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Diva at Divo

How can I explain last night? Picture four single women, of a certain age, sharing a jumbo packet of Maynard Wine Gums in the front row of an Il Divo concert and you get the idea. My sister is Il Divo’s biggest fan. She attends all their concerts and the CDs are on constant auto repeat in the house and car. As she has exhausted everyone else to drag along, including my parents, last night was my turn.

The evening began with an instrumental melody of the greatest hits by the orchestra. The conductor was rather flamboyant. His hair appeared to start half way back his head and finished somewhere just below his shoulders. Think of a masculine negative of Tina Turner in Mad Max. He was also very tall, angular and curiously awkward for someone who presumably has perfect pitch and rhythm. He moved like the novelty pencil sharpeners I had as a child, (animal held together by string on a plastic cylinder, when you pressed the base it caused the legs to collapse or head to droop). The conductor looked like someone was controlling him in a similar fashion from beneath the stage as he bounced around, rising and falling as he conducted. Thankfully, no one in the orchestra seemed to pay him any attention.

The ‘Il Divo’ boys then arrived on stage. For those of you not in the know the line up is as follows; David (tenor), Carlos (baritone), Urs (tenor), Sebastian (pop singer), which does create a Sesame Street vibe of, ‘one of these things is not like the others’. Unsurprisingly they are all extremely cute and the performances were very good. In fact the only cringe part was the verbal interaction with the audience. When they spoke you wanted to grab some Carr’s water crackers and a good glass of Port. Curiously, Urs from Switzerland was the least cheesy.

During the encore I could hear a low rumble behind me. I assumed it was the sound system, but then realised it was an avalanche of pre HRT women speed walking towards the stage. Now if this were a standard boy band with an audience of teenagers you could understand, but there is something very disturbing about granny hanging off the leg of one of the Il Divo singers.

So, if you are single and of a certain age getting serenaded with Italian and French love songs is a pretty good way to spend an evening. Gorgonzola supplied free of charge.

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What a Banker !

Well just in case being a year older wasn’t bad enough, the bank also decided to send me my credit card statement yesterday. A testament to my ‘it’s a target not a limit’ attitude to plastic.

Consequently most of today was spent doing some serious financial management. The morning consisted of riffling through pockets, mainly my sisters, for random notes and change. In the afternoon I visited various financial establishments trying to agree the most mutually beneficial way of solving my current fiscal difficulties. Sadly I don’t have Bev Flynn’s ability to pay half my debts while mustering up 1.5m overnight. (I’m not a political blogger so read JC’s excellent post on the topic)

As I waited in line at the first banking establishment, I was struck by the various pieces of marketing literature – not physically. Although I could have been, as all the people featured were so bloody active; some were jumping, others were sky diving and a few were even white water rafting. Curiously it was similar to all those women in tampon ads, who are also always running all over the fucking place. What am I meant to believe, that all these hyper active people will cause me to forget the agonizing PMT or extortionate bank charges? Is there some marketing rule - the crapper the product the more active the people?

My mood was not improved when I eventually reached the counter and was greeted by a 7 year old. At least I think that was his age, he may have been younger. The only money he should be managing is in a pink porcelain pig with a slot at the top.

Things were to improve in bank number 2, which had similarly active people adorning all the walls. However this time the bank clerk was a bit older and very cute and I mean very cute. He was even funny. What are the chances of that? A cute funny bloke working in a bank! I stood there for an extra long time, counting my coppers into the bags, one cent at a time, while engaging in witty banter. The whole banking experience was really starting to look up. After I had dragged out the process transferring my holy communion money to my confirmation account and vice versa, it was finally time to leave.

Feeling very positive and inspired I even managed to pick up the courage to say;

“It was really nice to meet you, I never thought banking could be so much fun,” in my most flirtatious manner.

Naturally I was hoping it might lead to a, ‘let’s do it again’ comment from him. Instead I got;

“My pleasure, I don’t get to meet many attractive older women in this branch. Generally it’s all just blokes.”

Thank God for bullet proof glass, it’s the only thing that saved him from a very active beating.

Flirty Birthday

Birthdays are curious things. When I was little they were the most exciting day of the year, after Christmas, and not just my own. Other birthdays were just as exciting. On Dad’s big day, I would run into his bedroom, around 6am, loudly singing happy birthday. He would wake, dazed and confused before checking with my mother if it was his birthday. After some consideration she would advise him it was and under no circumstances to tell me his age. I found his reaction very curious. How could you not be excited about your birthday? Every year I would anxiously count down the 365 days until I could tell people my NEW age. Even better on your birthday you got presents, fairy cakes and rice crispy buns to celebrate. Was there any better way to spend a day!

Of course as you get older the novelty starts to wear off. My 21st was abysmal. Almost everyone canceled on the day of the party. I thought this was a clever surprise tactic, so was doubly disappointed when it was just me and my boyfriend. (I didn’t even really like him, but who is going to break-up just before their birthday!)

My 30th was infinitely better. All my friends were there. I was super slim as I hadn’t been able to eat properly prior to the big day, due to removal of my molar teeth, plus I was dating a minor European royal. Since then things have gone downhill slightly. The European royal is back in Europe. Most of my friends are busy at weddings, hens, holidays or similar events. (I’m assuming this is not deliberate). And my weight is a subject best not discussed. All I have to look forward to is the next big celebration - 40 !

Oh well it could be worse. I could be a year older, single, unemployed and living with my sister.................



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Bad Hair Night

Another scoreless weekend. It’s becoming a worrying trend. Particularly disturbing as I was wearing my ultimate ‘Shoulder Shoes’. Even if they didn't score me a man at least they raised me above the rivers that flowed down every street. My hair didn’t fair as well as my feet.


At the start of the night my freshly straightened locks were so dry and straw like that I was in mortal danger of getting mowed down by a wayward combine harvester. A few hours later, due to the dampness, it had adopted a delightful ‘subjected to high voltage’ frizzy look. Which may explain why my man hunting was in vain. Damn rain.

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Sore Sight for Eyes

A while ago there was much talk about women wearing their jim-jams during the day. I assume it was a slow news week. After all whose business is it when people choose to wear them? Last night I found out why it might be an issue.

As some of you maybe aware I car share with my sister, she pays all the expenses and I rally drive around while she is at work. Last night I went to pick her up in the usual fashion. Traffic was slow due to the highly irregular incidence of rain which seems to bring all cars to a stand still with shock. Understandable, as it’s not like we normally get much rain in Ireland. My sister needed to drive off somewhere else urgently and didn’t have time to sit in traffic while dropping me home, so I had to walk. No big deal I hear you think. ( I am the voice inside your head )

Generally it wouldn’t have been a problem except for the following. As the yard arm had passed 6pm I was in my evening wear, which is not as glamorous as it first sounds. Evening wear consists of shrunk ¾ length fleece jim-jam bottoms, perfectly revealing my un-waxed Wookiee legs, a sweatshirt nicked from an ex-boyfriend, size XXL, which was decorated with remnants of food and toothpaste from a week’s wear, sports socks that had so many holes you could legitimately refer to them as fishnets, assuming fishnets were made out of white towelling material and my personal favourite, fake Fendi loafers. The knowledgeable scammers among you will know that the soles of fake shoes are generally made from a type of paper mache, which is fine indoors, but not so great during torrential rain.

So to those of you who saw a sad and bedraggled girl shuffling her way along the Dundrum Road, with paper on the soles of her shoes - I apologise. It was a sore sight for eyes. But at least now I understand why jim-jams and associated wear should be kept for the bedroom.


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Vanishing Man

A body was found in the fish freezer of a fast food restaurant in Galway last week (story ). Naturally this has created a lot of questions among the media and bloggers as to what happened. However, for me, it has provided the potential answer to a problem that has bothered me for some time.

Since the start of this year there has been a spate of incidents suffered by myself and friends. We meet a guy, things go well, we may even go on a few dates, and then like a willow-the-wisp they vanish. No reason or explanation is provided. You may text and call but your efforts will yield no response. Apparently we were involved with the Keyser Soze’s of the dating world.

The initial reaction is to assume that you did or said something wrong, then the more insidious questions about your looks and personality start to surface, before finally the more rational ‘all men are bastards’ solution. But now I have a new explanation, maybe just maybe, all those guys are stuck in a freezer somewhere sleeping with the fish fingers.



(with special recognition to Little Sapling for her hilarious fish jokes on this subject - very wrong, but very funny)