all worked out – VDAY is imminent, and I live with one half of the world’s most sickeningly happy couple, both of whom will be in tomorrow ‘not celebrating’ Valentine’s day. They think it’s a ridiculous commercial holiday (of course) so instead of celebrating like normal capitalist sucker couples, they are instead spending hardly anything on buying each other ‘joke’ gifts, having a night in watching Finding Nemo, and probably ending with lots and lots of disgustingly smushy love making. Yes, love making. That doesn’t sound unbearable at all does it? Maybe I should take them up on their offer to join them, I’m sure the bitter single wench hunched up in the far corner of the opposite sofa slowly slitting her wrists with plastic thorns from tacky fake roses won’t be off putting for their true love AT ALL.

What I had planned to do, was disappear to the furthest corner of West London with Irish, split a pizza and watch Hyde Park on Hudson at the cinema, because what brightens up a Valentine’s day more than a hilarious period drama starring Bill Murray and Olivia Coleman? Not much. Irish got dumped two weeks ago you see, so it was perfick. Maybe not for her, but hey, misery loves company and all that shiz…

Today, however, I received a text that destroyed all my hopes and dreams (yes, I’m being dramatic. Indulge me.) Irish has only gone and double booked herself with a rehearsal tomorrow night because she’s so fecking dedicated to her craft and all. ACTUAL end of the world. I’m tempted to call Buffy and let her know the end is nigh and she’d better bring a stake.

So now what do I do? Do I sack off VDAY all together and remain resolute in my office until the latest possible moment, then race home and lock myself in my room and listen to Dido? Or do I hold my head high and go to the cinema in the sticks alone? I’m rather tempted to actually, I could quite happily sit on the back row and throw M&Ms at anyone whose pout gets too close to the pout sat next to them.

This lark was so much simpler when we were ALL tragic and single. Fucksake.

RitziCx

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Happy Fabruary!

Posted on February 1, 2013 | Leave a comment

Happy February! Or should I say… FABruary? Because damnit, it’s 8 30am and I’m already slightly tipsy.

After a month of peppermint tea, soda and lime and steamed vegetables, I am happy to report that Ritzi is rested, revitalised and ready to start the eleven month pickling process once more. This morning my coffee was two parts hazelnut baileys and one part caffeine. I can also have caffeine again (YAY!) in small (ish) doses, which has made me so happy I could dance.

Tonight, Blondie and I are going to fill our Big Joes with a bottle of red each, followed with a chaser of dairy milk (the 1kg variety). Tomorrow (after 4 hours in the gym, I’m not completely falling off the wagon) we will get ready with tequila cocktails before heading to Islington to watch Pout at the Devil, possibly the GREATEST worst 80′s tribute band of all time, with Irish, where we will down whisky and cokes and head bang to White Snake and Poison all night. On Sunday, when we emerge from our respective comas, we will cook up a storm (including dessert) and mainline series two of Downton on DVD, with (you guessed it) a bit more wine for good measure.

And on Monday morning, I will sweat all of this out in my boxing class, and finally be ready to face 2013 like a real human being.

Huzzah!

RitziCx

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New Year… Same Old Excuses…

Posted on January 11, 2013 | Leave a comment

Happy 2013 everyone!

I am shocked and appalled to report that I’ve slacked for so long that I’ve come back to WordPress and it’s ALL CHANGED. Seriously. I have no idea where anything is anymore… come back old simple silver version! Oh dear. I did mean to blog earlier, obviously, but I just couldn’t work out how. Yeah… that’s right… it’s all WordPress’s fault…

But seriously, it has been shocking of me. It seems to be a bit of a pattern that by the time we get to December, the year has well and truly kicked ass and there’s just not enough time/energy/impetus (it that how you spell that?) to do anything other than eat, drink, eat, and not sleep. I barely recall December now that I’m here in sober silent January, it all seems a bit of a haze. I do have a vague memory of a week where I managed 4 gym classes, 2 theatre trips, 5 parties, 3 Christmas lunches and a breakfast meeting. Safe to say, I staggered to the end of the month and buggered off to the furthest reaches of the Irish countryside to recuperate.

I’ve got a few interesting dates to write up, so I’ll be getting nostalgic over the next few weeks and harking back to the hazy days of late November to update you on those. Here’s a few tasty hints… one contains ‘cream tea and scones’, the other includes a cape. Seriously.

But for now, let us content ourselves with the general good feeling and purifying joy of January. Out with the old, in with the new, down with the wine, in with the cranberry juice. Welcome to the most depressing month of the year – the month that I annually choose to make that little bit worse by detoxing my brains out.

January began as all January’s should, with a bit of a hangover and a naughty breakfast – it’s a universally known fact that the January detox should never start until after breakfast. You may recall last year, Blondie, Irish and I buggered off the the Shire and spent the day in a spa, ate too many sandwiches and partied in a village pub with Nana Cortez. This year, Blondie bailed because she’s too fecking happy for words with her Perfect Match (barf), so Irish and I flew off to her homeland with her other English friend (yes, Irish has English friends other than me and Blondie – I was shocked too) for a week of good food (read: potatoes), great wine, amazing views, and the odd spot of mountain climbing. We started in Tipperary, which actually is a bloody long way from anywhere, where highlights included Ritzi’s first Rugby experience (C’mooooon Munster! Though I have to admit the Ulster boys were a bit fitter… sorry Irish), discovering a pub in Two Mile Borris that stayed open til 3am AND had a trampoline in the carpark, and an educational video about the Plague and other such pleasant historial things at the Rock of Cashel.

Then, we went an even longer way, and journeyed for many many hours to the furthest reaches of County Kerry, where we basically adventured for days. Honestly, just take my pocket handkercheif and call me Bilbo – it was awesome.

New years was spent in a quiet pub, with an Irish band seated beside us, complete with tin whistles and accordians, where we befriended a small child named Delia, who had come dressed as Santa.

The obligatory burning of bad things happened back in Ma Irish’s cottage on the dunes, and I have to say, my list was not quite as hideous as last year. It included:

  1. Turkey. Not all of Turkey of course but… well… this bit of Turkey.
  2. I sucked at blogging. It’s true, I did. I failed y’all, and you’re so darn pretty too.
  3. I did feck all with the 500 page manuscript sitting on my laptop.
  4. I didn’t get my ass into gear and fictionalise Ensemble Bingo like we all know I need to for sheer comedy and commercial value.
  5. I worked way too much.

The good things, however, also outweighed the good things of last year’s list:

  1. I took an Open University course. I did! And I was good! And it reminded me that I actually can form sentences and paragraphs and chapters about things other than my own exploits… and then I did nothing with it.
  2. I got nominated in the Cosmo awards again because my followers are awesome. As previously mentioned, I sucked at blogging, so I did not do this nomination justice. Sorry!
  3. I wangled 2 promotions and 2 payrises! So… although I may have worked a bit too much… it did provide me with the means to fund my Vivienne Westwood addiction.
  4. BLONDIE McFABULOUS MOVED INTO CASTLE CORTEZ. This is the best thing in the world. Newly christened Blitzi Mews is where it’s happ’nin’ yo.
  5. I got my ass skinny by becoming addicted to the gym. I now get up at 5.30am at least 4 days a week and bash out a doubler (pump and spin) on a Saturday morning.
  6. I went on an actual holiday, with the aforementioned flatmate, and despite one little glitch which we don’t speak of ever, had a marvellous experience on my first ever beach/pool holiday in an actual hot country! Hurrah!

And so finally, we come to the resolutions. I’m usually pretty good with these. Last year my resolutions were to get my book published, be more sensible with boys, complete the OU fiction writing course, say no more often (to theatre and the like, don’t be base), to detox, and to get on top of my finances. WELL, aside from a few little glitches in the regions of Brighton and Marmaris, I’ve been much less of a twat about boys. Not sensible, I admit, but less of a twat. I didn’t mainline theatre every night of the week and therefore managed to make it to the end of each week and still manage a 7.30am body attack. And I consolidated all my drama school/world travel/high heels debt into one affordable monthly payment – ergo, on top of LIFE.

This year, I’m keeping it simple.

  1. Sort out that bloody manuscript. I’m on it already – many an evening has been spent tucked up in Starbucks in the last 2 weeks with a tax dodging berry spritzy thing and my laptop, editing and rewriting and honing. I’m giving myself until my birthday (so 6 months) to get that bad boy in order. It WILL be published, and I WILL be a younger JK Rowling with a better ass.
  2. Date. Better. I’m not wasting my time on this – either the love of my life is going to show up, or he isn’t. I shall apply the Lemon Law theory and bail if something seems fruitless in the early stages, and not lose sleep over a single manly soul. Internet dating is fun and passes the time (and gives me plenty of hilarity to impart to you lot) but my future husband is not an office manager from Croydon. He’s just not.
  3. Save money! Eton Boy pointed out to me that I’m a grown up with a real job and the potential to get a mortgage once I have a deposit saved. I’d never actually considered this before. I’ve upped my loan repayments, switched to annual travel (good lord that saves you a packet) and bring my lunch into the office like a good little spendthrift, instead of forking out for a Whole Foods salad box at £12 a pop. I’m still buying my yearly pair of Roxanne 7 skinnies come pay day mind you… a girl’s got her limits.

And so there you have it. It’s 2013, and I think it’s going to be a goodun. Work is good (or it will be in approximately five weeks when a long term pain in my ass is out of my life forever), life is good, and I’m feeling positive. Or maybe it’s just all those antioxidants…

And so, I shall leave you with this. The only folk who mock new years resolutioners are the folk who lack the balls to look back in a year and face up if they failed. Setting goals is healthy, and burning mistakes in an open fire at the end of a long 365 day struggle is too.

Happy new year!

RitziCx

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PS – I take no credit for photos, all goes (surrupticiously) to Irish and Irish’s English friend GI Jane.

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Girls Are Mental. Discuss.

Posted on February 28, 2012 | 4 Comments

I have never tried to hide the fact that I’m completely and utterly nuts – well, only from the men I’m sleeping with, and then it doesn’t usually take long for the crazy to come out – but it’s a well known fact that all women ARE.

They can deny it, they can play it cool, but I guarantee you, behind closed doors they have been known to inhale a pint of half baked Ben & Jerry’s in a blind panic, deep throat a Father’s Day Toberlone in a fit of depression and hide their phone in the fridge to refrain from texting first.

Case in point: on Friday night, I spent a very pleasant evening, followed by some very hot sex, with Almost Famous. Being AF, he continued to text the next day, and the next day, until it got to 7.30pm, and I’d told the girls all about it, and sent the last text (which was about cheesecake) and then he fell off the face of the earth.

Any normal human being might reason – he’s in a band, perhaps he’s playing a gig. Or, he’s teaching tomorrow, maybe he’s knuckling down with his lesson plan. But the average crazy woman, aka me, had surmised (by the end of dinner) that he’s either particularly overt to cheesecake OR the immediate text responses and general keenness have put him off, he doesn’t like me any more and he’s never going to call again.

Cue a 24 hour freak out, where everything possible had to be done to prevent MENTAL RITZI from revealing herself, for in reality all I wanted to do was send the following text:

‘WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME? WHAT’S WRONG WITH CHEESECAKE? DO YOU THINK I’M A SLUT NOW BECAUSE I’M GOOD AT GIVING HEAD???’

But thankfully… I didn’t.

Thanks must be given to Irish, whose calm ethereal tones talked me off the ledge;

‘Calm the feck down, Ritzi. Keep a lid on the crazy.’

And Blondie, with albeit a slightly different approach;

‘GET A FUCKING GRIP WOMAN!!! DON’T MAKE ME COME THERE AND SLAP YOU ROUND THE FACE BECAUSE I WILL! I’M YOUR FRIEND AND I WILL!!!’

And multitudes of twitter tweeps who did a fine old job of stopping me becoming the dreaded ’2 texts in a row’ gal.

We shall say nothing for the advice of Ma Cortez, who started going on about how sometimes she sends texts that never get delivered…

That is not what a crazy lady needs to hear!

Anyway, I was doing so very well, made it all the way home, watched some True Blood (Vampire Porn does wonders for the soul) and ate some chocolate, made peace with the fact that I was destined to die alone with cats eating my face and then…

I got a text.

RitziCx

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Wanted : Iron Knickers

Posted on February 22, 2012 | 2 Comments

Almost Famous is playing a gig at a super cool haunt right round the corner from my house. On Friday.

He asked me to go and the only excuse I could come up with was ‘I’m supposed to be at the theatre so I’m not sure I’ll be able to…’ Feeble excuse, Ritzi. These cool bands are not even on until 11ish. As if any play is that long (there’s nothing directed by Trevor Nunn kicking about at the moment).

Should have said opera.

The Office Sluts Brigade (god I love them) say ‘GO GO GO!’ They said this after they saw his mugshot and I can’t blame them. He is HOT.

Twinkle says; ‘You better not shag him so loud I can hear it from my bedroom.’ Thanks Twinks, ever the pillar of moral support.

Blondie says; ‘Do not go alone, and do not shag him.’

The thing is, despite being a MAHOOSIVE hypocrite, Blondie has a point. I’ve never quite twigged before, but perhaps the real reason AF and I have so much chemistry in every other area except for face to face (well, clothed face to face anyway) is because every time we see each other, we get drunk, lose our inhibitions and bonk each other’s brains out.

Then we wave bye bye for six months or so, relationship reduced to texts that range from painfully horny to shamefully needy, depending on which one of us is drunk.

Not exactly healthy, is it?

Which brings me to the Iron Knickers. Blondie went on a ‘first date’ recently, which was actually a booty call, and dropped her kecks that very same evening. Flora, the silly but lovable bint, just did the same thing with the leading man from Twinkle’s show. Now, Blondie’s bloke is still interested, but apparently only in repeating said booty call with no strings attached, and Flora’s has dropped off the face of the earth.

For this line, we must credit Irish….

‘Where are your Iron Knickers girls?’

Of course men think we’re sluts who’re likely to shag anything and everything when we get naked on the first date… If we’re honest, they’re sort of right. And I am one of the worst for this – if I can go a bit Freud for a moment, I’d say it’s most likely because subconsciously I know that if I do it, they’ll lose interest, and then I don’t have to deal with the whole potential relationship thing. My subconscious is SUCH a cat lady.

So, with Irish’s stern words and Blondie’s ‘pot-kettle-black’ advice in my head, I’m going to try this new-fangled ‘not sleeping with Almost Famous’ thing. And see where we end up.

Unless, of course, I have more than 3 glasses of wine, then I cannot be held responsible. Blame the grape.

RitziCx

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Bye Bye Chez Cortez (Part 2)

Posted on October 24, 2011 | 2 Comments

Estate Agents really are bastards, aren’t they? I mean, have you ever met a nice one? If you are reading this and you ARE a nice Estate Agent please do get in touch (…tumbleweeds)

Despite the fact that I have, in writing, an agreement to a move in date of 21st October and a contract that states ‘the property will be professionally cleaned prior to the commencement of new tenancy’ I arrived on Friday night and the place looked like a student had just rolled out of it. And a bloody messy student at that. When it got to 4pm on Saturday afternoon (the 22nd, a whole 24 hours after I’d gotten the keys) I was on the verge of a mental breakdown. There were new lifeforms evolving in the fridge, a forest load of fungus in the bathroom and dead cat smell in my hall way.

Thank fuck for parents.

Ma’ and Pa’ Cortez showed up on Saturday with Pa’s enormous work van, ready to transport my life. They loaded up, convinced me (after some very tense conversations with the twatty estate agent) to just suck it up and get on with it, and move all my stuff in anyway, and THEN, upon the arrival of Twinkle’s mum who came armed with a steam cleaner, these parental MIRACLE workers proceeded to gut the place.

I think Ma’ Cortez might be a little bit in love with that steam cleaner. I could see her on the verge of stuffing it up her jumper.

Cut to another 24 hours later and FINALLY Twinkle and I are unpacking our lives, with SATC on the biggest widescreen TV you have ever seen (thank you Twinkle’s Army Ex – you were good for something at least) and Irish round for the first visit christening Big Joe with half a bottle of red (Big Joe, Cougar Town – google it. We found him at the back of a kitchen cupboard.)

I swear, Pa’ was on the verge of regrouting the bloody bathroom himself, and Twinkle (whose gross, stained, rented bed was supposed to be removed before we moved in so she could put up her own one… surprise surprise, it wasn’t) had taken the thing to pieces and dumped it outside, but not before ringing the estate agent and leaving a message telling him it’d be outside his office in the morning with a post it note stuck to it.

It was so dramatic that it almost wasn’t worth it, but then, before 10pm (I know), I crawled into my new king size bed with my new king size bedding in my new king size room, with the dulcet tones of Stephen Fry on iPlayer in the background (yes – I have INTERNET connection now. Spotify works and everything!) and slightly sloshed from much wine and manual labour, and I thought to myself… Ahhhhhhhhhhhh.

Introducing… Castle Cortez. Long may Ritzi reign.

This experience has also taught me that I’m going to have to find a man like my dad. Or next time I move I will be buggered. I wonder if Almost Famous knows how to regrout a bathroom?

RitziCx

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Did You Grow Up In A Naked House?

Posted on September 21, 2011 | 10 Comments

A decent homecooked meal was much overdue, and so last weekend I demanded the presence of my favourite girlies, Irish, Blondie and Twinkle (who lives here so it wasn’t hard to convince her) over for a good old fashioned Sunday dinner.

Now, I’m a veggie as you know so whatever you’re imagining, replace it with fake Lincolnshire sausages and you got it. Yorkshire puddings from scratch though – credit where credit is due.

Anyhoo, chocolate brownie, cornish icecream and several bottles of wine later, we’re all still gathered around the dinner table, laughing at Twinkle’s unfortunate recent holiday experience with her parents – who would send her out for a run in the morning in the 40 degree Egyption sun so they could sneak in a quickie. Hilarious.

This somehow got onto the subject of naked houses. Did you grow up in a naked house? I certainly did not. In fact, just recently I was home visiting my folks and hanging out in their room one morning, drinking tea and chuckling merrily at Dick and Dom (you know you do it) and my father made me leave the room when he eventually got up because he’d slept in his t-shirt and boxers and therefore didn’t have any trousers on.

I also used to give him a heart attack if I had to leg it downstairs in the morning in my bra to grab my shirt from the dryer before school.

TWINKLE, however, will stand chatting away to her dad in her pants and think nothing of it. And sunbathed topless in Egypt (which I’m pretty sure is illegal or frowned upon or something) and so did her mum. Of course, it may have something to do with her meagre 32B’s being slightly less imposing than my ample bosom but still.

Blondie once visited a family friend with her parents, and as she was getting ready one morning she spied him (a man of at least 45) wandering past her room COMPLETELY STARKERS and when he saw that she’d seen him he stopped and WAVED.

Who ARE these people who wander around naked all the time? Surely we’re British – excessive flesh is not something we like to see on a day to day basis.

Sex education in my childhood was a horror story about my mum’s first period and a poorly illustrated book (it showed a couple doing it missionary style on a beach – on a beach??) and the first time I saw a penis that wasn’t a spray painted on the side of the tennis courts was when one was in my face.

I cannot tell you how much I hoped they all looked like that.

This is a subject that now intrigues me: naked house vs clothed house – what say you readers?

Fully clothed RitziCx

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It’s A Vocal Warm Up – I Swear!

Posted on June 24, 2011 | Leave a comment

Those of you who’ve paid any attention to twitterland this week might have noticed that I had a birthday. Hurrah! The BEST reason for mid week drinking.

True to form, hilarity was delivered from each and every one of my favourite girls who came along bearing gifts and buying cocktails, and after less than half a long island ice tea, Irish came out with this little gem.

She declared it was a story worthy of the blog – and my god she was right! So, a few days before, after a long day of stressful auditiony things and between jobs jobbing, Irish came home to an empty house.

Ahhhhh.

She headed straight to the bathroom for a much deserved shower, and a good half an hour later in a state of steamy showery bliss, she got out the shower and headed to her room for some self inflicted stress relief.

We all do it ladies, don’t be a prude now!

Being alone in the house, Irish saw no need to be restrained about it. It’s more fun when your vocal, yes? As most of my sexual partners are assured anyway. So she’s having a lovely time of it, and letting the whole world know, and when she’s done she heads out into the real world again she notices something strange…

Hang on… that door wasn’t closed before…

Lo and behold, the Art Fairy has returned home! When did she get back? Was it just now? What it during the shower? Did she hear -

Oh good lord.

And at that moment, Irish noted how the Art Fairy very clearly looked past her and up the stairs, as though searching for a sign of another person.

MORTIFICATION!!!

After that, Irish told how she avoided the subject and wandered the house singing scales, in the hope that the Art Fairy would conclude that all she heard was a vocal warm up…

No. I’m not buying it either.

RitziCx

Next time on the birthday blogs: Blondie McFab is an 8 out of 10…

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It’s My Party And I’ll Lie If I Want To…

Posted on June 26, 2010 | Leave a comment

So Sunday evening came around at last, and I celebrated rather mutedly I have to admit, in anticipation of my week of planned relaxation vacating in the countryside. As planned (see, it wasn’t just an excuse to get rid of Movie Man) Sneezy-K and I hopped along to the Common to meet Irish, Nora, Maestro and Flutey for a lovely girly dinner.

Nb, Maestro counts as a girl in these circumstances.

Of course, one thing I hadn’t taken into consideration was the existence of FOOTBALL. For fecks sake, even SOUK was showing football, my previously undiscovered magical Moroccan paradise that I’ve since learned is a chain and I just never noticed. Huh.

At last, we found a place that wasn’t showing football – Strada. Boring, a bit rough around the edges, but damn it they had wine and a table and we had the company! Lets take a little moment for a couple of the presents that came at me by the by…

Nora: a varied selection of Green and Blacks Chocolate bars, tied up in a neat little bow to discourage me from devouring them there and then, and a card that litters the ground with sparkle and other magical things whenever it’s opened. Sorry cleaning lady.

Irish: Cutesy keyring for my new flat (when I finally get it), some other lovely trinkets… and condoms.

Ironically, they will probably get used before the keyring does.

Sometimes, my friends know me so well it scares me.

Anyhoo, most important and crigeworthy was the fact that Flutey was there. We haven’t seen each other for bloody ages, and have hardly even texted for months, what with my job being so crazy and her working evenings with her show, which kind of lead me to forget what great mates we really are.

Oops. Did I sleep with a man she’s a bit in love with last week? Yes, yes I did.

The thing is, she’d probably not be all that surprised if I told her. She knows what I’m like – and she knows what he’s like – and she’s fully aware that I’m not likely to fall in love with the guy since she’s been with me through more than my fair share of heartache over the years, but I just couldn’t bring myself to mention it, especially as it was my birthday dinner and everyone was there so there was hardly an opportune moment.

She later proceeded to demand that I join her in a couple of weeks to see Forbidden’s final show. I think I’m going to be conveniently busy… but that doesn’t mean Forbidden won’t open his big mouth. Yikes.

This is a bit of a dilemma folks, and could be used as a argument against doing what I’m doing at the moment. I’m sure there’s some kind of ‘Ho’s over Bro’s’ analogy that could be reworded to work in this situation.

But all drama aside, with dinner finished and Irish and Nora retiring for the evening because they’re boring (not really – they actually have early rehearsals and flights respectively but whatever) Flutey, Sneezy-K, Maestro and I decide we are not quite finished with our Sunday evening. Instead, we discover that 2 friends of ours (well, friends of mine and Flutey’s) are playing a gig down the road in a bar that serves COCKTAILS.

My mind is made up – to the flute mobile!

A few hours later I had to drag Sneezy away from a rather dishy looking chap who’d just invited her to add him on facebook (I was dragging her away before she garbled drunken gibberish at him too much by the way, it was a kindness. I’m sure she’ll shag him at a later date) and I took my time saying heartfelt goodbyes to the two rock stars (one of which I desperately want to have my way with, especially when he’s singing. Wowzer) before making my escape with Sneezy on one arm and my raffle prizes in the other.

That’s right… cocktails and a raffle! Could this impromptu evening get any better?

Well, I’m glad you asked actually… on the way back I received a text from Almost Famous, who I’d drunkenly texted earlier that evening as I’d just agreed to go and watch Nora’s band play a gig in Brighton next week, where he conveniently lives these days.

‘Are you about on July 2nd?’ (I had texted) ‘Going to watch a gig and wondered if you mind me shamelessly using you as a bed?’

To which I got the reply…

‘Brazen. Yeah I’m around. Use me ;)‘

Maybe I will, Almost Famous… maybe I will.

Til next time,

RitziCx

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Sometimes All You Need Is Dinner With The Girls

Posted on June 2, 2010 | Leave a comment

After a particularly stressful couple of days at work, I felt the need to blow off some steam with the girls, ie… drink wine, eat food, and talk about sex.

So this evening, Irish, Twinkletoes and I went to the Royal Court (not to see a show… for once) for a slap up meal and a couple of bottles of their finest Rioja. Mimi (my mixed up New Yorker chum and Twinkle’s flatmate) was supposed to be there as well but she blew us off in favour of a shift in the bar she’s currently shaking the odd cocktail from time to time in exchange for pennies. How very dare she.

Irish and I got together early, and I recounted my tale of drunken woe from last Wednesday. Half an hour later, Twinkle showed up and I launched into the story for a second time, all the while remembering little details that had previously slipped my mind – god I hate when that happens – much to the amusement of the ladies. Twinkle distracted us for a while with her own current dilemma (not nearly so interesting as mine – she’s wangled herself a last minute Rock You audition on Friday and does not know the song. How can she not know the song? It’s QUEEN FFS. Geez!) and then we got to Irish.

Saving the most complex til last, obviously.

Those dedicated few among you may remember a certain Cupcake and Coffee evening a few months back when we overindulged in sugary treats to help Irish forget the fact that he boyfriend of 3 years dumped her via email. Well, last weekend she went home to visit the family and for some insane reason, met up with the Email Ex.

I find it prudent to mention that she didn’t just meet up with him, she picked him up from the Vets and drove him home to his house. How fecking Tipperary is that?

Anyhoo, so in the car, just as they were about to enter the estate, the Email Ex (who, it turns out, is a lot more attractive than she remembers now that she can’t have him any more) turns to Irish and says;

‘You do know I’m still in love with you though, don’t you?’

So Irish promptly switches off her indicator and drives straight on past the turning, seething in that quiet, almost etherial way that only she can. He asks her what she’s doing and she responds that she just has to drive for a bit before she can think of an appropriate response. Once she has one, she promptly swings a U-turn in the middle of the road (not dangerous… it’s Tipperary, no-one’s about) and drives him straight back to his house. Once parked, she turns to him and in a show of feministic solidarity (sistah) she says;

‘You don’t get to say things like that any more. You’re feelings might not have changed, but the situation hasn’t changed either. You’re still here and I’m still in London, and I’m staying there.’

He then goes on to ask her how long she needs… as in what? How long until she gives up her acting career and becomes a barmaid back home? How long is a piece of string Email Ex? Geeeeez! SHe doesn’t dignify this with a response – wise, I’d say – and reaches across him to pop the door open in silence.

‘Can I see you again tomorrow, for a drink?’ he asks, all hopeful and lilting.

‘No, you can’t.’

‘Well, can I see you before you go back?’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

And after a while longer, he leaves. I mean really, how much must this situation suck? They totally work – they’re a damn fine looking couple – but at the end of the day, she’s not willing to leave London and he’s not willing to leave Ireland. That’s that. End of. Nothin to see here folks.

And besides, now that she’s back in London, lovely Irish has a much more current issue regarding the menfolk, namely, is she going to keep shagging Colin Farrell look-a-like bloke? She says she just wants to be friends, but I’m not sure my will power would stretch to being ‘just friends’ with this man.

When Twinkle, Irish and I walked to the tube, Irish hung back, saying she just wanted to call Colin and see if he was about before she got on the tube. Twinkle and I shared a look…

Oh yes. The lady is getting some tonight.

And so, we headed back South without her, back to our lonely cold beds and flatmates who casually forget to do the washing up.

Some people have all the luck.

Night!

RitziCx

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