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.