Death (Almost) Becameth Her

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Urgh, argh, blurgh, etc. I have just come off one of the worst colds I think I have ever, ever, ever had. Not only did I feel like I was about to trundle off the mortal coil, I also looked disturbingly like those vampires from Twilight or True Blood (think deathly pale and hungry looking, but not as hot). I slept for roughly sixteen hours, dosed up as I was on some fabulous Irish cold and flu tablets which knocked me flat out like a lizard drinking (sorry, I now have to start using bad Australian slang all the time, even when it does not remotely fit the context of my post), and emerged only a little while ago, feeling insanely better (although not 100% yet), and having found myself somewhere to reside in this lovely city. No, I did not in my drug/phlegm induced haze go out and find a home, I had actually already viewed the place (just down the road from Merrion Square, previously home to the great wit and one of my idols, none other than Mr. Oscar Wilde) on Friday night, and learnt last night that I was welcome to move in. This was brilliant news, as it was a last minute reprieve from having to impose myself on my relatives over here (not to mention having to lug my ridiculous amount of luggage to their place in Swords). So I move in tomorrow and I am very excited as this is really one of the first big steps in my new life here.

After I finally managed to drag myself out of bed I ventured across the Liffey to O'Connell Street, where I haven't spent much time yet, being as entranced as I am by the south side. My reason for intrepidly travelling north? Why, Penneys of course! Did I mention I love Penneys? Did I also mention that Penneys is an incredibly dangerous place for me to visit, what with their brilliantly cheap underwear and (to my mind, ridiculously climate inappropriate, I mean, hello, we're not in Australia here and flimsy summer pj's are not really suitable) pyjamas? I also bought some boring house stuff, ho hum, but I blew a small fortune on new underwear and sleepwear. 

Whilst up north I did notice a disturbing trend amongst the young women folk. They all seemed to be wearing ill-fitting, very unattractive reebok tracksuits (think shorter, stouter, whiter versions of Roberta Williams in the first season of Underbelly). One in particular caught my eye, it was what can only be described as a mauve abomination, that looked somewhat like the one Queen Madge wears below:

Key differences, however, were that the tracksuit I witnessed was shiny, lighter in colour, and sported fetching fluro pink stripes. I know, I know, you're all rushing out to buy one just like it. If you do, you'll have a special spot reserved for you on the uber-chic O'Connell Street. I am beginning to realise that boganism is not unique to Australia. I know that the equivalent are called chavs in England, does anyone know what they are called here?

Dublin Boy Watch: 

• Cute guy working in a breathtakingly beautiful Victorian-era bar called The Bank (mainly because it was originally the Belfast Bank). This guy was also very cranky and I witnessed him telling off one of the waitresses. Originally a 7/10, his temper dropped him to a 6/10.
• Boy (far too young, early twenties would be my estimate) walking along Dame Street near my hotel. Reminded me of a young man I know from Cork (Cark), known as KCliff, only Dame St lad had sparkly blue eyes rather than KCliff's sparkly green. What is it with the Irish and the sparkly eyes? They kill me everytime! Sparkly Dame St lad gets a solid 9/10. Those numbers don't lie, I'm a sucker for blue eyes.

Anyway, on that note, I'm off to luxuriate in my somewhat restored health.

B. J. Barnes