What was I doing in the Westbury anyway? A heaving crowd in McDaid's must have been the reason I found myself supping with McGoo on the nicely upholstered couches, eating disgusting bar nuts and talking about the correct way to swill a brandy glass.
There we were, drinking lager beer for the price of a small remortgage, when he spotted a fifty euro note on the floor beside me.
I bent down, picked it up, discovered it to actually be two 50 quid notes folded up, called over the waiter, handed it over, went back about my drinking.
In these straitened times, more fucking fool me. Too honest for my own good.
Cut to today, and town, and walking around with no cares and a high sense of anticipation for our first weekend away. It's a surprise, a delayed Christmas present from myself to herself, and I can't have it come quickly enough.
I keep telling her it's Roscommon, it's Bray(ruit), it's a night in Borris-in-Ossory's Leix County Hotel.
It's none of the above, but I can promise barefoot trekking and religious keening. She'll love it.