Ladies and Gentlemen, I give to you another guest blogger – Flirty Something, if you like her writing, then visit her blog and subscribe.
Most bloggers write about serious matters like technology or politics. I focus on much more important issues such as how to score a (decent) bloke in Dublin. Sometimes I diversify into stories about friends or living in â€˜Celtic Tiger 2.0â€™, but generally it’s about being single in Ireland.
Mr. Blog Oracle thought that some of his readers may be interested in such rantings and has invited me to post on his page. Now this is curiously fortuitous as I have been looking for an opportunity to relate the following tale, but promised my friend I wouldn’t post it on my site. Technically I’m not breaking that promise.
Last month I was due to spend a girlie weekend with my old school friend; we’ve been inseparable since school. Sadly she moved on and got married to her very wealthy husband, relocated to a posh address and insisted on changing her name from Helen to Helena. Thankfully there are some upsides to her new status. Her very kind hubbie decided to treat us to a weekend in Monart, while he buggered off with the kids to Kelly’s Resort. Naturally Helen(a) was wildly excited at the prospect of a child-and-husband-free weekend (which sums up most of them for me). If you knew the kids and husband you’d understand why.
I arrived up to the cobble-lock of Helen(a)’s house on Saturday morning. After ringing the bell for some time Helen(a) eventually answered. She wasn’t wearing any make-up. I’ve known her 30 years and I think it was the first time I’d observed her without full war paint. It was like seeing the Taj Mahal up close and realising it was made from ear wax, amazing but slightly disturbing. Something was obviously very wrong. I was ordered to bring her to ‘The Beacon Hospital’ immediately. Granted Helen(a) goes to great lengths to visit the newest, coolest place in town, but this was definitely pushing it – more hip replacement than new and hip. Pulling up at ‘The Beacon’, we were ushered through A&E quicker than you could say “of course I’m a member”.
Thirty minutes later I was called to the bedside and found Helen(a) looking even worse. She had managed to apply a quick coat of lipstick but nothing can really counter hospital white. The doctor ( who happened to look like a boy band singer, but in a pin stripe suit ) told me that Helen(a) had suspected appendicitis and needed to get a scan and potentially an operation. This was a serious stuff. I wanted to call the family, but was ordered to wait until the results were back. Sixty minutes and many swipes of the credit card later a prognosis was delivered.
Now I’m not a â€˜hold handâ€™ kind of gal, but as that’s what they always do in medical dramas I figured it was best to imitate. Sadly there was no background music of Artic Monkeys or Snow Patrol to accompany the medical mini-drama moment. Gazing deeply into the doctor’s eyes he told me in his sober, but sexy consultant tones that Helen(a) was … severely constipated. This did somewhat ruin the moment. The good news was that after years of telling her she was full of shit – finally I was right ( insert own colon related joke; we’ll get to the end of this, I couldn’t give a shit and neither can you etc ).
Despite claiming she had no idea how it happened, I knew that her bizarre no carb, Chinese tea and herbal supplement diet was a pretty considerable contributing factor. The rest of the night was spent waiting for her to get very expensive enemas and laxatives. A bit of a bummer (sorry). On the plus side she did check out far cleaner than Monart ever could have achieved and for much the same price. Even better I managed to get the doctor’s number. A very happy ending for all.
Check out the latest exploits of Flirty Something at www.irishflirtysomething.com