“Just know that my English is not so good.” I had been forewarned. We were chatting on Instagram, the Master of Plaster & I, preceding our date the other night. Unconcerned, I promised him that I could teach him a lot of English. We agreed to meet at Buskers On The Ball at 9.
The place was heaving, typical of Temple Bar on a Friday night. Manic. No sooner had I arrived than he messaged me: he was running 30 minutes late. Great. Might as well get the party started without him. I hit the bar & ordered myself a cocktail. Rumelicious, yum yum, full of rum. That went straight down the hatch without a scratch.
He had arrived but where the hell was he? I found him at the bar ordering 2 pints at once, chased down by 2 shots of tequila. Fuck me. I joined him for a shot of tequila followed by another delicious Rumelicious. Then more tequila shots. Finally we both had pints & get plastered we sure did.
The booze was flowing, unlike the conversation, which was virtually non-existent. Dumbstruck the pair of us, just enjoying the tunes & the view. My oh my his Moldovan good looks were ever so easy on the eye!
In a drunken haze, he secured us a room in the Abbey Court Hotel. The short walk there across the Liffey was a blur. And the rest is history. By morning, our bed had rolled right into the middle of the room, hilarious!
Not so hilarious when a loud siren alerted us to check out time at the unmerciful hour of 10.30am. Somewhat groggy & still somewhat speechless, we parted ways with a brief parting hug at O’Connell Bridge. He uttered 2 words to himself: “Don’ drink!”
I later texted him with thanks for being so lovely. Being a man of few words as I know him, his reply was simply “All good”. Smiley face. Yes, it was all good, with a highly refreshing lack of conversation to boot.
Faith In The Ripple Effect 