My take on tights.

Nutin' sexier than a burd with tights half way downs 'er legs, wha?

I can't wait for Spring so I can throw all my tights away and go bare legged again. Right now, it's bloody freezing so tights are a staple but I have so many issues with them. The crotch never stays put, it's always slowly slipping down as you walk to wherever so you have to do a quick scan for passersby before reefing them back up. The waist always rolls down on them so if you're wearing anything remotely figure hugging you look like you're carrying a baby sized hula hoop around your waist. They are nearly always too tight so they dig into your stomach causing all sorts of mad stuff to happen to your insides - anyone else get tights related indigestion?  Tights are singularly the most unsexy item of clothing ever invented, nothing gets me out of the mood quicker than the word gusset.  But the most annoying thing I have found about tights is how they make your arse itch like mad! Seriously, what's that about? My Jesus, it is so irritating. You're sitting there in your class, office, whatever and feel it coming on. You so desperately want to stick your hand down the back of your knickers and rummage around like a pre-school kid with a bad dose of thread worms. Instead you squirm inconspicuously in your chair, shifting from one arse cheek to the other, letting a bit of cool air at your bum in the hope that the urge will leave you. Usually I end up excusing myself and legging it to the toilets for a good oul scratch. I could spend five minutes scratching before I'm satisfied. Ahhhh, the relief! Once I even  pulled the feckers off and stuffed them in the bin. I couldn't deal with that itchy sensation any more. Maybe that's what we should all do - shove the offending articles in the bin! Ditch the tights! Free the itchy arses! Anyone else with me?

Leading 'em on.

I haven't been on a girlie night out since I met husband. So I was looking forward to a night out with the girls from my flat the other night. These girls are young, free and single so I can't blame others for thinking that on Friday night I was too (minus the young!) And by others I mean men, boys the opposite sex. So what's a gal to do when blokes approach ya, start chatting you up, ask for a dance, maybe ask to buy you a drink and then move in closer...  At what stage do you inform them that you are in fact married and not in the least bit interested in taking this any further? I mean, I remember what it was like when I was on the prowl. You invest a lot of time in the chatting up process. After twenty minutes of dancing and chat you do begin to think you're in there. So say the night came to a close and you went to throw the lips on your prey and he told you that he had a girlfriend, wife, significant other..? Well, you'd be entitled to feel more than a little pissed off, wouldn't ya? You could have spent all of that time rubbing up against some one who wanted  to rub ya back! But no, instead you spent the last hour shaking your arse into a taken man's crotch.

"And by the way, I'm married."

This was the dilemma I faced on a few times on Friday. Each time I handled it a different way. The first I am so embarrassed about. I was standing at the bar about to order a drink and I could see this guy looking at me from the corner of my eye. He was a total ride, I might add; tall, blond hair, blue eyes and strong, broad shoulders. So he taps me on the shoulder and says in a German accent: "You're not English, are you? I can tell by looking at you." I laughed and told him indeed no he was correct I was Irish, and I also wondered how the hell he could tell I wasn't English just by looking at me. So we started chatting and I ordered my drink and stayed chatting to him while I was waiting for it. My Southern Comfort arrived and I said goodbye and then he asked me what club I was going to next. I told him and he said "I'd love to meet you there, would that be ok?" So I panicked and shoved my wedding ring finger in his face and said: "Actually, I'm married." The guy was a little bewildered, he said "oh, that doesn't matter, I didn't mean just to..." Cause it doesn't, does it? The guy probably just wanted to be friends, have a chat, ye know, like normal men and women do. But I felt like if I told him yes I would meet him there that I would be somehow leading him on and letting him believe that I would like to meet him there and ye know, take it a little further. Is that crazy? Or stupid? Or totally big headed? I sat down in my chair and thought, 'Nutty, you need to get over yourself! Not ever guy who chats to ya fancies the arse off ya.'

So this happened a few more times throughout the night, sometimes I danced with the guys, other times we were just chatting, one guy just approached me and asked me to come for a drink with him. Two of the guys moved in for a snog (at different times, I'm not that bad!) and I told them then that I was married, and next minute they were taking out pictures of their girlfriends and telling me they too were taken, and how much in love they were with their beautiful ladies. Now, these guys were totally going to kiss me, I know the signals, I was doing the single thing long enough me self to know them. Fucking pricks! God help their girlfriends. One guy was brilliant - he said it was very good of me to tell him and he understood completely why I would feel it necessary. Then we danced for ages and had the craic, he was a total sweetheart. 

What do you think? Should you tell guys/girls straight away that you are married? Or should you wait til they offer to buy you a drink? Or should you except that drink and only tell them when they go to kiss you? Or should you just not engage in any chat with the opposite sex on nights out? Turn down every offer of a dance? Should you presume that every male/female that shows you a bit of attention wants to get into your knickers?

The green mile.

She's asking for them boots to be nicked

I love coming home to Dublin.  I love getting off the 41 and strolling down to my house.  I love looking around, taking in the surroundings and feeling comfortable and safe.  But what I don't love about the trip back is getting up at 3.30 am and walking through Derby City to get to the bus station.  My flight this morning was at half six.  So to get to the airport on time I had to get the Skylink bus at 4.20 am. Now, I don't have a problem with getting up early, that's easy peasy.  My problem is that Wednesday night in Derby is student night. So on Thursday morning the place is scattered with half cut teenagers, falling out of bars, trying to find their way home. When you're glaringly sober and have to zig zag your way through drunken mobs at four in the morning you tend to feel quite nervous and intimidated by it all. I try my best to avoid big crowds of people; cross the road when they're approaching or just keep my head down and walk as fast as I can.
This morning I legged it to the other side of the road when I saw a group of lads shouting and pushing each other around.  One of them had a dog and was threatening to set him on one of the blokes: "Get yer dog off me" " 'es not on ya mate, not yet."  Ah Derby, where being stabbed in the belly is all part of the student night experience.  Then I turned the corner to see two policemen struggle with a middle aged man who was shouting: "I've done nowt, get yer 'ands off me, I've done nowt." They pushed him against the wall and handcuffed him.  His friend stood by the whole time, trying to convince the cops that he had indeed: "done nowt." Then there's all these girls, dressed up like extras from TOWIE, looking preened and primped to page three perfection. I'm in a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, head like Wurzel Gummidge on speed, thin layer of cheap makeup that's failing miserably in it's attempt to cover the splattering of acne on my chin. I stick out like a sore and slightly scabby thumb. Which brings me onto my last experience on the 4 am walk.

Me this morning; at least I put some eyeliner on

I was bombing it down the road, thinking I was gonna miss the bus cos I'd left the house a bit later than usual, and I pass this girl in a black mini, lace top and long, perfectly straightened hair. Fag in her mouth, no coat on (coats don't exist in England past 10.00 pm) The girl looks at me as I pass and says to her friend: "That's hideous."  I flinched, ouch! THAT'S hideous. As in, not SHE'S hideous, no cos that would imply that I am a woman or a girl or in the very least, human.  But, THAT, like I was some sort of animal; a mangy dog escaped from the pound, sniffing out discarded kebabs and chewing on unwanted pizza crusts .  I didn't say anything back to her, just kept walking. Cause let's face it, I was looking pretty rough. I couldn't blame her for thinking it and then it probably just slipped out, a case of: " Did I just say that out load?"  Still, I felt a bit down about it.  It was still on my mind when I reached the bus stop. I walked over to sit on the bench and took my bag off my back, plonked it beside me and that's when I realised my mistake.  She wasn't talking about me!  Well not my face or me as a person.  She was referring to my schoolbag. My old reliable, purple and not quite mint green, straps hanging down all over the shop, gigantic, Sporthouse schoolbag.  It belongs to my Mam and by jesus does it looks like it belongs to my Mam. This thing is monstrous; big, ugly and unashamedly proud of it. And on my back, clashing with my long red coat it looked even worse than usual.  I calmed down after that. Note to husband - buy me a new bag for Christmas, please!

Am getting husband to take a pic of it on my back with red coat and all for the full effect so will add it later to the post!

I think he means trousers

On another note - Fair play to the Irish students.  15,000 of them protested outside The Dail yesterday.  (They'd do anything to get out of a lecture, the lazy bastards!)  Not congratulating them on the protest mind; it's the clever banners and posters that I'm celebrating.  They ranged from the very serious and boring: "Stop fees and save the grant", to the mildly amusing: "Drug dealer or student; it's your choice", and the putting it bluntly: "Fuck the Fees", to the hilariously funny: "If we had €3000 we'd have decent signs" and my personal favourite: "Less Fees, More Gees."  Brilliant.