Episode 26 – Old Blue Eyes, jerk.

I will aim for a succinct synopsis of today’s events, necessary by the impending drowsiness of my sleeping tablet and god knows how much extra rubbish I can propel on to a page when I’m half stoned.

This morning I went for a back massage and mini facial in the hotel and it was blissful, if lonely. I had an hour in the thermohydrotherapy suite thing with softly (unnaturally) lit water; intermittent fountains; rainforest sprays; trepidariums; laco-something Roman dry heat rooms and blah blah whatever else is left over from the Celtic Tiger when we all had more pretension coming out of our noses than cocaine going in and enough money, generic beige stone and chrome to build an entire ghost estate. But my! It was a delight. Even if I did feel lonely, exposed, and not just because I was wearing my swimsuit which makes my arse look the size of a lifeguard’s flotation device.

The therapist (massage/facial) girl KEPT trying to talk to me. As my answers grew steadily fewer in syllables she got the picture and shut the hell up. She said she’d never come across an upper back quite as clicky as mine. I’m guessing she didn’t mean that as some sort of compliment on my internal bone rhythm.

Then we moved hotels. Basically, it’s very busy here with this festival (I saw my first Spiegeltent today – I still have no idea what makes it better than a regular tent) so we had one night in super fancy To Be Honest I Think They Kinda Ruined It When They Knocked The Old One Down And Built The New Completely Misplaced Symmetrical Slab Structure In An Attempt To Copy Dublin And Maybe A Cool Scandavian City Hotel (note this is not the actual name of this hotel, you guessed that right?) This is a fairly big town but the hotel I knew as a child had so much creaky floor board and winding passage character that the new airport departure lounge pales in a pile of purple swirl brocade fabric and accent walls and white reflective tiles.

We got checked into the much more traditional hotel where I was once a very naughty flower girl in a cousin’s wedding – ordering, a now sadly departed, other cousin to bring my little cousin (whom I bullied – felt I had the right to control males at an early age…) up and down in the elevators. Up and down. Why would he want to drink silly beer with his mates when he could ride elevators with an over-sugared, over-tired flower girl and page boy (whom I made hold my hand – I told him was Wedding Law. I was four.)

I had to go to bed, today, not the night I was a flower girl here. I’m sure my little blonde curls were still bouncing at three am that night. But today, I had a bad feeling.

And so I wasn’t surprised when New Boy messaged me to say he had been thinking…

Here we fucking go.

He’s not in a place in his life for a relationship… Needs to take a step back… Non-committal fun.

Wow, mixed signals much?

So, yeah, so… Spa from hell. I know you’re not allowed to say that now but twenty years ago that’s how we would have described him.

After six weeks of holding my hand (not my thing), snuggling (not my thing), just wanting to hang out (sort of my thing) he doesn’t want a relationship?! Well you could have fooled me!

I don’t even know if I wanted it to go much further but it was a nice distraction and he was sexy.

So now I’m left asking the question:

“What the fuck is wrong with me?!”

Don’t answer that.

I drive every man away: to drugs, into the arms of another woman, to Tinder, to drink, to Bristol.

It must be me. It has to be me.

I have a holdover at Pieta tomorrow. Thank the good Lord.

Even after I was dumped… Again – I am so good at getting dumped: Miss Dumpable – I went swimming with ElsaDaughter, well she kind of made me, or at least strongly advised and hinted. I felt better after it.

I can’t believe another man has dumped me. I knew I’d screw it up. Even though I don’t really know how seeing as I did my level best to put on a show, to keep Dotty out of it. Maybe that was the problem. Trying weakly to be someone I’m not and expecting him to understand my psychological sacrificial torment in doing so.

But in a text? Please.

We then went for an Italian dinner in what could have been Italy. Authentic, even with the greeting from the owner on arrival. We were, unusually, bang on time: “Go, come back fifteen-a-minutes, I not-ready-for your signorinas yet, go, come back! ”
“Oh, ok, ok” and we went, because he’s said so. Italian people keep everything simpler by generally being shouty and rude to each other without ever intending offence. It’s like, just get out of my space till I’m ready to deal with you and if I feel like talking to you I will but till then: “Getta the fucka outta here” (I’m channeling Mickey Blue Eyes.

You always know what an Italian person if thinking and feeling – I wonder are their suicide rates high?

I wish I could be more Italian in my fuck-offness. Then no matter who I was manoevring, delaying or dismissing I could do it with the minimal of platitudinal grace and be done with it. And boys would know not to fuck with me because my mafia uncles would pay a visit.

For once men, will you make your minds as to what the hell you want?

And if it is me that’s the problem, stay away from me unless you can handle the crispy burnt glaze on my Creme Brûlée brain and when you get to the squishy bit around my heart, don’t fucking spit it out.


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