Of Anthropologists, Hairdressers and Lesbians

Barry, the guy who replaced me while I went about my travels, left last Thursday. I was on training in London, so the week before we, the Web Group, decided on the spur of the moment (lunchtime) to head out for a meal and drinks. Barry suggested a tapas bar called Havana on Georges Street. I had meetings arranged for the afternoon, but we agreed to meet at 5 and taxi into town.

Too early for tapas, we went to Hogan's for a drink, then another, and finally another. It was tapas time.

Now let us throw back time a little to the days when the sun shone and I still studied in University College Dublin. I was finishing my thesis for my Film Studies Masters and having BLTs, double choc muffins and coffee for lunch bought in the conveniently located Dunkin Donuts (right under the library). And I wasn't alone in such gastronomic indulgence. At that age most students are happy to binge on such gloop, but it was my pleasure to share my lunches with another thesis writer, an anthropologist named Deirdre. Very sharp, snazzy and glamorous (she wrote articles for 'Ireland's Eye'!), I must confess to having a postgraduate crush on the girl. Sadly she fled to Mexico, then fled back, married an Italian (somewhat akin to surfboarding dudes in the female mind) and settled down in Rome. What can you do? Life certainly looks paler when compared to that of Deirdre.

Anyhow back to the grey days of the present; that's fourteen years later, folks. As I stuck into the sangria, anchovies and olives, I happened to glance at the table beside me and yes, after fourteen years, there indeed was Deirdre, Italian husband in tow and not much different to way back then. She stared a second - apparently the hair, the fact that, unlike so many others, I still have some, confused her - then we caught up to speed. A son and another child on the way, she has just moved back to Dublin. Still the same old Deirdre though, fascinated by Mexico and profligate with her sophisticated pauses. Good to see her again.

Many mojitos and caipiranhias later, the Web Group made its way to another bar. There we met someone the whole group knew, but who shall remain nameless as she was on a collective blind date (five girls meeting five boys). Actually I quite liked one of the other women on this noble enterprise, but we moved on again.

After an abortive attempt to lasso some Spanish girls into our group, I ended up talking to a red-headed hairdresser by the name of Wendy. Wendy had had an exam that afternoon and was now in the company of her colleagues and examiners (two or three smarmy grey-haired gits). She wanted me to tell her examiner how good she was and why she deserved top marks. Given that I barely knew the girl, and, more to the point, it was a daft idea, I eventually persuaded her that she was talented enough as she was and needed no help from me. My powers of persuasion did not succeed in getting a phone number though.

On to another bar, or club rather. Despite switching from gin and tonics to rock shandies, I was undeterred in my pursuit of the female of the species and tried some unwise dance moves in the vicinity of a tall blonde. No luck. I next tried a lovely, long black-haired girl (you know, with the straight fringe; notice the effect of the hairdressers). No luck. I went to the toilet. When I came back I found that the blonde and the black-haired girl had found each other and were snogging on the sofa. Later, and still undeterred, I tackled the black-haired girl again and, it has to be said, she was not unresponsive. Unfortunately the blonde appeared proclaiming a party in her house. I was not invited. Knowing when the battle has turned, I made my retreat.