Welcome to another Sunday – which of course means another six sentences. I’ve really been enjoying this process of revelling mealy six of the (what feels like at times) millions of sentences that I write throughout t the week. It’s fantastic to see people enjoying what I’ve been presenting and given some helpful advice along the way. I’m very grateful for all the wonderful support you’ve been giving me over the past few weeks. So a big thank you to each and everyone one of you for reading.
This six comes from part two of the series and is about the consequence of the big night I had last night. Yes, it was last night – Hence why this six is so fresh. It was only written his morning & I still have the feeling I might vomit every two seconds. Don’t feel sorry for me, (I’d be surprised if you did), It is only the fault of myself and the 5 bottles of wine me and my friend consumed.
This weeks six:
I’ve got the usual suspects – Headache, fragile stomach and world-class weariness.
Ideally, I need a recovery that is as fast as Usain Bolt, and as smooth as David Beckham’s arse..
The ritual of deep fried breakfast and orange juice has proven helpful time and time again to relieve the horrendous pain in my head and dulls the urge to kill anyone who dares to make loud noises around me.
If this hangover were a film, it wouldn’t have a decent plot line and would most definitely be in a foreign language: Unbearably boring to watch and overwhelmingly confusing to understand.
You like it? Hate it? Comment on it! xx
So tonight I’m at a bar in town..
I’m here with my friend Izzy for some Friday night drinks and eye candy. Izzy is certainly a confident little lady when it comes to talking to the gentlemen (so she should be), she’s such a great gal, and she knows how to get the men right in the palm of her hand. She’s on a leash at the moment as she’s in a relationship, but this doesn’t mean she can’t help me! So I guess we could call this a Friday night masterclass. How to find men in Melbourne. Lesson one.
We are both standing at the bar on this Friday night talking as girlfriends do. Me with my apple cider, and her with her exotic cocktail (that looks like it has half a pineapple sticking out of it). I hear in the distance something amazing. It felt like one of those moments when you smell something really bad and you’re trying to find out where the awful smell is coming from, except replace the awful smell with the glorious sounds of an Irish accent. It’s like all my senses searched until it found a group of guys standing at the back of the bar having a great time. One guy (talking a little louder than the rest) with the thickest Irish accent. Oh god.
“Izzy. I don’t mean to interrupt this story about you’re boyfriends masterbation habits. But I have the feeling there is a stunning Irishman over in that group of guys”
Luckily she understood the urgency, so she was happy for the conversation to be disrupted. All the details of her boyfriends ‘self satisfaction’ we’re getting a little to close for comfort so I was a little happy for the topic to be put to rest.
It was like finding your favourite jocks in the pile of shit in the draw. Once you’ve found them, everything seems to be okay. And I found him in the sea of men standing with him. His accent stands out like a neon light in the darkness. He was a well built guy with black curly hair. Even from the 5 meters distance between us, I can see his smile (which is already making me blush). As I subtly show Izzy what guy I’m talking about, I see a revolted expression on her face.
“Oh Blake. What you see is the accent. You’re blinded by the noise that comes out of his mouth. Trust me on this one. Do not pursue.”
What do you mean blinded? Thats ridiculous!
Wait, could she be right? Am I blinded by the accent? Surely not. I’ve always found curly hair attractive, and this guy is defiantly not bad on the eyes. No; I’m going to trust my judgment. Izzy has made her mind up that he’s no good. “It would take at least another six of these before i’d even look at him twice”. Her exact words. So either my standards are really low, or this accent has me hooked.
So here we are. Friday night, Izzy and myself trying as hard as we can be to not be obviously checking him out (even though we are) with the second round of drinks in our hands. Giggling away, on and off checking out my Irish. Suddenly, the Irish guy looks our way and our eyes meet. It’s a solid 5 seconds of eye contact before he smiles at me and turns away.
“Izzy. Did I just have eye sex?”
Yes. Yes I did. Holy shit. I just had eye sex with this guy. Would it be appropriate to simply ask him if I could make passionate love with him right here on the bar floor? I’m sure I’m not the first person to have asked that question. Maybe I should go talk to him. If he actually said anything to me, I think I’ll melt. Andddddd.. I spoke to soon. Here is he, coming right over to me. Shit shit shit shit shit. Okay, breathing. Acting natural. I defiantly haven’t been talking about you all night to my friend. He stands at the bar right next to me. I’m now in the middle between Izzy and this beautiful foreigner. Izzy has turned her back as to give me more privacy with him but I don’t think it’s working since he keeps swapping his glance between her and me.
“Well, ‘ey dare.”
I’m going to go ahead and guess that he said ‘Hey there’ but I can’t be certain. The only downside to the whole accent thing is you kinda have to guess what they are saying. But the point is, he has actually said something to me. My heart is racing and the heat in the room is starting to increase. I suddenly realize I’m standing here, with the good looking Irish guy starting a conversation with me, but I seem to be frozen. All I can seem to do is stand there smiling at him. Like an idiot.
“Can oi git yer a draink or somethin’?”
Just. Say. Something. Blake.
“Yeah. Yep. Umm, sure.”
Suddenly his green eyes stare at me perplexed. Was it because I actually had a full bottle of cider in my hands so there is actually no reason for a drink, or did I not speak English. Perhaps he can’t understand my Australian accent. I was raised in the country remember, the accent is a little thicker than a pure-bred Melbournian.
“Um… Oi’m ‘appy ter buy yer a draink mate, but oi wus actually talkin’ ter yisser lady friend ere.”
Izzy (mid sip of her cocktail) and myself didn’t need a translator for that sentence. Although the thickness of the accent was still there, It was pretty clear what he was saying. Izzy in fact, found this a little funny so the mouthful of cocktail is now all over the back of my head and down my back and she has spat it back up in the midst of laughing. I’m not sure if I could get any more embarrassed. Not only have I miss-read ‘sex eyes’ from across the room, I’ve totally made a mess of myself half attempting to flirt with a straight Irish guy (who now doesn’t seem as attractive as he did fist glance) and to put the cherry on top, I now smell of pineapple and vodka. I still seem to be doing the same thing as before. Smile longingly into his eyes, except this time a little part of my soul dies of humiliation
“… I’m. Just… Cleaning up.”
I say as I walk as fast as I can out the door of the bar.
This was my Friday night masterclass. Useful and embarrassing lessons to learn.
A: As hypnotic as accents are, try and no be blinded by the beauty that is a foreign accent.
B: Don’t take a hot girl man-finding. This could result in disappointment when the girl is actually receiving the eye sex that you (and her) think you are receiving.
C: Clarifying (perhaps in the early stages of meeting) if they are in fact interested in the male genitals or the female. Could be very important.. IS very important.