Must. Act. Normal. (An Irish potato hinged Fairytale.)

According to a person with absolutely no identity, who I am unable to describe for fear of retribution, but whom I can say with absolute certainty, is gorgeous, lovely caring, funny and a total babe.

‘The Irish one is as sexy as hell’

After I had collected my eyebrows off the ceiling and settled my features back in to a look of agreement, instead of complete shock, this person then went on to tell me that somehow, he seems to have created for himself, in the work arena, the arena where the air conditioning is either set too ‘Nippletastic’ or ‘Sahara desert at noon,’ a place where the phones never stop ringing and the girls are all younger, prettier and more fun, the arena I am not allowed to talk about really;

‘A bit of a fan club.’

The person is female too.

He made me put that in there.  (He is delighted I am writing about this of course.)

‘It isn’t that I am homophobic or anything’ he clarifies from behind me ‘but just make it clear to all of your readers, that it is actual women that are after me ok? Lots and lots of real life women.’

‘Yes darling’ I murmur regretting the moment I opened my laptop and decided on this post ‘yes of course I will.’

‘LOADS of women’ he expands on his point ‘Maybe hundreds!’

And with that, as I hide a deep sigh and surreptitiously role my eyes, he positively swaggers off in to the kitchen, wearing, just for the record, a pair of tatty boxers and a t-shirt displaying Addison’s regurgitated chocolate all down the front.

A part of me is surprised he didn’t burp loud and proud on the way out.

Would I describe him as sexy as hell?

I’ll claim the fifth on that at the moment.

The conversation got me to thinking though, after I had got over the initial shock of how quickly it had digressed from work talk in to a lust fest, which weirdly seems to be the effect I am having on a fair few conversations at the moment (I think I may be on heat) had giggled, stared at her disbelievingly, pinched myself to make sure I somehow hadn’t found myself in a dream belonging to the Irish One himself and guffawed loudly.

Is he gorgeous?

I mean I know when I met him I must have thought so because I put in some serious effort you know?

A fact the Irish One never fails to remind me of.

I had been off sick at work with a terrible bout of flu (ahem… hangover) and upon my return, as I was busy stalking down the office in my spice girl heels thinking I was the business and just a little bit nervous at having been off sick and wondering what may await me from my boss, I noticed immediately that in my absence, a new boy with blonde hair and quite a nice bum has been installed in to the seat opposite my desk.

Turning the corner and sitting myself down wondering what his face may look like, but scared to look up having just been caught checking out his bum as he picked something off the floor, I heard his voice for the first time and I have to say my heart sank.

I am an absolute sucker for an accent.

I knew, you see, as soon as I heard it, without even looking at his face, that I would now have to make an effort to look half decent in work.

‘Tanks for kallllinnnnnn…’

He murmured down the phone to a customer before hanging up and looking up at me trying to make eye contact, which was a little awkward as by this point I was a pile of embarrassed, nervous, flushed, floppy mush, salivating and shuddering on the floor.

The new boy was well fit. I had to make him mine.

I had a plan.

It went like this;

Must. Act. Normal.

Must. Make. Him. Want. Me.

So of course, typically for me over the next few days as I struggled to appear busy and important,  (to show him I had a brain) sophisticated (to show him I had style,) elegant (to show him I was a lady,) fun and carefree (to show him I could be an animal in bed,) classy (to show him he could take me home to meet his mother,) tasteful (to show him I was interested in him,) refined, (to show him the animal, would all be for him) chic (to prove he absolutely wanted me too) what actually happened was very different.

Instead of the above, I actually bumbled around like a flaming imbecile, my brain too full of things I wanted to be, to even focus on who I was actually being. (A complete knob, to show him, I was a complete knob.)

I was like a walking disaster any time he was within my general vicinity.

I tripped up and head butted the corner of my desk, I spilt coffee all down my front while wearing a white blouse (blouse – who am I my dad? Shirt I meant shirt), I walked in to a wall while I was trying to see if he was looking at me (which he was- brilliant.) I trapped my finger in my desk drawer and couldn’t help but shout ‘poo’ at top volume (very classy,) I made completely idiotic irrelevant jokes that made no sense, talked completed bollocks and spent the entire time in his presence, glowing bright, red hot, red.

I was a beacon of stupidity.

In the end though I just got sick of all the waiting, trying and failing and just dived in.

‘Sexy accent hot rod, you busy Friday night?’

Ok, those weren’t the actual words I used, as I probably would have been fired, me being a manager and all, but I did ask him out surreptitiously and bravely!!

Dear Irish one.

Are you new in town? I want your babies.

Very brave and sure to get his attention, I thought.

The bastard turned me down.

Not one to give up though I asked him again.

‘Sexy accent hot rod, you busy Friday night?’

Much to my horror he turned me down AGAIN.

I couldn’t understand it.

Doesn’t every man want a woman in a short skirt that will walk in to a wall for him?

Not one to give up, and now seeing this as a challenge, I decided to befriend him instead, listen to his woe’s and then pounce on him when he was vulnerable.

It worked.

He would be telling me all about his life and his problems without really noticing how my tops were becoming more low cut and my skirts more thigh hugging.

He would be explaining to me, in great detail, why the English were a nation the Irish would never trust but that he loved living here without noticing my perfume was becoming more enticing and my lips more pouty.

He would be raving about his favourite band and his hopes for the future without noticing that gradually I had began to insert myself in to it.

It didn’t take long before he asked me out.

See? Genius.

They always like to think it is their idea don’t they? I don’t know why I didn’t think of that in the first instance.

Our first date, however did not go well.

‘You ok in a pub like this?’ he asked as I tottered, all dressed up and excited, in to a pub that can only be described as a toilet.

‘Yes of course I am!’ I laughed trying to mask my horror at the filth of the place and of the people dressed in boiler suits now leering at me dressed completely inappropriately in stupidly high heels and another tiny skirt. ‘Of course!’

What then proceeded to happen will go down in history as the worst date ever.

He went to the toilet and a weirdo in a boiler suit tried to feel me up.

I called him a bad word and he left. (The wierdo in a boiler suit, not the Irish one. That would have been a terrible date… And one I suppose I have experienced many times before!)

I did not tell the Irish One.

I wanted the date to be perfect.

He went to the bar.

A weirdo in a boiler suit started whispering death threats at me.

I told him he looked like a turd and turned back around.

I did not tell the Irish One.

I wanted the date to be perfect.

He went to the cigarette machine.

Before any of the ‘hills have eyes cast’ could abuse me further I glanced around and hissed;

‘Don’t any of you dare, I have been waiting for his date forever and if you fuck it up I swear to god you will regret it! Leave me alone you bunch of not rights! Go crawl back in to your skips for the night! I am a woman with a plan, and I don’t need you messing it up!’

Luckily for me they did leave me alone from then on.

Unlucky for me, however, and to this day without him really knowing why, they then started on the Irish one.

He still has no idea why he was punched in the face that night and I still deny I had anything to do with it.

He made me wait 6 weeks for sex after that though.

6 whole weeks.

Which was a lot for me as I was taught at the; ‘if you have sex with a guy a.s.a.p he will fall in love with you’ school of self-esteem.

6. WHOLE. WEEKS.

Turns out he had a plan too.

He didn’t just want to be a one-night stand.  (What does that say about me eh? Eh? Lets not go there…)

It worked too, except now I suppose; he is lucky if he gets it across a period of 6. Whole. Months.

But seriously?

When did I forget he is actually quite desirable?

Was it when he was looking up my flute at the baby’s head?

Was it while I was screaming at him for help during my 68-hour labour and got the response that he was busy making a ham and mustard butty ‘to keep him going’?

Was it when I was trying not to lamp him with the side of the high chair for being a lazy bugger?

Was it at 3am when we would throw filthy looks at one another during the long nights of colic?

Or was it when I was admitted in to hospital and he supported my son and I through all of that, and I totally began to take him for granted?

Yesterday as I was looking for something warm to wear to an out door event and he was busy pestering me, and chasing Addy around, it began to dawn on me.

‘Should I wear this?’ I asked hoping I wasn’t coming across like a pleb.

‘A body warmer?’ he exclaimed like I was an idiot,  ‘No you will still be cold, and I don’t want to have to hear you moaning for the next 3 hours, put a coat on for the love of god!’

Of course, I thought, looking at him through the eyes of someone else.

He is gorgeous (if not a little grumpy.)

‘Am I making a fool of myself with you here?’ I asked worried all of a sudden, ‘should I be acting all cool and put together to keep you interested? You have a fan club!’

‘Lexy’ he laughed grabbing my hand ‘I have known you 4 long years. I have seen your uterus splash on to an operating table, I have witnessed you pissing yourself while lying in bed’ (yeah thanks for bring that up) ‘and I have shared with you the most incredible journey of my entire life. I love you. NOW GO PUT ON A SODDING COAT!’

I didn’t.

I wore the body warmer, and he did have to listen to me moan all night, it’s called a relationship.

But you know what?

Having bore (beared/bored?!) this all in mind, The Irish one may actually be getting some tonight if he can shut up about potatoes for long enough.

And now he really does have a swagger on.

‘Irish One!’ I shout after him realising once again he has peeped over my shoulder ‘I said may be getting some.. may….’

He doesn’t hear me, he is too busy celebrating.

It’s been a while.

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10 Comments on “Must. Act. Normal. (An Irish potato hinged Fairytale.)

  1. You know, it is good to have those “why I allowed you into my space to begin with” moments. I don’t have them as often as I should anymore…maybe I should and mine will get “lucky” soon, too! (the length of time between doesn’t get automatically closer when they get older…that’s where you try to remember their favorite treats from the grocery and tell them they smell pretty!LOL!)

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