Hey,
Another Friday and another trip to the vets. This time was for our monthly flea, worm and tick treatment for Frankenstein. I was glad for this occasion though as we were able to have a consultation regarding my fur-babies growth.
Ever since I knew I was going to have a little boy, I knew that I would have to face this question. Shall I stud him out like some sort of doggo pimp? Or protect his innocence and get him castrated? Neutering means surgically preventing pets from reproducing and in males, the operation is called castration. With castration, both testicles are removed which takes away the main source of the male hormone testosterone. The operation is carried out under general anaesthetic and whilst every surgical procedure has some risk, modern techniques are very safe and help to make the whole thing as quick and easy as possible. Because it involves surgery, there will be some discomfort but with modern pain control, most dogs are up and about just a few hours after they’ve had their operation.
Whilst it is possible to get injections and tablets to prevent my little Frankenstein from breeding, these need repeating regularly and there is some risk of side effects as well as the added on ongoing cost. This was something I considered however this seems a pointless exercise when I have no real breeding or stud plan and would only really doing it ad-hoc and when we needed money.
From Frankenstein's humble beginnings as an accidental litter following a friend of my future mother-in-law (her husband who was rapidly deteriorating into dementia, unfortunately, one night back in early December last year let the breeding stud in with the family pet) my gorgeous little jack russell toy poodle cross was finally coming of age as he reached six-month mark. After being born around Valentine's day, along with his nine other brothers and sisters, our Frankenstein was reaching his sexual maturity and the conversation needed to be had regarding being left fully "intact" or to get him the snip.
I had a look at a lot of online forums, websites and even chatted with a few friends and colleagues who had to make dogs. Most of them, including the vet, nurse and puppy class trainer has said that essentially it would be unfair to let him have a taste and then deny him that again, especially if I did not plan to stud regularly or as a permanent fixture in his life. A great website in the UK for the charity Blue Cross had some helpful advice that helped me in making my decision. "There are lots of health, behavioural and social reasons why neutering your dog can be a good idea and for female dogs in particular, but neutering is not right for every dog but the fact that castration significantly reduces the chance of males getting prostate disease and reduces the risk of some cancers not to mention it can have a beneficial effect on behaviour." Blue Cross advises owners. Obviously, as an owner, there are many benefits as an unneutered dog is much more likely to direct their amorous intentions towards your favourite sofa; Or your visiting auntie. It is for this reason and the fact I don't really have a clue or plan in place that it would be unfair to let Frankie have a taste and to then take it away, probably causing more issues in the long run.
With this decision made and I suppose as a way of celebrating my little boys coming of age and moving from his toddler months into teenage-hood, I did what any good mom would do and take him for his first haircut. Starting our day well I had breakfast and shared my coffee with the little hairball before popping on some trainers and buckling him into the front seat of Clifford, my big red car. Sitting on my passenger seat and trundling through the country roads into Bedford Town Centre I looked down to the bundle of cuteness. Fluffy yet bedraggled and scruffy, like one of those typical skater boys your momma told you not to hang around with.
Pulling up and into the groomers, we walked in, skipping all the way. As I left empty-handed though I felt a little lost and as though I had missed something. I occupied myself by heading to a local charity shop and picking up a Disney babygrow for his operation in a few weeks time. As I were to cut a hole for his tail it would be perfect to protect his stitches from chewing and nibbling, and a darn sight cheaper than the fifteen-quid one the vet tried to flog me.
Picking him up from the groomers he smelt so fresh and cuddly, fluffy and soft as rabbit fur. A combination of puppy and baby powder he smelt like a dream! Paying the lady, Frankie and I headed back to the car but not before picking up a few treats for the good boy. As we drove the short distance down to Bedford town centre to walk along the river and meet my Dad for lunch I looked down again at the fluffy, powder-smelling pup sat beside me and as a song played on the radio I realised that this, in fact, was the happiest I had been for a while.
Finishing off our Momma and Puppa day out I was pleased when, after our walk along the river my black and tan Jackapoo with a white belly and old-man facial expressions retired to a posh riverside gastro-pub to meet with my Dad. One of his first questions seemed to resonate with me as I drove home in the summer sun that afternoon. As I looked down to my passenger seat and at Frankenstein's little face he glanced up and looked up at me, his every being dependant on me for all of what he needs I felt a sense of contentment. From this time last year to now was amazing. I was driving my own car after leaving a house I now owned with my fiance who I am due to marry next year with my new puppy beside me. This was everything I ever wanted and more.
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Showing posts with label Pub. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pub. Show all posts
Monday, 5 August 2019
Monday, 13 November 2017
A Step Back In Time ...
Good Evening,
Walking into the public house, I thought to myself about how you could have quite easily missed bit if you have not been looking. A cold November afternoon wintered on outside as I took off my coat and got settled. Looking around at the compact bar area where many of the local residents drank the afternoon away in merriment I noticed the bunting of red, white and blue, Union Jacks proudly hung from the walls and somewhere there was a picture of the queen hanging proudly for all to see. It certainly didn't take long to hear the beautiful voices of the 30's, 40's and 50's serenading us all into a singsong.
On a quiet and rather unassuming street down by a local park frequented in this day and age by dog walkers and joggers alike, The Devonshire Arms in Bedford's Dudley Street is probably one of my favourite pubs I have been to in a long while. There is something about the place that speaks to an inner, deeper part of my soul that as a twenty-six year old I cannot explain as to why. There was something about this pub, something about this day, Remembrance Sunday, that seems ever so poignant for me. The icy cold air of a November morning awaiting my father and his men (and now some women). The feel of pride that swells within me from my military heritage and background. The absolute sorrow and sadness of those left behind by the brutal snatching's of war and conflict. All balanced out by the warmth I found myself in The Devonshire Arms on Sunday afternoon.
Accompanying my father whilst he collected a generous gift donation from the local boozer, Mr. Warehouse and I, along with the dog as well trundled into the rather busy public house following the Remembrance parade along the river. I had visited the bar a couple of times before, both with Mr. Cheese as our first date and as also an "ultimatum date" in the following spring. It had seemed nice then, both in the height of summer. But walking in here today seemed all the more different. Maybe, as I said before it was the decor and bunting and singers, but a part of me feels the same way about the The Devonshire Arms as I do about the Hotel Victoria from a previous blog post from last year "Newquay - New Life?". You see I fall in love easily (most of the time anyway) more-so with things than people, and strangely buildings are one of them. I seem to resonate with older more Victorian buildings, maybe one of the reasons I am writing to you now from a early 19th Century converted townhouse. I am somewhat fascinated by there history and the moments that their walls saw. I feel there energy and I want to experience and feel the times in which it cried and laughed. And to think that this is all from building's I barely knew.
Maybe more recent films like Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, Allied and Dunkirk have awoken a part of me that lay rather dormant for a while and only now am I exploring its possibilities. Many people, including Miss Tweedle-Dee and I believe in the phenomena that is past life. I would love to go to someone genuine and have my future read, but even more-so my past. I have a deep rooted uneasy feeling about deep water and whilst I love travelling the idea of a cruise makes me more than anxious. Is this because of my fixation with the Titanic as I have done ever since I was small or is this because I maybe was a part of something bigger in my past life? I also have a obsession with murder and horrific crimes including the work (if you can call it that) of Jack the Ripper, Ted Bundy and Josef Fritzl. Does this mean in a past life I had something to fear from these people? Notice how they are all men - Does that mean something? I don't know. I am so intrigued by this that I have begun to look into the possibilities of time slips, past life regression and even Deja Vu focusing on the premise that Deja Vu, at least in one of my opinions, is where you link seemingly unrelated things in your current life with these that you previously did, talked about or that happened in a previous time.
Whatever the reasoning I felt a connection to The Devonshire Arms. Perhaps the atmosphere took me away on the sweet notes of the post-war karaoke and cosy nature of the establishment, or maybe, just maybe. Had I been madly in love with my sweetheart when they were taken to war only to experience the heartbreak when the earth shattering news came back that they were never coming home, forever destined to spend my nights drowning my sorrows at the bar. Was I one of the lucky ones whose soldier came home albeit changed forever but so happy to see me we embraced for eternity. Had I been a mother who lost their son to the battlefield and sat in the corner awaiting the postman, pleadingly with a letter to let her know that her boy was OK, both feeling the screaming horror or tearful joy that may follow. Maybe I was another parent saying preparing my child for a swift goodbye at the station ready for their new life away from the bombings in cities and towns, knowing you may never kiss them goodnight again. Or could I have been the one with the box round my neck and a suitcase to match. Or maybe it is just my fantasy. My Imagination. My Creativity. Whatever it may be, Lest we Forget those fallen ...
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Walking into the public house, I thought to myself about how you could have quite easily missed bit if you have not been looking. A cold November afternoon wintered on outside as I took off my coat and got settled. Looking around at the compact bar area where many of the local residents drank the afternoon away in merriment I noticed the bunting of red, white and blue, Union Jacks proudly hung from the walls and somewhere there was a picture of the queen hanging proudly for all to see. It certainly didn't take long to hear the beautiful voices of the 30's, 40's and 50's serenading us all into a singsong.
On a quiet and rather unassuming street down by a local park frequented in this day and age by dog walkers and joggers alike, The Devonshire Arms in Bedford's Dudley Street is probably one of my favourite pubs I have been to in a long while. There is something about the place that speaks to an inner, deeper part of my soul that as a twenty-six year old I cannot explain as to why. There was something about this pub, something about this day, Remembrance Sunday, that seems ever so poignant for me. The icy cold air of a November morning awaiting my father and his men (and now some women). The feel of pride that swells within me from my military heritage and background. The absolute sorrow and sadness of those left behind by the brutal snatching's of war and conflict. All balanced out by the warmth I found myself in The Devonshire Arms on Sunday afternoon.
Accompanying my father whilst he collected a generous gift donation from the local boozer, Mr. Warehouse and I, along with the dog as well trundled into the rather busy public house following the Remembrance parade along the river. I had visited the bar a couple of times before, both with Mr. Cheese as our first date and as also an "ultimatum date" in the following spring. It had seemed nice then, both in the height of summer. But walking in here today seemed all the more different. Maybe, as I said before it was the decor and bunting and singers, but a part of me feels the same way about the The Devonshire Arms as I do about the Hotel Victoria from a previous blog post from last year "Newquay - New Life?". You see I fall in love easily (most of the time anyway) more-so with things than people, and strangely buildings are one of them. I seem to resonate with older more Victorian buildings, maybe one of the reasons I am writing to you now from a early 19th Century converted townhouse. I am somewhat fascinated by there history and the moments that their walls saw. I feel there energy and I want to experience and feel the times in which it cried and laughed. And to think that this is all from building's I barely knew.
Maybe more recent films like Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, Allied and Dunkirk have awoken a part of me that lay rather dormant for a while and only now am I exploring its possibilities. Many people, including Miss Tweedle-Dee and I believe in the phenomena that is past life. I would love to go to someone genuine and have my future read, but even more-so my past. I have a deep rooted uneasy feeling about deep water and whilst I love travelling the idea of a cruise makes me more than anxious. Is this because of my fixation with the Titanic as I have done ever since I was small or is this because I maybe was a part of something bigger in my past life? I also have a obsession with murder and horrific crimes including the work (if you can call it that) of Jack the Ripper, Ted Bundy and Josef Fritzl. Does this mean in a past life I had something to fear from these people? Notice how they are all men - Does that mean something? I don't know. I am so intrigued by this that I have begun to look into the possibilities of time slips, past life regression and even Deja Vu focusing on the premise that Deja Vu, at least in one of my opinions, is where you link seemingly unrelated things in your current life with these that you previously did, talked about or that happened in a previous time.
Whatever the reasoning I felt a connection to The Devonshire Arms. Perhaps the atmosphere took me away on the sweet notes of the post-war karaoke and cosy nature of the establishment, or maybe, just maybe. Had I been madly in love with my sweetheart when they were taken to war only to experience the heartbreak when the earth shattering news came back that they were never coming home, forever destined to spend my nights drowning my sorrows at the bar. Was I one of the lucky ones whose soldier came home albeit changed forever but so happy to see me we embraced for eternity. Had I been a mother who lost their son to the battlefield and sat in the corner awaiting the postman, pleadingly with a letter to let her know that her boy was OK, both feeling the screaming horror or tearful joy that may follow. Maybe I was another parent saying preparing my child for a swift goodbye at the station ready for their new life away from the bombings in cities and towns, knowing you may never kiss them goodnight again. Or could I have been the one with the box round my neck and a suitcase to match. Or maybe it is just my fantasy. My Imagination. My Creativity. Whatever it may be, Lest we Forget those fallen ...
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Monday, 22 December 2014
Twas The Night Before Christmas ...
Hello and Good Evening One and All,
Bloggers Note: As a clear explanation to those of you reading from last week, I am fully appreciative of your comments and adore how you all keep in contact with me, however I can assure you that I am, and have been fully faithful to my boyfriend, Mr. Warehouse and as the before mentioned blog post states (The Argument that was not an Argument) I merely felt the gravitational pull. I did not, nor did I in any which way intend to act on such impulses without prior discussion with my Boyfriend. Mr. Warehouse is fully aware of what happened the moment I returned to him and then again the morning after, as well as also reading it once published, but many thanks for the concern :) - - - Love A.Lou xx
So after last weekend's debauchery I was in desperate need of taking things easy and having a bit of a relaxing weekend at home, leisurely getting ready for the Christmas/New Year take-over that is to ensue over the next few weeks. I am sure though that partying my way through Saturday evening and into the wee-small hours was not what I had in mind, especially not for the venue in mind.
After a busy day wrapping presents and journeying back and fourth between my flat and the house Mr. Warehouse shares with his mom and fluffy Labrador, I was ready for a well deserved drink - Or three. The local village pub was having a disco and with 'The X Factor' finally over for another year, myself and Mr. Warehouse succumbed to Mr. CWG's offer of a good time. Recalling the horror that was Halloween night and just how much of a flop that was my boyfriend and I were hardly expecting much more than a corny DJ belting out Michael Jackson hits and the dance-floor being emptier than a poor man's wallet. So with no other plans on the horizon I hoofed on my glad rags, assembled my eyelashes and perched myself in black heels. I was ready. Overdressed, yes. But ready all the same.
The cold December air hit us as Mr. Warehouse and I stepped out onto the pavement. The night was clear and whilst I had two pairs of tights on I could still feel the chill. Not letting on and braving it out we headed towards the warmth of the boozer, making small talk all the way. Standing outside together as I finished my cigarette we peered through the sash windows to discover the dance-floor was bustling and the bar was busy. 'Maybe tonight will be a good night?' I thought to myself. Taking one last drag and squishing out the butt with my heels I joined Mr. Warehouse and as he always did, allowed me to walk into the place first. Making somewhat of an impression (what with bare legs and a exceedingly tight, short tartan dress) I turned to attach myself to my partner in crime.
Getting the drinks in, Mr. CWG updated us all on a guy standing with one of his girl pals at the bar. He had arrived recently and been in the village about a fortnight (Yes it is that sort of village in which everyone knows everyone and everything). After failing to bed one of Mr. CWG's female friends, this mystery man had made his way onto a young lady I had met a few times when drinking with Mr. CWG and co. She was a local also and someone to be brutally honest with I did not warm to very much after our initial few encounters. But after hearing how scared she was and how this out-of-town douche-bag was acting towards her I thought that I would be the bigger person, putting aside my opinions and any animosity between us I made sure that I was near her and had my eye on him just in case he tried anything. Maybe tonight was the night to build bridges?!
Haha, isn't it funny how you form opinions of people when you first meet them and ninety-nine-percent of the time you are correct. You see, not even an hour after arriving and already there was drama unfolding. It was like being in an episode of Eastenders. As I went to the toilet I found a very scared, timid and worried little person. It was the girl from earlier. Apparently the mysterious thug had been eluding to her going home with him and saying to everyone that they were an item. Despite her previously trying to defend and almost befriend the pitiful man that everyone wanted out she seemed genuinely shaken. As she held out a quivering hand and warily asked through panicked tones if the prick had gone yet I decided to start afresh and took it, telling her that everything was going to be OK. Whilst I was certainly no regular, I knew that the small village pub contained enough locals to deal with this creep and make sure he never stepped foot in the establishment again. He had already nearly upset a regular at the bar when he tried to elbow him in the face. It was taken to another level though when Mr. Warehouse got involved. Standing at the bar waiting to be served, a click was heard. Turns out the Crim had taken a photo of the owner and for some odd reason of which I still don't know this seemed to be the straw that broke the camels back. As I held the petrified girls hand in the Loo's a brawl was unfolding outside.
Apparently my brave Mr. Warehouse asked the gentleman what he was doing taking a picture of the owner, and although this was the start of a fight, because this story is set in a small quintessential country pub I can imagine the opening lines being very British and well spoken. Without saying a word, the beastly convict stood back and squared up to my man. Even now as I retell the tale, I imagined them Peacocking before the first swipe is taken. But just as the first fist's flew, the drunkard was escorted out of the building and onto the cold concrete outside, never to be seen again. But this night was far from the end.
As the girl and I appeared from the ladies bathroom there was a buzz about the place. I returned to my boyfriend's side only to find him agitated and lightly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. I placed a soft kiss upon his cheek and I could feel the film of sweat forming as a result of the anticipated dual. As I was told the story of what I had missed I watched as the actions were played out by hand, I saw from the corner of my eye though I was watching a much better performance. With only minutes passed since I found a cowering female in the bathroom, scared for what a random stranger would do, she was now downing drinks and dancing like nothing had happened at all. It was at this point I felt my opinions wane. It was later on that my overall sentiment towards Little Miss Oscar completely faded when she knowingly pocketed my lighter. BFF's I think not!
Continuing the night though, we were joined by another work colleague of Mr. Warehouse and Mr. CWG and his other half whom was absolutely lovely in comparison to the other ladies I had encountered that night, including a gargantuan lady who had tried several times to hit on Mr. Warehouse, both on Halloween and again at Saturday night's Disco. Not knowing anyone I took her under my wing and we became instant friends. I hope to see her again sometime as see seems really nice and someone I would love to get to know more. Dancing the night away we jived to the Macarena, The Cha Cha Slide and more Cheesey Classics reserved for Weddings and events such as this one. Drinking more and more and more, Mr. Warehouse and I noticed a certain Mr. CWG getting very, very wobbly, Watching Mr. CWG dance like a T-Rex with a shotgun wound and blowing kisses like a five-year-old was hilarious but we both knew that it would be our shoulders he was being carried home on later. And soon enough whilst having a heart to heart outside with a pub-goer, Mr. CWG stumbled through the doors and decided to prop himself up against the hard brick wall. Eventually he was slumped over it and seeing he was about to throw up I rushed to his aid, rubbing his back and making sure this time, my shoes and handbag were out the firing line.
And so the night was concluded with a long walk home, a drunken hooligan and the promises of a double-date on the cards for me and my new found friend and our other halves. Wandering back down the country roads, listening to the birds sing in the early hours of Sunday morning I realised just how much of a good night I had. It was simple but entertainingly eventful to say the least. So if Saturday night was anything to go by then roll on the party season and get into the spirit of things because in a matter of hours ... IT'S CHRISTMAAAS!
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Bloggers Note: As a clear explanation to those of you reading from last week, I am fully appreciative of your comments and adore how you all keep in contact with me, however I can assure you that I am, and have been fully faithful to my boyfriend, Mr. Warehouse and as the before mentioned blog post states (The Argument that was not an Argument) I merely felt the gravitational pull. I did not, nor did I in any which way intend to act on such impulses without prior discussion with my Boyfriend. Mr. Warehouse is fully aware of what happened the moment I returned to him and then again the morning after, as well as also reading it once published, but many thanks for the concern :) - - - Love A.Lou xx
So after last weekend's debauchery I was in desperate need of taking things easy and having a bit of a relaxing weekend at home, leisurely getting ready for the Christmas/New Year take-over that is to ensue over the next few weeks. I am sure though that partying my way through Saturday evening and into the wee-small hours was not what I had in mind, especially not for the venue in mind.
After a busy day wrapping presents and journeying back and fourth between my flat and the house Mr. Warehouse shares with his mom and fluffy Labrador, I was ready for a well deserved drink - Or three. The local village pub was having a disco and with 'The X Factor' finally over for another year, myself and Mr. Warehouse succumbed to Mr. CWG's offer of a good time. Recalling the horror that was Halloween night and just how much of a flop that was my boyfriend and I were hardly expecting much more than a corny DJ belting out Michael Jackson hits and the dance-floor being emptier than a poor man's wallet. So with no other plans on the horizon I hoofed on my glad rags, assembled my eyelashes and perched myself in black heels. I was ready. Overdressed, yes. But ready all the same.
The cold December air hit us as Mr. Warehouse and I stepped out onto the pavement. The night was clear and whilst I had two pairs of tights on I could still feel the chill. Not letting on and braving it out we headed towards the warmth of the boozer, making small talk all the way. Standing outside together as I finished my cigarette we peered through the sash windows to discover the dance-floor was bustling and the bar was busy. 'Maybe tonight will be a good night?' I thought to myself. Taking one last drag and squishing out the butt with my heels I joined Mr. Warehouse and as he always did, allowed me to walk into the place first. Making somewhat of an impression (what with bare legs and a exceedingly tight, short tartan dress) I turned to attach myself to my partner in crime.
Getting the drinks in, Mr. CWG updated us all on a guy standing with one of his girl pals at the bar. He had arrived recently and been in the village about a fortnight (Yes it is that sort of village in which everyone knows everyone and everything). After failing to bed one of Mr. CWG's female friends, this mystery man had made his way onto a young lady I had met a few times when drinking with Mr. CWG and co. She was a local also and someone to be brutally honest with I did not warm to very much after our initial few encounters. But after hearing how scared she was and how this out-of-town douche-bag was acting towards her I thought that I would be the bigger person, putting aside my opinions and any animosity between us I made sure that I was near her and had my eye on him just in case he tried anything. Maybe tonight was the night to build bridges?!
Haha, isn't it funny how you form opinions of people when you first meet them and ninety-nine-percent of the time you are correct. You see, not even an hour after arriving and already there was drama unfolding. It was like being in an episode of Eastenders. As I went to the toilet I found a very scared, timid and worried little person. It was the girl from earlier. Apparently the mysterious thug had been eluding to her going home with him and saying to everyone that they were an item. Despite her previously trying to defend and almost befriend the pitiful man that everyone wanted out she seemed genuinely shaken. As she held out a quivering hand and warily asked through panicked tones if the prick had gone yet I decided to start afresh and took it, telling her that everything was going to be OK. Whilst I was certainly no regular, I knew that the small village pub contained enough locals to deal with this creep and make sure he never stepped foot in the establishment again. He had already nearly upset a regular at the bar when he tried to elbow him in the face. It was taken to another level though when Mr. Warehouse got involved. Standing at the bar waiting to be served, a click was heard. Turns out the Crim had taken a photo of the owner and for some odd reason of which I still don't know this seemed to be the straw that broke the camels back. As I held the petrified girls hand in the Loo's a brawl was unfolding outside.
Apparently my brave Mr. Warehouse asked the gentleman what he was doing taking a picture of the owner, and although this was the start of a fight, because this story is set in a small quintessential country pub I can imagine the opening lines being very British and well spoken. Without saying a word, the beastly convict stood back and squared up to my man. Even now as I retell the tale, I imagined them Peacocking before the first swipe is taken. But just as the first fist's flew, the drunkard was escorted out of the building and onto the cold concrete outside, never to be seen again. But this night was far from the end.
As the girl and I appeared from the ladies bathroom there was a buzz about the place. I returned to my boyfriend's side only to find him agitated and lightly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. I placed a soft kiss upon his cheek and I could feel the film of sweat forming as a result of the anticipated dual. As I was told the story of what I had missed I watched as the actions were played out by hand, I saw from the corner of my eye though I was watching a much better performance. With only minutes passed since I found a cowering female in the bathroom, scared for what a random stranger would do, she was now downing drinks and dancing like nothing had happened at all. It was at this point I felt my opinions wane. It was later on that my overall sentiment towards Little Miss Oscar completely faded when she knowingly pocketed my lighter. BFF's I think not!
Continuing the night though, we were joined by another work colleague of Mr. Warehouse and Mr. CWG and his other half whom was absolutely lovely in comparison to the other ladies I had encountered that night, including a gargantuan lady who had tried several times to hit on Mr. Warehouse, both on Halloween and again at Saturday night's Disco. Not knowing anyone I took her under my wing and we became instant friends. I hope to see her again sometime as see seems really nice and someone I would love to get to know more. Dancing the night away we jived to the Macarena, The Cha Cha Slide and more Cheesey Classics reserved for Weddings and events such as this one. Drinking more and more and more, Mr. Warehouse and I noticed a certain Mr. CWG getting very, very wobbly, Watching Mr. CWG dance like a T-Rex with a shotgun wound and blowing kisses like a five-year-old was hilarious but we both knew that it would be our shoulders he was being carried home on later. And soon enough whilst having a heart to heart outside with a pub-goer, Mr. CWG stumbled through the doors and decided to prop himself up against the hard brick wall. Eventually he was slumped over it and seeing he was about to throw up I rushed to his aid, rubbing his back and making sure this time, my shoes and handbag were out the firing line.
And so the night was concluded with a long walk home, a drunken hooligan and the promises of a double-date on the cards for me and my new found friend and our other halves. Wandering back down the country roads, listening to the birds sing in the early hours of Sunday morning I realised just how much of a good night I had. It was simple but entertainingly eventful to say the least. So if Saturday night was anything to go by then roll on the party season and get into the spirit of things because in a matter of hours ... IT'S CHRISTMAAAS!
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Monday, 18 August 2014
The Irish Experiance
Top 'o the marning to ya',
Or at least that's what they say in Ireland. Haha. Anyhoo I hope all is well and good with everyone and it is safe to say that I am fully recovered and rejuvenated from my adventures of the lactose variety. I am now back home safe and sound and ready for a fresh new chapter ahead. Well Kinda!
So after I left the House of Cheese last Sunday I whizzed back home, up my apartment stairs still dressed in the outfit from the night before, suspenders and all and rallied around my penthouse for my bag and all the other bits I would be taking away with me to Ireland. After making several trips up and down those god awful stairs many more times as a result of leaving something important behind I finally left in good time to make my train and grab a good old Starbucks before heading to the departure lounge. I was hoping to find a nice Irish fellow, maybe works in something fun like marketing or advertising to chat with on the journey. Maybe we would fall in love and he would invite me to stay in Dublin for ever and ever and live happily ever after under the shadows of the Guinness factory. Alas though this was not the case and after taking off late due to a delay I began to feel nauseous. Maybe my last night of passion had caught up with me? Nevertheless I tucked into my hearty breakfast bap from Starbs and let the oxygenated air knock me out for six.
Landing in Dublin I knew I was already going to be pushed for time catching my coach from the airport to the village closest to my Aunt and Uncles cottage in Callan, County Kilkenny. Rushing past fellow flyer's and nearly pushing a small Spanish boy onto the luggage carousel in a mad dash to get through security I managed to get outside into the Irish air but missed my coach by mere minutes. 'Damn Spanish kids' I thought to myself as I begged for a Irish driver to detour and take me to where I needed to go. Thankfully a nice man let me on his bus and I headed for the city centre hoping I could make my connection there. As the city lit up with the evenings lights under a dark rain cloud it began to pour and the heavens opened over the home of the leprechaun. Just as I thought it was too late my trusty bus driver pulled into the coach yard and yelled at the now leaving coach bound for what I would call home for the next week or so to stop and allow me to board. The luck of the Irish 'eh?
After a long and winding journey through the Irish hills that seemed to roll on forever and countless attempts to get my phone to work in what appeared to be a completely foreign country (Thanks T-Mobile) I finally arrived at my destination. A local farmer friend of the family came to collect me and we made small talk most of the journey home. Letting myself into the small cottage I breathed a sigh of relief as I took in the sights that had comforted me so many times before. Somehow I always feel like I am at home in Ireland.
Settling in I unpacked and threw on some pyjamas in the hope that there might be something decent on TV like a film or such. Casting my phone aside and telling myself that I would deal with it tomorrow I flopped into the leather couch and prepared for my first night alone. In the middle of nowhere. Miles from the nearest neighbour. Where you can scream and no one will hear you. With no protection other than a blunt letter opener. 'Yes, I think I fancy watching My Little Pony tonight!' I thought to myself as I made sure that the front door was locked. Luckily I didn't have too long to enjoy my own company as I was joined the following morning by my Aunt and Uncle's dogs arriving back from the kennels. I was hoping that maybe now would be my chance to meet a handsome Irish man. No. This one I am sad to say was old and had a white beard to rival Captain Bird's Eye. Taking hold of the leads the large dogs, one a Pitbull type and the other a slobbery Dog Bordeaux, I could feel how strong they were. Pulling on the chains I shoved them into the house whilst I waved off my only communication for that day and collected the rest of the dog stuff.
Snuggled up on the leather settee was where myself and my furry friends spent most of the next few days, watching reruns of Friends (In which I had never really seen before but now I am hooked and feel I now need to spend the next few weeks catching up on everything between 1994 and 2004). I did however venture out most days, oddly going for a run a couple of times. I know - I must have been bored. I did venture into the city of Kilkenny one day to see the sights and to have a cheeky shop in the knowledge that my bags had plenty more room to fill with clothes and shoes. Sad to say though by this point (Tuesday Afternoon I might add) I was already missing work and so this reflected in my shopping habits with me picking up several new shirts and a pencil skirt I shall no doubt return once home. Exhausted I headed for a bearded gentleman manning the information desk to call me a cab back home since my driver was unavailable for the week. After dialling for a taxi and trying with no avail to tell him where I needed to go I sat in the back of the large silver tin can hoping and praying that he wouldn't turn down a dirt track and try to grope me.
Thankfully I made it home in one piece although robbed of forty-euros for the cab fare. The cheek! Apparently I found out at a later date that the journey in total shouldn't have cost no more than about twenty but how was a pretty little English girl to know that? Disregarding the incident I went about my usual duties for the week feeding all the animals on my Aunties increasingly growing collection of farm yard creatures. In total I was sharing my Irish retreat with four goats - One of them pregnant, a horse, several chickens, a rooster, a couple of guinea fowl and three dogs. Snuggling down under the blankets and with the warmth of the hounds we watched a film and then headed to bed. Soon enough though the weekend was upon us and I was greeted by the local farmer again offering to take me to the local pub up the road for a proper Irish knees up and a few pints. Obviously I obliged but had to clear myself of dog hair and the smell of oats.
Donning my boots and 'Big-Boob-Bra' I headed out for a night out with the local lads. Lads however may have been an extreme use of the word. I think maybe the phrase I was looking for was of the more mature variety. Stepping into the quaint little public house I could tell how it once used to be someones front room. Warm and cosy though I stood at the bar and soaked up the surroundings. It was far from busy and I took shelter with my 'date' for the evening until I found some company. Looking around my thoughts were confirmed. I was not only the youngest in the joint but also the only female! Now most people would have thought 'Oh dear god no! They will harass me and try all there best 1974 chat-up lines on me?!' but not me. I revelled in the conversation about cow's and farming, even dropping in about my blog once or twice. 'I knew I would be a hit' I thought to myself as I spurred out all the old tales of bad dates and naughty escapades of a younger, less informed self. Rounding off the night I thought I might have to carry my farmer friend home but thankfully his wonderful wife came to collect us and saved me from a good four-mile trek home in the scary darkness of the Irish wilderness.
Being woken up at the crack of dawn by the rooster "Cock-a-doodle-dooing" is something I shall never become accustomed to however on the morning following the Irish night out my head was craving for more time with the pillow. I reluctantly rolled out of bed, fixed my curls into pigtails and began the feeding of horse, goats and poultry. I did fancy picking one of the chickens up and just whispering to it "Nando's" but I thought that would just make me hungry so went back inside to find the CoCo Pops. Rounding off my week away I rose early this morning to make sure that all the animals were fed and watered and that the dog man collected the pooches before I headed off back to Dublin and to catch my flight later on that afternoon. And after all my in-vain searching for an Irish fellow I finally found one in the Kennel-boy.
Pulling up in the silver van I could hear the Pitbull and Dog Bordeaux going mental. Not evening thinking twice I nearly ran outside to see what all the commotion was all about minus my top. Bare breasts to the guy that collects Mutts for a living is not the best first impression to give someone not to mention probably making the poor boy vomit and causing mental scarring. Huffing on a vest and joining the barking two-some outside I could see what they were barking at ... Woof Woof! Talk with wispy curly hair and a thick Southern Irish accent and I was sold. On top of all that (Yes please!) he worked with dogs for a living so no more bow-wow bashing. Handing them over to him I thought about crawling into the cages next to them and asking the young chap to take me for a walk!
After watching my Irish farmer boy drive off up the lanes I waited next for my carriage to whisk me away to Kilkenny so I could grab a much needed coffee and some breakfast before boarding the coach again back to Dublin. Waiting at the station I helped out a African man struggling with a folding bike, unbeknown to me however it turns out I had made a friend. When questions surrounding my love-life arose I remembered how Mr. Cheese had said that African men always see a girl with no ring on her finger as a potential wife. Reacting quickly and not wanting my love-life to seem as tragic as it actually is I made up a story that I was engaged and that my fiancée whom I have lived with for several years after meeting at University in London, was buying the ring this weekend. It seemed to throw him off but left me feeling deflated and wondering when or even if I will ever get to that point in life.
Trundling through the city streets of Dublin flooded my head with wondrous fantasies about one day living over there. Not permanently of course, I can barely leave my Tweedles for a week let alone a lifetime! No maybe just a year or less. You know, living in a hostel, working in a bar, making new friends and chatting up nice Irish men! What could be better. It got me thinking and I am now seriously considering a sabbatical from work to live out an Green Isle adventure. Finally connecting to Airport WiFi I completely miss read the departure gate for my flight and instead of being at gate 107 I was at 307. 'Im not going to Manchester?' I thought. Then it hit me and my Caramel Frappachino like a tonne of bricks - 'Shiiiiiiiiiiiit!'
Running through the airport as they were making the call for final boarding I realised that not only do I probably look like a twat running but that I may become one of the disgruntled passengers I always laugh at on my favourite TV programme of all time 'Airline'. Finally arriving at the correct gate I flew through the check in and boarded the plane home. And so here I am now. At my trusty window in my apartment writing to you fine people! Safe to say though that my feet themselves will barely be touching the ground this week as I have to go into work tomorrow to sort some stuff out, I have the UnDate that we spoke of that I may have to reschedule as well as all the washing and packing for the weekend ahead. Weekend ahead you ask? Well I most certainly will not be going to Tiffany's to pick out an engagement ring with my future husband (Or maybe I will?!) No I will be crowning myself as an Indian Chief and getting down and dirty with the best of them. Mallet, mud-fights and cagoule at the ready - Next weekend is Reading Festival 2014!
'Til Next Time, Love A.Lou xx
Or at least that's what they say in Ireland. Haha. Anyhoo I hope all is well and good with everyone and it is safe to say that I am fully recovered and rejuvenated from my adventures of the lactose variety. I am now back home safe and sound and ready for a fresh new chapter ahead. Well Kinda!
So after I left the House of Cheese last Sunday I whizzed back home, up my apartment stairs still dressed in the outfit from the night before, suspenders and all and rallied around my penthouse for my bag and all the other bits I would be taking away with me to Ireland. After making several trips up and down those god awful stairs many more times as a result of leaving something important behind I finally left in good time to make my train and grab a good old Starbucks before heading to the departure lounge. I was hoping to find a nice Irish fellow, maybe works in something fun like marketing or advertising to chat with on the journey. Maybe we would fall in love and he would invite me to stay in Dublin for ever and ever and live happily ever after under the shadows of the Guinness factory. Alas though this was not the case and after taking off late due to a delay I began to feel nauseous. Maybe my last night of passion had caught up with me? Nevertheless I tucked into my hearty breakfast bap from Starbs and let the oxygenated air knock me out for six.
Landing in Dublin I knew I was already going to be pushed for time catching my coach from the airport to the village closest to my Aunt and Uncles cottage in Callan, County Kilkenny. Rushing past fellow flyer's and nearly pushing a small Spanish boy onto the luggage carousel in a mad dash to get through security I managed to get outside into the Irish air but missed my coach by mere minutes. 'Damn Spanish kids' I thought to myself as I begged for a Irish driver to detour and take me to where I needed to go. Thankfully a nice man let me on his bus and I headed for the city centre hoping I could make my connection there. As the city lit up with the evenings lights under a dark rain cloud it began to pour and the heavens opened over the home of the leprechaun. Just as I thought it was too late my trusty bus driver pulled into the coach yard and yelled at the now leaving coach bound for what I would call home for the next week or so to stop and allow me to board. The luck of the Irish 'eh?
After a long and winding journey through the Irish hills that seemed to roll on forever and countless attempts to get my phone to work in what appeared to be a completely foreign country (Thanks T-Mobile) I finally arrived at my destination. A local farmer friend of the family came to collect me and we made small talk most of the journey home. Letting myself into the small cottage I breathed a sigh of relief as I took in the sights that had comforted me so many times before. Somehow I always feel like I am at home in Ireland.
Settling in I unpacked and threw on some pyjamas in the hope that there might be something decent on TV like a film or such. Casting my phone aside and telling myself that I would deal with it tomorrow I flopped into the leather couch and prepared for my first night alone. In the middle of nowhere. Miles from the nearest neighbour. Where you can scream and no one will hear you. With no protection other than a blunt letter opener. 'Yes, I think I fancy watching My Little Pony tonight!' I thought to myself as I made sure that the front door was locked. Luckily I didn't have too long to enjoy my own company as I was joined the following morning by my Aunt and Uncle's dogs arriving back from the kennels. I was hoping that maybe now would be my chance to meet a handsome Irish man. No. This one I am sad to say was old and had a white beard to rival Captain Bird's Eye. Taking hold of the leads the large dogs, one a Pitbull type and the other a slobbery Dog Bordeaux, I could feel how strong they were. Pulling on the chains I shoved them into the house whilst I waved off my only communication for that day and collected the rest of the dog stuff.
Snuggled up on the leather settee was where myself and my furry friends spent most of the next few days, watching reruns of Friends (In which I had never really seen before but now I am hooked and feel I now need to spend the next few weeks catching up on everything between 1994 and 2004). I did however venture out most days, oddly going for a run a couple of times. I know - I must have been bored. I did venture into the city of Kilkenny one day to see the sights and to have a cheeky shop in the knowledge that my bags had plenty more room to fill with clothes and shoes. Sad to say though by this point (Tuesday Afternoon I might add) I was already missing work and so this reflected in my shopping habits with me picking up several new shirts and a pencil skirt I shall no doubt return once home. Exhausted I headed for a bearded gentleman manning the information desk to call me a cab back home since my driver was unavailable for the week. After dialling for a taxi and trying with no avail to tell him where I needed to go I sat in the back of the large silver tin can hoping and praying that he wouldn't turn down a dirt track and try to grope me.
Thankfully I made it home in one piece although robbed of forty-euros for the cab fare. The cheek! Apparently I found out at a later date that the journey in total shouldn't have cost no more than about twenty but how was a pretty little English girl to know that? Disregarding the incident I went about my usual duties for the week feeding all the animals on my Aunties increasingly growing collection of farm yard creatures. In total I was sharing my Irish retreat with four goats - One of them pregnant, a horse, several chickens, a rooster, a couple of guinea fowl and three dogs. Snuggling down under the blankets and with the warmth of the hounds we watched a film and then headed to bed. Soon enough though the weekend was upon us and I was greeted by the local farmer again offering to take me to the local pub up the road for a proper Irish knees up and a few pints. Obviously I obliged but had to clear myself of dog hair and the smell of oats.
Donning my boots and 'Big-Boob-Bra' I headed out for a night out with the local lads. Lads however may have been an extreme use of the word. I think maybe the phrase I was looking for was of the more mature variety. Stepping into the quaint little public house I could tell how it once used to be someones front room. Warm and cosy though I stood at the bar and soaked up the surroundings. It was far from busy and I took shelter with my 'date' for the evening until I found some company. Looking around my thoughts were confirmed. I was not only the youngest in the joint but also the only female! Now most people would have thought 'Oh dear god no! They will harass me and try all there best 1974 chat-up lines on me?!' but not me. I revelled in the conversation about cow's and farming, even dropping in about my blog once or twice. 'I knew I would be a hit' I thought to myself as I spurred out all the old tales of bad dates and naughty escapades of a younger, less informed self. Rounding off the night I thought I might have to carry my farmer friend home but thankfully his wonderful wife came to collect us and saved me from a good four-mile trek home in the scary darkness of the Irish wilderness.
Being woken up at the crack of dawn by the rooster "Cock-a-doodle-dooing" is something I shall never become accustomed to however on the morning following the Irish night out my head was craving for more time with the pillow. I reluctantly rolled out of bed, fixed my curls into pigtails and began the feeding of horse, goats and poultry. I did fancy picking one of the chickens up and just whispering to it "Nando's" but I thought that would just make me hungry so went back inside to find the CoCo Pops. Rounding off my week away I rose early this morning to make sure that all the animals were fed and watered and that the dog man collected the pooches before I headed off back to Dublin and to catch my flight later on that afternoon. And after all my in-vain searching for an Irish fellow I finally found one in the Kennel-boy.
Pulling up in the silver van I could hear the Pitbull and Dog Bordeaux going mental. Not evening thinking twice I nearly ran outside to see what all the commotion was all about minus my top. Bare breasts to the guy that collects Mutts for a living is not the best first impression to give someone not to mention probably making the poor boy vomit and causing mental scarring. Huffing on a vest and joining the barking two-some outside I could see what they were barking at ... Woof Woof! Talk with wispy curly hair and a thick Southern Irish accent and I was sold. On top of all that (Yes please!) he worked with dogs for a living so no more bow-wow bashing. Handing them over to him I thought about crawling into the cages next to them and asking the young chap to take me for a walk!
After watching my Irish farmer boy drive off up the lanes I waited next for my carriage to whisk me away to Kilkenny so I could grab a much needed coffee and some breakfast before boarding the coach again back to Dublin. Waiting at the station I helped out a African man struggling with a folding bike, unbeknown to me however it turns out I had made a friend. When questions surrounding my love-life arose I remembered how Mr. Cheese had said that African men always see a girl with no ring on her finger as a potential wife. Reacting quickly and not wanting my love-life to seem as tragic as it actually is I made up a story that I was engaged and that my fiancée whom I have lived with for several years after meeting at University in London, was buying the ring this weekend. It seemed to throw him off but left me feeling deflated and wondering when or even if I will ever get to that point in life.
Trundling through the city streets of Dublin flooded my head with wondrous fantasies about one day living over there. Not permanently of course, I can barely leave my Tweedles for a week let alone a lifetime! No maybe just a year or less. You know, living in a hostel, working in a bar, making new friends and chatting up nice Irish men! What could be better. It got me thinking and I am now seriously considering a sabbatical from work to live out an Green Isle adventure. Finally connecting to Airport WiFi I completely miss read the departure gate for my flight and instead of being at gate 107 I was at 307. 'Im not going to Manchester?' I thought. Then it hit me and my Caramel Frappachino like a tonne of bricks - 'Shiiiiiiiiiiiit!'
Running through the airport as they were making the call for final boarding I realised that not only do I probably look like a twat running but that I may become one of the disgruntled passengers I always laugh at on my favourite TV programme of all time 'Airline'. Finally arriving at the correct gate I flew through the check in and boarded the plane home. And so here I am now. At my trusty window in my apartment writing to you fine people! Safe to say though that my feet themselves will barely be touching the ground this week as I have to go into work tomorrow to sort some stuff out, I have the UnDate that we spoke of that I may have to reschedule as well as all the washing and packing for the weekend ahead. Weekend ahead you ask? Well I most certainly will not be going to Tiffany's to pick out an engagement ring with my future husband (Or maybe I will?!) No I will be crowning myself as an Indian Chief and getting down and dirty with the best of them. Mallet, mud-fights and cagoule at the ready - Next weekend is Reading Festival 2014!
'Til Next Time, Love A.Lou xx
Tuesday, 3 September 2013
Carrot's Can Help You See In The Dark
Evening everybody,
Now after last week's entry I have been made aware that my twenty-second birthday is nearly upon me. Oh what an age but so far I don't think I have much to show for it apart from some very good stories and a few not so good. Haha. One story in which I have yet to share with you all.
Now before Mr. Cheese walked onto the scene (or galloped on, with his tin-foil suit and Zebra steed intact) I was just starting out, dabbling my feet in the cold waters of dating. This was when I met Mr. Carrots. We were introduced through friends after Miss Chocolate had been befriended by him on a social networking site some months earlier. She had no qualms with me and Mr. Carrots meeting for a casual date after she said that he was far too clingy and 'try-hard'. Should have known from the beginning really?
After a few weeks of mindless chit-chat we decided to meet up in person. Mr. Carrots lived on the outskirts of Luton and I in Flitwick with Daddy and his girlfriend at the time. We agreed to meet in the town centre and to go for a couple of drinks before I continued my evening with Miss Chocolate and some old college friends. I knew that Mr. Carrots wasn't a looker but when you are single and someone shows you interest you don't turn it away, besides - Maybe it would be a grower, like mold? Thus said, this was not the case. He was not my type at all but I thought he deserved at least a chance.
Walking up to the court-yard where we had planned to meet there was only one lone figure standing out. It was him. Mr. Carrots. Whilst on the phone to Miss Chocolate I thought that maybe I could just ditch it and do a runner. Then I got a text. He had seen me. As I hung up and nervously walked over to where he was standing there was defiantly no turning back. Mr. Carrots wasted no time in pulling me in for a bear hug and awkwardly I went in for the french double-cheek kiss which he didn't get at all and we ended up in an head-swaying competition in which we both didn't want to be entered in. Eventually we started to walk further into the town and began the small talk. Obviously forgetting the fact that I had told Mr. Carrots previously I had lived and still visited regularly Luton he began to point out buildings of significance and explain their purpose. I didn't have the heart to tell him again and so just let him waffle on.
After a short walk we arrived outside a pub I knew well. Taking me inside I watched as Mr. Carrot's face dropped to the floor and with everyone in the bar looking at us like we just kicked a cat, typical me I made a chirpy comment about getting us a table whilst he grabbed up some drinks. As I approached the table I took a moment to look around. Two women in the corner of foreign origin whom I am almost positive were waiting for the streets of the town to get dark enough so they could go out to work. The rest of the locals were men, all of them above the age of forty with a taste for beer and possibly the odd scrap. Yes. I knew this bar well, but not for the right reasons.
It was at this point that a drunken resident stood in front of the table I had chosen and proclaimed his love for me in an heavy northern Irish accent. Still to this day my friends are amazed at how well I can pull it off. Whilst he adorned me with praise for my beauty I silently begged him to leave before Mr. Carrots arrived through an awkward smile. Finally he left and soon Mr. Carrots took his place and we proceeded with the conversation. By this point I had already felt that there was not spark, not even a click of a lighter and that sweet as he was, Mr. Carrots was not a future Beau.
As the conversation progressed it finally was spun round to football. After about ten minutes of awkward and ideal conversing about football and the weather I was praying for a ice-breaker but I knew that even a Blue Whale couldn't break this iceberg! Then out of the corner of my eye and almost like a message from the man upstairs himself was a pint of beer placed calmly on our table. The Irish drunk was back. Secretly laughing to myself I knew form that moment this was going to be a date to remember and for the remainder of our time in that pub we were bombarded with stories of this man's childhood. In fact I found out more about this man than I did about Mr. Carrots! We learnt that this drunk had a very, very large crush on me and kept telling me how beautiful I was - But before you all start asking me out, just remember he was drunk! He explained how his father was of Scottish descendants and owed a travelling funfair that him and his twin sister (who would 'beat the crap outta ya if ya tried anything') travelled around in as children. More detail was given about his twin sibling when he described in detail their ability to know what the other is speaking and communicate telepathically.
during the conversation with our new found friend the drunk would look into the blue eyes of Mr. Carrots and ask if he was 'starting' on him and if he 'had a problem' to which Mr. Carrots responded simply but nervously with no each and every time he was asked. Suddenly from no where he bellows out ''Carrots'' and me and my date look at each other in horror as we await an explanation. The residing drunk then argued with himself about why he kept thinking of carrots? ''Maybe I need to buy some?'' he said, to which the best reply in history came from my hum-drum date. "Maybe your twin sister is thinking of buying carrots and that is why you are thinking of carrots?!" He said jovially to our intoxicated third wheel. And there erupted my laughter for no longer could I hold it in; a mixture of pure and simple awkwardness with added dating failure made me burst out in a fit of chuckles.
It was just after this that I realised that me and Mr. Carrots were in a battle of who-will-finish-their-drink-first. I knew that if I didn't drink the last dreg's of my wine, we would both be forced to endure the constant back and fourth of conversation between a drunken old man and an already floundering first date. As soon as I put my glass down after gulping down the warming Rose, Mr. Carrots finished his and the Irish bum asked us if we wanted a fresh one. I didn't even give Mr. Carrots a chance to answer as I chipped in and mentioned that we had places to be and had to leave. Quicker than a Cheetah on speed we both left and headed to another bar on the other side of town where we sat for a short while continuing the in-and-out conversation. After that he constantly text me asking to meet up. He even gave me the pet name 'Carrot' - Not exactly come to bed is it?
I couldn't do it. I couldn't go on a second date with someone if it there was nothing there. So safe to say that life has somewhat mellowed out a bit since my encounter with Mr. Carrots but that doesn't mean it is no longer exciting. My date with Mr. Carrots, whilst not the best, was sadly not to be anything more than just a foot in the door. I am sure though that some day he will make some girl very happy and I genuinely wish him all the best, but unfortunately that girl is not me. Maybe I shall find someone soon? Maybe? But for now I am just enjoying life as it is; friends, family, work, social life and best of all I'm not lactose-intolerant!
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Now after last week's entry I have been made aware that my twenty-second birthday is nearly upon me. Oh what an age but so far I don't think I have much to show for it apart from some very good stories and a few not so good. Haha. One story in which I have yet to share with you all.
Now before Mr. Cheese walked onto the scene (or galloped on, with his tin-foil suit and Zebra steed intact) I was just starting out, dabbling my feet in the cold waters of dating. This was when I met Mr. Carrots. We were introduced through friends after Miss Chocolate had been befriended by him on a social networking site some months earlier. She had no qualms with me and Mr. Carrots meeting for a casual date after she said that he was far too clingy and 'try-hard'. Should have known from the beginning really?
After a few weeks of mindless chit-chat we decided to meet up in person. Mr. Carrots lived on the outskirts of Luton and I in Flitwick with Daddy and his girlfriend at the time. We agreed to meet in the town centre and to go for a couple of drinks before I continued my evening with Miss Chocolate and some old college friends. I knew that Mr. Carrots wasn't a looker but when you are single and someone shows you interest you don't turn it away, besides - Maybe it would be a grower, like mold? Thus said, this was not the case. He was not my type at all but I thought he deserved at least a chance.
Walking up to the court-yard where we had planned to meet there was only one lone figure standing out. It was him. Mr. Carrots. Whilst on the phone to Miss Chocolate I thought that maybe I could just ditch it and do a runner. Then I got a text. He had seen me. As I hung up and nervously walked over to where he was standing there was defiantly no turning back. Mr. Carrots wasted no time in pulling me in for a bear hug and awkwardly I went in for the french double-cheek kiss which he didn't get at all and we ended up in an head-swaying competition in which we both didn't want to be entered in. Eventually we started to walk further into the town and began the small talk. Obviously forgetting the fact that I had told Mr. Carrots previously I had lived and still visited regularly Luton he began to point out buildings of significance and explain their purpose. I didn't have the heart to tell him again and so just let him waffle on.
After a short walk we arrived outside a pub I knew well. Taking me inside I watched as Mr. Carrot's face dropped to the floor and with everyone in the bar looking at us like we just kicked a cat, typical me I made a chirpy comment about getting us a table whilst he grabbed up some drinks. As I approached the table I took a moment to look around. Two women in the corner of foreign origin whom I am almost positive were waiting for the streets of the town to get dark enough so they could go out to work. The rest of the locals were men, all of them above the age of forty with a taste for beer and possibly the odd scrap. Yes. I knew this bar well, but not for the right reasons.
It was at this point that a drunken resident stood in front of the table I had chosen and proclaimed his love for me in an heavy northern Irish accent. Still to this day my friends are amazed at how well I can pull it off. Whilst he adorned me with praise for my beauty I silently begged him to leave before Mr. Carrots arrived through an awkward smile. Finally he left and soon Mr. Carrots took his place and we proceeded with the conversation. By this point I had already felt that there was not spark, not even a click of a lighter and that sweet as he was, Mr. Carrots was not a future Beau.
As the conversation progressed it finally was spun round to football. After about ten minutes of awkward and ideal conversing about football and the weather I was praying for a ice-breaker but I knew that even a Blue Whale couldn't break this iceberg! Then out of the corner of my eye and almost like a message from the man upstairs himself was a pint of beer placed calmly on our table. The Irish drunk was back. Secretly laughing to myself I knew form that moment this was going to be a date to remember and for the remainder of our time in that pub we were bombarded with stories of this man's childhood. In fact I found out more about this man than I did about Mr. Carrots! We learnt that this drunk had a very, very large crush on me and kept telling me how beautiful I was - But before you all start asking me out, just remember he was drunk! He explained how his father was of Scottish descendants and owed a travelling funfair that him and his twin sister (who would 'beat the crap outta ya if ya tried anything') travelled around in as children. More detail was given about his twin sibling when he described in detail their ability to know what the other is speaking and communicate telepathically.
during the conversation with our new found friend the drunk would look into the blue eyes of Mr. Carrots and ask if he was 'starting' on him and if he 'had a problem' to which Mr. Carrots responded simply but nervously with no each and every time he was asked. Suddenly from no where he bellows out ''Carrots'' and me and my date look at each other in horror as we await an explanation. The residing drunk then argued with himself about why he kept thinking of carrots? ''Maybe I need to buy some?'' he said, to which the best reply in history came from my hum-drum date. "Maybe your twin sister is thinking of buying carrots and that is why you are thinking of carrots?!" He said jovially to our intoxicated third wheel. And there erupted my laughter for no longer could I hold it in; a mixture of pure and simple awkwardness with added dating failure made me burst out in a fit of chuckles.
It was just after this that I realised that me and Mr. Carrots were in a battle of who-will-finish-their-drink-first. I knew that if I didn't drink the last dreg's of my wine, we would both be forced to endure the constant back and fourth of conversation between a drunken old man and an already floundering first date. As soon as I put my glass down after gulping down the warming Rose, Mr. Carrots finished his and the Irish bum asked us if we wanted a fresh one. I didn't even give Mr. Carrots a chance to answer as I chipped in and mentioned that we had places to be and had to leave. Quicker than a Cheetah on speed we both left and headed to another bar on the other side of town where we sat for a short while continuing the in-and-out conversation. After that he constantly text me asking to meet up. He even gave me the pet name 'Carrot' - Not exactly come to bed is it?
I couldn't do it. I couldn't go on a second date with someone if it there was nothing there. So safe to say that life has somewhat mellowed out a bit since my encounter with Mr. Carrots but that doesn't mean it is no longer exciting. My date with Mr. Carrots, whilst not the best, was sadly not to be anything more than just a foot in the door. I am sure though that some day he will make some girl very happy and I genuinely wish him all the best, but unfortunately that girl is not me. Maybe I shall find someone soon? Maybe? But for now I am just enjoying life as it is; friends, family, work, social life and best of all I'm not lactose-intolerant!
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
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