The next morning, still slightly drunk, I packed my bags for London – the joy of no 100ml restrictions. Flying by private jet isn’t nearly as exciting as it sounds – crucially you miss Duty Free, which is of course the best part of travelling, as the girls at beaut.ie can verify. On the plus side there are no ques. (Although at the rate Irish people are buying planes this may not be the case for much longer). Instead you check in via a little hut and get a mini-bus to the plane. I told you it wasn’t glamorous!

As security on the ground was pretty limited ‘Undumpable Dave’ decided to wait until we were in the air to perform his own safety protocals, which seemed to involve a body cavity search - of me. The escape options were limited. Thankfully having dated him for a while I knew how to soften his cough.

Consequently I started a massive row on English imperialism, based on his mis-guided assumption that just because I was poor and Irish that I owed him something. I realise that on the ground and not hungover this doesn’t hold a lot of logic, but at the time it served a purpose. All romantic intentions vanished ( along with my rugby tickets ) as we argued for most of the flight.

A bit like the Carlsberg ad, when faced with a challenging situation it isn’t always option A or B - fight or flight, but in my case option C - flight AND fight.

Last Friday was spent in the UK doing busy executive type activities. It’s been a while since I’ve been there for work, so I had forgotten the golden rule of never flying from London on a Friday afternoon, particularly when you are due to go on a date that evening!

After a variety of mishaps I landed in Dublin 3 hours late. My original plan of going home to get ready was abandoned and instead I got a cab straight to Joseph’s house. ( Carpenter guy, with great arms, who spilt drink on me in the pub before xmas ) He lives in one of those sandwich estates that just about qualify under postal law for a nice address.

Nice Area – New Development – Bad area

By the time I arrived at his house I was totally gagging for a drink, so we skipped the normal:

What would you like to do?

I don’t mind what would you like to do?

No seriously it’s up to you………….

Rather than risk another form of transport we went to his local – the batch side of the sandwich. Keep in mind that I am wearing my uber power suit and don’t fuck with me heels. I realised what a mistake it was when I stepped inside the pub. If “Shameless� ever need a new set this would be the number one option. Joseph kindly offered to go to the bar as I wasn’t sure my Choos would make it there and back. Chances are I would be found hours later stacked on cement blocks with my handbag burnt out. I asked Joseph to get me a wine - Pinot Grigio ( what was I thinking ). Five minutes later he arrived back with no wine.

‘They don’t have the wine you wanted’ - Joseph

‘Ok – what do they have?’ - me

‘Medium’ - Joseph

‘Medium what?’ - me

‘Medium wine’ - Joseph

‘Is that the size or the type?’ - me

‘I’m not sure’ - Joseph

‘Grand I’ll have the medium then and make it a large one’ - me

Many medium ones later and I was fit for nothing large or small, which I suspect is where the wine got its name.

Well the update on all things Dr. McRide is not good. His friend from the party, nurse Hot Lips, is a repeat visitor. I have only spoken to her a few times and although she seems very nice one can’t help suspecting that her parents were probably related long before they married - more of a family branch than tree.

You always know where she has been in the apartment based on the trail of chaos left behind; milk cartons opened with a knife, egg shell remnants in the microwave and my personal favourite the TV remote control in the fridge.

I am of course just very bitter and jealous. What the hell does she have that I don’t – other than the great figure, massive mammaries and ability to scream loudly during sex? Based on the sound effects, it seems to be the one thing that she is able to do very well.

Last Friday night I was enjoying a few quiet beverages with ‘The Vintner’. All was well until he suddenly adopted a very pale and pained expression. (Not an easy one to spot on an the Irish male). Following his line of sight I spotted a very stern looking female, with 1980’s bunny boiler red lipstick, marching our way. I haven’t felt such an urgent need to pee since St Ursula caught me trying to pierce my ear with a set of dividers. Before I could escape ‘The Boiler’ introduced herself with a firm handshake that made me very glad not to have testicles – the Vintner wasn’t so lucky.

I made my escape to the loo. When I finally returned The Boiler was gone and I naturally demanded the story. Apparently The Vintner met her around a year ago. He was drunk and she seemed pleasant, which shows how much alcohol impairs your judgement. They swapped numbers and arranged to meet up for dinner. A few days later on their dinner date and half way through the starter she asked the following:

“So where do you see this relationship going?� – Boiler

Well up until that point the poor Vintner wasn’t aware there was a relationship. Apparently this was to be one of the easier questions as she proceeded to interrogate him on past relationships, work income and attitude to children. At the end of the night he should have made it clear that they wouldn’t be seeing one another again, but in all honesty what would you have done?

Instead in true Irish male fashion he waited until the next day and sent a “I don’t think we should see each other again� text - big mistake. He was barraged with texts and calls for a week. He eventually gave in and spoke to The Boiler. Using a collection of the usual phrases ( right person, wrong time – not you, but me ) he politely tried to tell her the exact destination of their relationship - nowhere. She continued to call and text for ANOTHER 6 WEEKS. Foolishly he thought this might be the end of it and it was until he met her in the pub and had to have the SAME conversation again. This is one girl you don’t want on your Charades team.

On behalf of Mna na hEireann can I please make the following plea to women who just won’t take a hint - If he doesn’t return your texts or calls TRUST ME – HE’S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU. (check out the book and movie of the same name)

Yes I know you want closure and an explanation, but accept and respect that not everyone will feel or behave the way you want them to – it’s not personal, it’s just life. Hold your head high and MOVE ON – or at the very least delete his number and give the rest of us a chance.