What I Did On My Holidays

I triumphantly zipped my suitcase shut and gazed adoringly at the positively shite Irish sky outside my window.
'Yessss'
In one week I would return to my grey homeland, bronzed, sizzling, gorgeous and giggling coquettishly at all my mischievous & marvellous stories from my holiday in Magaluf.
One week later, and here I lie. Sniffing, coughing, and unable to talk properly and as fake tanned as ever before. I have three stories for you to explain this. Here's the first:

What I Did On My Holidays

1. On my second night, a handsome-ish boy had the severe misfortune of crossing my path. He was carrying a rose, and he was Scottish. There really was no hope of escape for the lad as soon as I had discovered this. My eyes widened to the size of saucers in sheer delight and anticipation of our whirlwind holiday romance which was sure to follow. I could already picture myself walking through Arrivals in Cork airport, sheepishly holding his hand and smiling shyly. As all my parents and friends who had randomly assembled with 'WELCOME HOME SAUCY' banners would give me a quizzical look, I would shrug in a 'what can I do! we fell in love!' kind of way and gaze into my highland lovers eyes. I imagined all our hilarious hi-jinx when we both tried to understand each others worlds: the two of us laughing and laughing as I tried on a kilt, me giving him a disapproving, but loving look as he tried to make Irish stew. Oh the fun we would have had. 

''Sow uhh, do yew wannew hcead down to da beach fur a wee while?''

With that accent, he could have asked me to neuter his cat and I would have snapped on a pair of rubber gloves before you could say haggis.

We plonked awkwardly along the sand and I tried to ignore the blundering telltale grunts and moans coming from the darkness around us on the beach. Such is Magaluf, I'm afraid. But not me and my little Scottie. We wouldn't be doing any meaningless one-night-standing of the sort. Oh how right I was. But not in the way I had anticipated. 

We reached the edge of the water and he lead me awkwardly in. Romantic and hygienic. He's a keeper. I must remember to write and extremely unimpressed letter to Magaluf's local council. There is an absolutely ridiculously unexpected dip in the sand as you wade into the sea, and suddenly find yourself five foot deeper. Don't worry though, I like to think I managed to cover up the fact that I tripped up by leaping immediately into what I imagine to be a very graceless and amateurish breast stroke. For several excruciating minutes he stood there, waist deep, as I swam around in circles. I was conscious of the fact that once I had committed to swimming I had to keep going. Who know, after all, maybe he liked the athletic type? 

Eventually I pulled myself up into a standing position and he enthusiastically engaged me into a kiss. Bit of an eager beaver, I thought. But then I remembered that he had had to stand there for several minutes watching his Irish beauty float around in circles. I can only guess that the passionate frustration was driving him mad. In the dodgy fluorescent lighting coming from the strip, I could see that he was a LOT younger than I had originally thought. Hmm. Ah well. We could have the kind of relationship society frowned upon, which would make our love all the more intense. I'd be like Kate Winslet in 'The Reader', and I'd make him read me the phonebook every night, to keep our affair burning by reminding me of the sexiness of his accent.
I think that the ferociousness of our chemistry was getting a little bit to much for him, several times I had to forcibly remove his tongue from the furthest cavity of my throat. I decided it was time for a break, anyway. We had to control ourselves.
When you're standing in the sea with someone, there's not much to talk about. I splashed mildly every now and then to break the silence. I should probably mention that I was a little bit tipsy at this point in time. That's why, when I finally thought of something worthwhile to say, it turned into a bit of a disaster...
Your thought process operates a lot differently when you're drunk. Sometimes, it's just too difficult to say something, and the sentence has to go through a filtration process before your drunken mouth can wrap itself around your semi-sober thoughts. Tommy Tiernan describes what I'm trying to explain perfectly here.
So, what I thought would be the perfect conversation starter, would be to point out our exotic surroundings. I was TRYING to say:
''This is so lovely. I would never be able to do this at home, as it would be too cold. We're like the people on Home & Away right now, aren't we?''
I sent that message to my drunken brain, which got as far as ''This is so lovely. I would nev-'', and then went ''BLAAAAAAAA NO. TOO LONG'' and proceeded to condense it to a message which I assumed Scottish boy would understand, when I relayed it to him.
It was at that moment I turned to my Scottish lover, and said through the medium of song:
♫'You know we belong togetheeeer, you and I forever and everrrr,
No matter where we are! You're my guiding star!'♫
It really is something when the moment is so awkward, you're aware of it over the crashing sound of the waves around you. Did it stop me? Did it what.
It wasn't until I got to the 'HOLD ME IN YOUR ARMS! DON'T LET ME GO! I want to staaaay forever...' that I could finally see, through the pitch dark his face had scrunched up and he started to walk away. You've never felt the dejection of someone walking away from you, in its truest, most humiliating form until they've done it with each step accompanied by a hilarious slosh....
It is with that that I ended up standing at the door of my apartment absolutely dripping wet and sandy, telling my curious friends that I didn't end up sleeping with him because 'I just didn't want to be that kind of girl'. As they nodded solemly I slunk off to my bed, not even bothering to change out of my dripping clothes.


Hold tight for part two!
The Saucy Cow
xxx