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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

I have never in my life, compared to the past few days, been forced to talk about someone who was not in the same country as me, and with the same kind requests for frightening introspection and clairvoyence, as I have been in the last few days. I haven't been home without He Who Only... since Christmas, and I think the strain of it all was beginning to tell on my relatives.

Allow me to clarify: In the UK, and most of Western Europe, you do things in a number of ways. The stages of the average relationship go thusly:

1. Getting together
2. Becoming close
3. Sleeping together.
4. Moving in together.
5. Getting married.
6. Having a baby.

The speed at which you go from stage 1 to stage 3 depends, I believe, on the religious power of your country. The fact that 3 and 4 now come before 5 in most of Western Europe reflect, I believe, the wayward nature of young people's attitudes and the fact that we are all on a highway to hell.

But according to my relations, the fact that 1, 2, 3 and 4 have alreayd happened between myself and He Who Only... can only logically mean that number 5 is JUST AROUND THE CORNER.

Don't get me wrong. I love my boyfriend. I could talk about him for days without getting bored. I've got photographs of him on my mobile wearing my bra (on his head, I add) which I will happily display for all to see, and yet I don't feel the need to discuss our future with anyone but the closest of my female friends because it is nobody else's freaking business.

Maybe it's because I've never made the daring step of moving in with someone of the opposite gender, and moving exclusively in with them and no one else, that makes my relations think that some quite drastically inappropriate questions can be asked of me.

It's funny, I wouldn't have thought we were a particularly backward looking or religiously intolerant family in any way, but there are some things that people love to goad you about, and marriage is one of the last things that is taken incredibly seriously in Ireland. Everyone loves the big day out, and I have to admit that I have been one of those people who have recklessly teased people in the past as being the next one who will provide us with our big day out, but now that I suddenly appear to be the most obivous next in line, I seem to have lost my easy sense of humour.


This is my Uncle Joe's dog, Sheeba. She was at the party too.


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