what?’
‘Did he see? Did you see? Did anyone see?’ I gabbled uncontrollably.
‘What are you talking about?’ Laura answered, shaking her head, looking genuinely confused.
‘Me , falling off my shaggin’ heels on the way to the toilets!’ I barked.
‘No,’ laughed Laura . ‘I was way too busy checking out the wall-to-wall cock-a-locka.’
‘It’s karma; I always get punished when I think naughty thoughts,’ I sulked.
‘C’mon - c’mon,’ encouraged Laura as she swung open the door back to the bar. ‘We’re wasting time in here. I didn’t come all this way to spend the night in the bogs - let’s go have us some fun!’
‘I’ll be out in a bit ,’ I replied, still feeling mortified and not quite ready to show my face.
I really needed to undo my skintight jeans so I would at least make some use of my embarrassing ‘trip’ to the toilets. Back at mum’s, I had eaten the remains of an old box of rejected chocolate liqueurs found at the back of a cupboard (well, all the rum flavour ones anyway). It was a comfort food thing, although perhaps it was through lack of festive alcohol too. Either way, the chocolate liqueurs were now terrorising my insides and giving me windy-pops. Added to this was the small issue with Siobhan’s Christmas present ( small being the key word here). She had bought me a thong which was at least two sizes too small. To be honest, after my chocolate gobbling session, it was maybe three sizes too small. It had felt okay just as I was leaving mums. However, the minute I got into the taxi it felt like my arse was sitting on a cheese wire. The offending garment had developed an unhealthy, intimate appetite for my nether regions. I squeezed my hand down the back of my jeans and tried to release the torment of the string, but within seconds it was back, slicing me in half again.
Realising there was little I could do about the thong issue (perhaps another vodka would act as a pain killer), I fixed my lip-gloss and gently ruffled my hair, making sure my extensions were all in place. I swallowed my pride and nervously came out of the toilets.
I had been single for way too long . It’s not like I couldn’t find a man or anything. I just had a graveyard full of failed relationships that all suffered the same fate: him getting too close and me running for dear life. I couldn’t help myself. When I found someone I liked, I would even sit down with a notepad and analyse and dissect the relationship to no end. By the time I’d finished over-analsying, I would be so anxious I simply hit the panic button on my emotional ejector seat.
Not this time though. I was only too aware I had wasted so much time in the past, which is why I’m in my bloody thirties with no husband, no babies and a bleak future. Besides which, I didn’t need a notebook to know for certain that Mr. gorgeous rugby man outside was absolutely, without a doubt, prime husband and father material.
Taking a little more care this time, I strutted my stuff back into the bar. While trying to see where the object of my attention was, I was stopped by a ‘yokel’. A yokel is Laura’s code word for local yolk of a farmer who needs a wife, only knows how to speak to the animals and has no female contact in his life except that of his female heifer variety.
‘Sure you're a fine looking woman ,’ said the yokel.
I smiled sweetly, thanked him and tried to get back to the gang of hotties. I was just pulling my arm back when he came right out with it and asked me if I was looking for a husband.
‘No!’ I replied, trying not to sound rude. Well, yes actually , I thought, but it’s not gonna be you in a million years, chum!
‘Can ya milek cows?’ he inquired in the strongest Irish accent I had ever heard. It was then I noticed he had a tooth missing - as if there weren’t enough nails in his coffin.
By now, I was beginning to really lose patience.
‘No !’ I said petulantly, putting on a cut-glass English
‘Did he see? Did you see? Did anyone see?’ I gabbled uncontrollably.
‘What are you talking about?’ Laura answered, shaking her head, looking genuinely confused.
‘Me , falling off my shaggin’ heels on the way to the toilets!’ I barked.
‘No,’ laughed Laura . ‘I was way too busy checking out the wall-to-wall cock-a-locka.’
‘It’s karma; I always get punished when I think naughty thoughts,’ I sulked.
‘C’mon - c’mon,’ encouraged Laura as she swung open the door back to the bar. ‘We’re wasting time in here. I didn’t come all this way to spend the night in the bogs - let’s go have us some fun!’
‘I’ll be out in a bit ,’ I replied, still feeling mortified and not quite ready to show my face.
I really needed to undo my skintight jeans so I would at least make some use of my embarrassing ‘trip’ to the toilets. Back at mum’s, I had eaten the remains of an old box of rejected chocolate liqueurs found at the back of a cupboard (well, all the rum flavour ones anyway). It was a comfort food thing, although perhaps it was through lack of festive alcohol too. Either way, the chocolate liqueurs were now terrorising my insides and giving me windy-pops. Added to this was the small issue with Siobhan’s Christmas present ( small being the key word here). She had bought me a thong which was at least two sizes too small. To be honest, after my chocolate gobbling session, it was maybe three sizes too small. It had felt okay just as I was leaving mums. However, the minute I got into the taxi it felt like my arse was sitting on a cheese wire. The offending garment had developed an unhealthy, intimate appetite for my nether regions. I squeezed my hand down the back of my jeans and tried to release the torment of the string, but within seconds it was back, slicing me in half again.
Realising there was little I could do about the thong issue (perhaps another vodka would act as a pain killer), I fixed my lip-gloss and gently ruffled my hair, making sure my extensions were all in place. I swallowed my pride and nervously came out of the toilets.
I had been single for way too long . It’s not like I couldn’t find a man or anything. I just had a graveyard full of failed relationships that all suffered the same fate: him getting too close and me running for dear life. I couldn’t help myself. When I found someone I liked, I would even sit down with a notepad and analyse and dissect the relationship to no end. By the time I’d finished over-analsying, I would be so anxious I simply hit the panic button on my emotional ejector seat.
Not this time though. I was only too aware I had wasted so much time in the past, which is why I’m in my bloody thirties with no husband, no babies and a bleak future. Besides which, I didn’t need a notebook to know for certain that Mr. gorgeous rugby man outside was absolutely, without a doubt, prime husband and father material.
Taking a little more care this time, I strutted my stuff back into the bar. While trying to see where the object of my attention was, I was stopped by a ‘yokel’. A yokel is Laura’s code word for local yolk of a farmer who needs a wife, only knows how to speak to the animals and has no female contact in his life except that of his female heifer variety.
‘Sure you're a fine looking woman ,’ said the yokel.
I smiled sweetly, thanked him and tried to get back to the gang of hotties. I was just pulling my arm back when he came right out with it and asked me if I was looking for a husband.
‘No!’ I replied, trying not to sound rude. Well, yes actually , I thought, but it’s not gonna be you in a million years, chum!
‘Can ya milek cows?’ he inquired in the strongest Irish accent I had ever heard. It was then I noticed he had a tooth missing - as if there weren’t enough nails in his coffin.
By now, I was beginning to really lose patience.
‘No !’ I said petulantly, putting on a cut-glass English
Similar Books
