Went to a plaza near home to watch the Arsenal – Brighton match
(oops, how British). An Irish bar was the only feasible option for mother,
obviously. Within seconds, literally, she had found an Irish waiter, introduced
herself (and me, apparently) and learned his name. I should mention that Martin
was quite possibly no older than 20. The transformation from intelligent PR
agent to Sex and the City’s Samantha was quite impressive; purposely
misunderstanding the poor guy’s accent so he had to repeat everything twice. I’ll
give you one guess what we ordered...
Filled potato skins. Please feel free to chime in with your
best leprechaun ‘poh-tay-toes’ here.
Happy with the result (football I mean, not potatoes) and we
bumped into our neighbour we went out with the other night – also in the cheery
football spirit. I’m not used to making friends this quickly; I’m quite comfortable
being anti-social most of the time but who knew having a crazy lady along for
the journey could be quite useful. Ah, not content with just one Irish waiter,
mother works her magic on Luke… who has an even stronger Southern Irish accent.
Had to whisk her off promptly before her knees gave way.
I’m sure there’ll be more Irish tales to come
Charlotte-Elizabeth xoxo
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