The Almond Bun Trilogy (4) – The Phantom Bun

An hour passed and passes were on my mind. I was getting leery and pervy and entirely inappropriate behaviour around people I just met, wouldn’t you agree? I bought Emer a drink despite knowing we were leaving to go to a club soon. I had reached the peak of bollockism for the night. Hand-in-hand, ID-less Emer and myself walked up to Fireworks and got in without any questions (apparently the bouncers are fussy). Fireworks is a converted fire station, and is therefore three floors and rather large. The last time I was there was for a sickening Christmas do for the Multinational, the type of thing where everyone MUST “let your hair down”. Enforced partying, there’s no worse type. So I had a bad taste in my mouth as far as Fireworks was concerned. Emer’s French friend and her flatmate Andrew. I got talking to Andrew and being the nice guy I am, told him his flatmate fancied him. He laughed, so did I. I was serious, Emer had told me. Then I took off my jumper and began to throw moves (dancing is far too flattering a phrase). Emer dragged me upstairs to a dancefloor, but I had this reminant of sobriety left in me which held me back. I was fully aware that I was acting like a twat in front of a girl I hardly knew in a shit club. And nothing puts the skids on a night more than that. Downstairs, I smiled politely at a girl from work and then proceeded to call her a bitch for no reason within earshot. I was talking to Andrew, a quaint fellow who reminded me of someone. He was a musician. I asked him what he worked at. He said “Eh…I’m a musician.” Ok so, this could be very like that bit in Notting Hill where the guy doesn’t recognise Julia Roberts. So was he solo or in a band. In a band. Ok, what’s the band called? “Eh….I’m, like, putting one together.” Oh dear.

I think he suggested going back to his place and have a few beers. I tagged along, we got a taxi to Rathmines and I went in to get some take out (“take out” here means taking drink from a pub home, Americans!). The bastards charged bottles of beer the same as pints. So off we went back to this flat. And what an experience that was. I was a bit tired, and no-one else was showing up. Emer was engrossed in a Doors video, and much as I believe there must’ve been something special about that band, I was in no mood to watch an off-his-tits Jim Morrison howl incomprehensibly into a mic. I would’ve liked conversation, a game of Monopoly, spin the bottle; anything but staring at a worn out video and an even more worn-out singer. Andrew was trying to talk to me, but he was an idiot. Pompous, up-his-own-arse and yet superficially trying to look like he was interested in other people. His rent, and car outside, paid for by his family. He reminded me of my old friend from Dun Laoghaire, Ronan; the only guy I know who I’d describe as my very own Sideshow Bob. What a wanker. I asked Emer if she wanted to head into town, catch a Nitelink home and maybe try and forget this sorry mess. She didn’t like it either, but she was too tired to leave. So I walked into town, in the pouring rain. And that was that.

I didn’t see Emer again til the day I saw her get on the bus on my way to the train station. I’d been texting her a lot since. I’ve been off work this week, but if it weren’t for that we’d have been out again. She’s quite nice really, just what I need right now. A friend.

I have to go to Fibber’s now. Fibber’s. I’ll explain some other time.

j

p.s. Yes I know it’s not a trilogy…….