A month ago I ended up at home for the “Show Weekend�. For all you city folks, ‘The Show’ is the agricultural fair that happens in my little town each year. When I was young I thought it was the most exciting event of the year, generally because it was the most exciting event of the year. Aged 7 or 8 I would watch agog at the bumping cars and swinging boats. My favorite was the chair-o-plane. As the name suggests you would sit in a chair, suspended from a thin chain, frequently narrower than the chunky gold necklaces of the staff, and the machine would hurl you around in the air – thrilling.

Each year some mechanical disaster would occur, it was never fatal, but enough to give an extra frisson of excitement to the ride. Generally they couldn’t stop the machine and candy floss filled kids would rotate for hours until someone managed to shut it off. Junk food and stomachs under G force pressure had catastrophic results for those standing in projectile range. In the pre-litigious days kids would be compensated by the offer of free rides all weekend. Despite the trauma most would have undergone this was broadly welcomed, although I’m sure some still twitch when they have to sit in a bucket chair.

Along with the amusements there are competitions for top cow and bizarre things like best bale of hay or sod of turf. To this day I have no idea how the latter are judged, but I love that in this Celtic Tiger 2.0 country people are still competing for ‘Best Bale of Hay’.

One year I won a competition. I got third in the under 12’s painting competition. A huge achievement as I was one of the few children not to cheat by tracing my picture with some greaseproof paper from a coloring book. How the judges never noticed that the town was filled with expert Walt Disney animators is a bit of a puzzle.

The other big feature of, ‘the show’ were the stalls. All the travelers and some of the locals would set up shop on a sheet by the road and sell all manner of crap that they had collected during the year. Our town was way ahead of the recycling trend. My favorite stall was and still is the garden ornaments; where else can you purchase a quarter size donkey and cart or a full size cement eagle with hand painted red eyes? The best statue is the waving cowboy, he looks a bit like ‘Woody’ from ‘Toy Story’ but fatter and with a 40 a day Lucky Strike habit. It’s been 20 years and he still hasn’t sold.

As I got older the show became interesting for vastly different reasons - teenage hormone heaven. A new kind of horse trading was going on. The bumping cars was the main transaction zone. Guys would hop in bumping cars and girls would plead to ride beside them. Naturally anyone with a hint of breast, real or tissue was very popular. The deep country boys were a whiz due to their experience of driving tractors and they took infinite pleasure in hammering the crap out of the soft townie boys. But the bumping car king was always the fat ugly kid who had loads of money and could pay for infinite rides. For once he would be the most popular guy in town. How much must he have loved that weekend?

Regular readers will know that the teenage years were not overly kind to me (queen of the ugly people), so I would hang by the cars until no other girls were left and I would get a go. Notably things haven’t moved on that dramatically from my teenage bumping car experiences, except now I hang out by the bar, the breasts are real, but I’m still looking for ride. The show goes on….

Well after MUCH agonising on Friday I eventually emailed Dr. McRide telling him he could move in. Now I realise he maybe gay, I can never wear my jim-jams outside the bedroom again plus I may have to endure him having jiggy jiggy with other women, but the prospect of looking at his stunning self everyday was too much to resist. It will be like having a piece of modern art in the apartment. (super big thanks to everyone for their comments, it was really helpful) Not to mention all the potential blog material, the things I do for my readers!

I didn’t hear anything all weekend, despite checking my emails every 5 seconds. Eventually on Sunday evening I got a message to say he was in the UK but would get back to me ASAP - more anxious checking of email. Finally last night I got a call to say – YES; he would be delighted to move in. Not as delighted as me obviously. The only issue is that he can’t move until the end of September. Although this isn’t ideal, I figure most of my life has been spent waiting for a guy like this, another month won’t really matter. So, wish me and my new roomie good luck – swoon.

Very upsetting experience this morning. Hopped out of the shower - I like to challenge myself early in the day with some physical dexterity tests. Headed into the kitchen to make some tea and as I passed the mirror in the hall I saw a horrible sight – a massive hairy pussy. Now I know the urban myth about these things, but you never expect it to happen at such a young age. But there it was in front my eyes. Unsurprisingly I was shocked and upset. The natural questions were asked, how the hell had that happened and what could I do about it.

I made the usual shooing noises, but to no avail. The cat just stared at me with a look of total feline disdain. How the hell it had got inside my 5th floor apartment was beyond me. Do they have a Santa for sad single women that delivers cats when you have reached some magical spinster age? Eventually after much screaming that I was too young to have a cat it made a break for the window that was slightly ajar and disappeared over the balcony to the apartment next door. Perhaps there was another single woman in there that it needed to freak out.

In life there is one thing I hate more than cooking and that is food shopping. Entering the supermarket has an equivalent effect as strobe lights for epileptics. The source of my agitated twitching and panic is that I know that all the various food stuffs can be combined to produce meals, but I have no idea how.

One entire aisle was just filled with yogurts and associated drinks. All of which had very advanced sounding ingredients. I felt like I was in a sci-fi movie, the prebiotics were taking on the probiotics who were aligned with the Omega 3’s. Any second I expected to see Sigourney Weaver with a giant bottle of Yop emerging from her stomach.

At least when living abroad I had the excuse of not knowing what anything was - mince beef or dog, who is going to risk getting that wrong? Even buying simple stuff was hard in China, for six months I washed my clothes with dish washer salts. In my defence it did still get the clothes clean and I sparkled delightfully in direct sunlight.

Shopping is Ireland is even more horrifying as I don’t have the excuse of a language barrier. I went to M&S on Saturday on the basis that they at least prepare most stuff. Two hours and a hundred quid later I left the supermarket with very little items resembling Bar B ingredients. My trolley was filled with around 100 different types of lettuce. Who knew there were so many? When I was little you just got a head of bright green lettuce in the local shop and then spent the next hour trying to un-attach all the creatures that were munching on it.

Things have obviously moved on. When buying meat the packaging not only tells you the animal (not dog) and cut but where it came from and even how it arrived (air freight). What the fuck is that about? More importantly where exactly is this trend going?

“Mildred the Frisian cow, 3rd daughter of Henry the Great Cow, was born in the last field on the left before Carlow. She enjoyed 3 good years of grass eating before enduring a minor electrical shock ( 1000volts generated by solar energy). A metane powered truck then drove her to Dublin and the van driver reported no sudden stops on the way. We hope you enjoy eating Mildred as much as we enjoyed raising, slaughtering and transporting her.�?

Next time I’m avoiding all this new age crap and going to Lidl, granted I may not buy any food, but I could end up with a very useful leaf blower or 3 man tent.