From the 'Ask Adri' feature at the back of Saturday's Irish Independent weekend supplement. The 'Ask' is italicised for extra oomph, which is a word that people like Adri seem to be particularly fond of.
J, Blackrock writes: 'Dear Adriana, I've met a man who I think could be the one! I'm 32 and have been single for three years. I had started to think I was never going to meet anyone, when a friend introduced me to this man. He is 35, owns his own house and earns a really good salary. We've been seeing each other for a couple of months, and last week he invited me to his house for dinner - but he opened the door in a pair of tartan granddad slippers. It was an instant passion killer and now I can't stop seeing him as a fuddy-duddy and imagining what our lives will be like in 10 years. Am I being petty?'
Adriana Trigiani, who has written heartwarming novels such as 'Lucia, Lucia' and 'Very Valentine' - oh, and who also counts as a housemate Sex And The City writer Michael Patrick King, who has based much of the series on the life of our Adri - responds thusly...
'Dear J, yes, you are being ever so petty. But this is your job when you are sussing out the right life partner. When it comes to your future you cannot be too petty or too picky. Time will tell if this man is the one. In the meantime, pick him up a pair of slippers that are aesthetically pleasing to you. But remember: When you do this, you open the door to allowing him to ask you to wear something that pleases him. Good luck! Adri!'
The transcribation portion of the evening has ended. Allow me to editorialise. No, fuck that, I'm still unemployed and fast running out of options, so consider this an Agony Uncle audition.
Radge writes: 'Dear J, you are three years single, yes? Well that's easily explained. You are ill equipped to be a human being. I can only surmise that your previous boyfriend died of self-death. The poor lamb, probably called Gavin, your very own little piece of rugby shirt sporting hottyness, your sounding board, your BT2 clothes horse, chewed out his own intestines while you were straightening your hair in the spare bedroom.
Didn't he J? Didn't he? He was tired. Bless. Tired from hearing about Rebecca, and how Colm was being a complete 'mare' to her. Tired from trying not to look like a pederast while you shopped with the kiddies in Oasis. Tired from... Just fucking tired.
So you're in a bind now, yeah? This new fella, we'll call him Shane and his mates call him Shano, has made a few quid working in Deloitte.
He's borrowed his way to a plush pad overlooking some club full of hotties that, itself, overlooks Temple Bar from a garden terrace. He's not a bad lad, is old Shano, despite his predilection for chinos, Gordon D'Arcy posters and comfortable footgear to potter over his chestnut floors in.
You say you can't stop imagining what your lives would be like in 10 years?
Well, J, if you're trying to convince me that you hadn't married his magnificently appointed D2 villa the second you laid your serpent eyes on it, please desist.
He's got a small cock, hasn't he? I'm afraid I can't help you unless you're honest.
Yours deprecatingly, Radge Exclamation Mark.'
Whew, I enjoyed that. Better than spinning, that.
Send me your letters.