I've had this blog in my head over the last few days. Every waking moment, I've been thinking about it's grace, simplicity. Then, my self doubt creeps in and before you know it, I put off writing something new. Again. For the godknowshowmanyeth time.
Last Thursday was of course the great SAINT Valentine's Day, when all the women should be adored and adorned with all manner of trinkets, and all men should by right be scared out of their wits until the lights go out. My particular experience this year was very pleasant, thank you for wondering, and next year, I hope to have an equally pleasant night out with the Missus.
We went to a restaurant in Howth, the next best thing to the south of France in Ireland, without having to go west Cork, and with a more discreet set of Nouveau Riche than Dalkey, who might loudly talk in restaurants about having once used a urinal not two minutes after Bono. The Bono.
Perhaps having lived on Dublin's south side has made me jaded by all that tomfoolery, but Howth is just beautiful. Leaning towards posh, Howth is nevertheless is like a feisty fisherman's daughter who married well and lost none of her charms. At the end of the pier was Aqua, where we had dinner. Gorgeous, beautiful, smoozey Jazz, and my missus was looking as gorgeous as only she can. I said that I had a pleasant evening. Actually, it was wonderful night - we had a blast, and like all good evenings, some truths emerged about ourselves and the other guests dining.
At all the different tables, couples were peering at each other, leering, even sneering, as the waiters did their damndest to make their night as special as possible. The table behind us had a guy whose shirt had been demonstrably ripped from out his pants in an act of defiance, to the lady, who, it must be said, had made an effort. He let his fingers fish around his mouth, each phase of rummaging provoking winces of disdain and hatred, from someone who probably thought that rugged did not mean the same as feral.
But the real joy was the couple two tables down. They could not have been more than eighteen, shiny faces, scrubbed up and startled to be there. The waiters decanted and served their bottles of Miller and Bulmers. I swear they were happy as clams, and in their presence, it was clear we were all like them, all pretending to be grown up, when in fact, we were all in clothes that maybe we wouldn't like to wear normally, and hoping to God our partners would order soup.
I hope that couple remain as refreshing as they were, and are still having as much fun, seven days on.
