Sunday Independent (Ireland) - Living - - FRONT PAGE -

KATY HAR­RING­TON When you can’t de­cide, ask the Magic 8 ball

IT’S a Thurs­day night and I have that feel­ing. That bold feel­ing. The get-up-to-no-good feel­ing. Even though it’s Thurs­day. Af­ter work a big sprawl­ing gang of us de­scend upon the clos­est bar, our reg­u­lar, where bar staff with zero sense of ur­gency serve sick­en­ing cock­tails and wine you could strip walls with. We love it there.

Af­ter the happy, ra­tio­nal and sen­si­ble de­part, the hard­core de­cide to make a real night of it. They pick a mem­bers’ club where men wear tril­bies. Af­ter many over­priced drinks and a dance-off we are out­side smok­ing and try­ing to avoid the tril­bies when a very posh boy ap­proaches. I know he’s posh be­cause he’s got great posh boy hair, and is wear­ing a posh boy pais­ley scarf. We start talk­ing non­sense and mak­ing stupid bets (I wa­ger I can guess his name in three but get it in four. Max? Ben? Oli? — get­ting close — Os­car!) Turns out Max is his mid­dle name so I get dou­ble points. He drags me down to the bar for my re­ward drink. I de­duce he has no job (hence he’s un­con­cerned about work the next day) but that he is cre­at­ing a uni­sex fra­grance, be­cause of course he is. One must do some­thing with one’s time!

It comes to the stupid time of night when even I need my bed. He takes my num­ber and texts later: “I’m at home mak­ing love to my pil­low” I write: “The same pil­low I’d like to suf­fo­cate you with.” (This is how I flirt). “I’d like that,” he says. “I know you would, but let’s have a safe word just in case. Yours can be trust fund,” I re­ply. The next day he asks if we will meet again, but with my level 8 hang­over I can’t de­cide.

So, I take my trusty Magic 8 ball, shake it hard and ask it if I should see Os­car Max­i­m­il­ian Van Der Posh again. It says the same thing twice, no!

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