Sightseeing over, I started getting ready for the party. Amazingly, I managed to squeeze into my posh frock even though I am still carrying some Christmas weight – since 1997. Just as I was running for the door, (more of a sprint given the size of room), I realized that I had forgotten my key. Quite an achievement when you consider the billboard sized attachment with the room number. The combination of small room and giant key resulted in my can of Coke landing on the front of my dress. Major panic stations! The next fifteen minutes was spent with the miniature soap and towel trying to repair the damage. Eventually I gave up and just ran to meet ‘The Trader’, more Coked-up than Kate Moss at a party - not in the same way. With hindsight I should just have given up!

The drive to the villa was thankfully air-conditioned and very scenic. ‘The Trader’ explained that the celebration was a 40th birthday party for the Contessa. I can only assume that 40 was her ‘average age’, once you calculated the median of her birth, breast and face. The party was filled with women of a similar ilk, only their chins moved when they talked (think Paula Abdul on American Idol); it was like a ventriloquist’s convention. I must have been the only woman at the party with all her original bits - practically a collectors toy!

The Italian men were as charming as ever, you have to admire their relentless flirtations. You could be walking up the aisle, resplendent in your wedding dress and an Italian bloke would ask for your number. Although the Count was American the Italian methods had obviously rubbed off. He spent at least 20 minutes in deep conversation with my breasts. I can only assume it was the shock of seeing real ones that don’t double as earrings.

I could tell that ‘The Trader’ wasn’t impressed, but you can’t really tell your host to F-Off and stop looking at your tits. With hindsight my manners wouldn’t have been so good. A while later a small group decided to visit a club. After we arrived ‘The Count ‘ decided that he was blind drunk and I was a Book of Brail. When I eventually managed to extract myself ‘The Trader’ had disappeared. Despite numerous calls and interrogation of various guests he could not be found. (perhaps he got stuck in some soft Tarmac).

Foolishly I wandered outside to find him. 10 minutes later I was hopelessly lost, with only €5 in my purse and two words of Italian, one of which was Cinquecento and unlikely to be of much use. At this point someone took pity on me. The fact I was bawling crying may have had helped - God bless drink. After a snuffled explanation he offered me a lift to my hotel. Now I realise this was not a smart move but do consider that my options were pretty limited.

In actual fact he was very sweet - as serial killers often are. He spent the journey re-assuring me that a Principesa like me was far too beautiful to cry. A brave thing to say when I was redistributing the contents of my noise down my chin. He deposited me at the hotel, kissed my hand good-bye and wished me well. He then disappeared into the night, driving erratically in his white Cinquecento.

I staggered to bed somewhat reassured that there are still some gentlemen left in the world.*
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* Over a week later and still have not heard a word from “The Trader” !

Normal blogging will resume soon with a post explaining why some women deserve to be single - bitter, moi!

After ‘The Trader’ poked me, we spent most of January exchanging emails and a few calls. Finally he mentioned that he was popping over to Italy for a party and would I like to come? Sadly I had to decline as I was “between jobs�, so my finances really wouldn’t allow.

For the next day or two I heard nothing and was starting to get a little peeved when a forwarded flight confirmation popped into my mailbox, followed by an offer of accommodation at “The Bvlgariâ€?. ‘The Trader’ rarely lets money get between him and a good time. After long consideration ( 2 minutes ) I accepted the flights, but decided to get my own accommodation - I have a reputation to maintain, not a very good one, but a reputation none the less! If you have stayed in Italy you will know that the hotel star ranking system is a little basic.

1 Star – Roof

2 Star – Bed

3 Star – Indoor toilet

4 Star – Towel and mini soap

5 Star – Free prostitute

As I needed to manage my budget I went for the 3 star option – big mistake

Bill Bryson once wrote about a hotel room in New York that was so small he had to go into the corridor to turn around and when inside the room he could touch all four walls at once. I had the same experience and I’m only 5ft 4! The real gem of the room was the bathroom, it was painted entirely in shiny blue paint, and I do mean entirely; walls, ceiling, floor and toilet roll holder. (If I was a Smurf I would have been very happy).

To make matters worse I then popped over to “The Traders� hotel and saw his room. The bathroom was larger than my entire room and more importantly, not blue. However the interior decorator had obviously recently finished reading “101 uses for gold leaf�. I spent most of my visit scrapping off gold dust with a nail file.

Saturday was spent strolling around the wonderful architecture of Milan, which is not as easy as it may sound. Although the Italians may have given us roads and plumbing they still have not worked out that streets in a hot country should NOT be paved with tarmac. Around mid-day the paths have the texture of gently chewed bubblicious.

If you are unfortunately enough to be wearing heels, you don’t walk, but instead go through a regular process of sink-age and extraction. (Perhaps this is why the Italians invented Roman Sandals). I now understand why all the local women have such long, lean limbs - generations of strolling on bubble gum pavements. (Damn Irish concrete paths!)

That night we were due to attend a party hosted by an old classmate of ‘The Trader’, who set up an IT company in the 90’s, sold it for a fortune and then headed off around the world to spend his millions. He made it as far as Italy where he met ‘The Contessa’, married and is spending the additional money doing up the family villa.

I was quietly optimistic about the party and my prospects with ‘The Trader’. We were older, more mature and crucially drinking a lot less. What could possibly go wrong*………….?
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*Sorry this is so drawn out but to paraphrase the cliche, I don’t have the time or talent to write a short post so am doing 3 long ones instead !

He’s fucking married - next !

A recent survey revealed that 47% of men are turned off by overweight women, but only 8% are turned on by intelligence. So for those of you debating an evening course or further education to meet a man, save your money and get some lipo-suction. Normally I dismiss such surveys, but then I think of the evidence from my own life.

The girls I gave maths grinds to are now all calculating milk formula ratios and trying to figure out how they gave birth to a 3lb baby after 11 months of pregnancy. The moral seems to be that you can have the IQ of an elephant, but provided you don’t resemble one you can still attract a man.

Why is my post included on a piece about government on IRISH BLOGS. (scroll down until you see pic of elephant !!)