Sunday, March 1, 2009

Trudging slowly over wet sand

"What time is it?" I ask her, with my customary grunt and disgusting throat clear.

"Eleven."

Terrific, I've managed to sleep long enough to shake off the hangover I've fully earned through copious pints of Guinness consumed in the horrendously busy Doheny & Nesbitt's whilst watching Ireland thrash England 14-13. The poor love has gone off and done whatever it is she does when she can't sleep any more, while I've farted and dozed my way to comfort.

Snuggles later, I arise, consume a chunk of Toblerone and drive us to DĂșn Laoghaire. We have the greatest of breakfasts: Eggs Benedict (yeah, I'd never quite known what that was before either, this one was sexy smoked salmon and gorgeously runny poached egg on a bagel) and mascarpone and mixed berries on French toast so heavenly she threatens to leave me for it.

Our scheduled walk is abandoned after a nasty sleet shower catches us off-guard and leaves us dripping and grinning, with one of us smelling a lot like a wet dog. So we do the shopping, with me skittering around the place as annoyingly as ever, suggesting we purchase a Pirates of the Caribbean boom box as she picks up the sensible things, like mushrooms and pro-biotic yoghurt. To amuse me, she leaves me in the biscuit aisle and tells me she'll come back for me in a few minutes, and I can only pick one packet. My quest for the perfect uberbiscuit (shortbread with layers of caramel, marshmallow and chocolate chips with a Jaffa Cake topping) fails, so I insist on four packets. I get my way, she's nice like that.

Back at hers, we while away the rest of the afternoon making stew and watching episodes of The Wire, her head resting on my hip. Snuggles later, we eat the stew and find it to be truly fucking delicious. Glasses of gifted Rioja don't hurt either.

Now she sits watching Lost as I type this (my simpleness and impatience mean I never made it past season 2). We left The Wire at such a critical point that we'll probably have to watch one more episode before hitting the hay, though that will still be early enough. She'll be asleep before me, and she'll deserve to be.

"Every day is like Sunday, every day is silent and grey," Morrissey once sang.

Stephen, you've never met my girlfriend.

10 comment(s):

NaRocRoc said...

Ah very nice! Can I steal it and change it just so as it reflects my Sunday and post it meself in honour of herself. Brownie points galore!

B said...

I like how "truly fucking delicious" feels outta place in the whole thing, threw me off from the comfy comfy writing thing that was going.

Andrew said...

NaRocRoc - Cetainly, you're welcome to it.

B - Yeah, that was deliberate. Still, moments after publishing I kinda wished I hadn't, as the whole thing comes out somewhat more nauseating than I had intended it to. 'Never write when in a hideously good mood', that's my new mantra.

Darragh said...

Awww. Sounds great!

Rosie said...

mushrooms and pro-biotic yoghurt

she sounds like a hoot. i bet she's sitting at home, eating all your biscuits.

emordino said...

I know your heart is in the right place re: dreambiscuits, but I think that kind of density would ruin it. Sure the first few would be nice, but it'd just get overwhelming. Biscuits are at their best when they're simple and straightforward.

Andrew said...

Darragh - Yeah, it was.

Rosie - She does seem like the sort, right enough.

Eli - You are, as usual, right. I imagine it took centuries of fecking around with all sorts of bells and whistles before people realised that shortbread is perfect exactly as it is.

MJ said...

I read this yesterday and meant to comment!

Your dream biscuit sounds like heaven. You might just have a busy-ness i-deer right there. Mmmm.

Andrew said...

I dunno, MJ, I think Eli might be right. He generally is.

Still, worth looking into creating a prototype, I'd imagine.

Radge said...

Mint viscounts. I'm sick of repeating myself.