I have returned from my flying visit to Ireland.
It was the first time I have ever been to the Emerald Isle, which is surprising as the husband is half-Irish and spent his formative years in the country, so I have often had a small bit of Irish in me.
Landing in the home of the Blarney Stone, our disembarkation from the plane was delayed whilst each passenger had a good chat with the airline staff, as opposed to the normal, cursory “Goodbye". I came to the conclusion that County Cork is actually short for: ‘County, oh for goodness sake! Put a Cork in it.’
The journey from the airport to our destination, was hampered by the fact that Irish cartographers seem to take a liberal attitude to accuracy and don’t consider it essential to mark every road. However, the upside of the diversion was the stunning countryside that we drove through. The hype is right and, much as it pains me to admit it (considering some of my readership here) it is a stunning country. And I think I may have found my next home.
So it was just the boss and I, away for an over-night trip.
We went out in the local town last night. A town of about a thousand residents with eight pubs, which I’m told is a fairly typical ratio of pub to inhabitant. First pub: just lemonade, second: coke (a-cola), by the third my willpower disappeared. At the bosses’ entreaties I launched myself off the wagon and succumbed to having two glasses of wine.
Just two glasses. My body is still a temple, but possibly with a Bacchanalian bent.
And I know what you are thinking.
It’s a business trip, I'm being plied with booze. Could a spot of ‘How’s Your Father’ be his aim? It was never going to happen. Hopefully, my ovaries are currently going into clomid-induced overdrive so the last thing I am likely to risk is a spot of ‘How’s Your Father’ turning into a game of ‘Who’s The Daddy.’ *
Tomorrow morning I get my first crack at peeing on a stick, to see if the clomid has kicked in. Because of this, whilst it is unlikely to have started so early, I need to ensure that the husband’s sperm are an optimum age – not too old, not too young (2 to 3 days old is good). Which put me in the unusual position of having to text him last night to remind him to: “have a quick one off the wrist”.
So whilst I couldn’t resist the craic, the husband was busy cracking one off in every room in the flat.
*Just in case that caused eyebrows to rise I want to assure you that I only put that paragraph in because a) I wanted to subtly remind you that my ovaries should be gearing up for ovulation, b) I wanted to use the phrases ‘How’s your father’ and ‘Who’s the daddy’ and, c) I’m really not his type, on account of having my (albeit defective) reproductive organs inside my body rather than dangling between my legs.**
** Note the use of the Oxford comma in that last sentence!