Got a dilemma? No problem! Ask Audrey has all the answers.
C’mere, what’s the story with buying a place in that new development in Ballintemple called Aylesbury? The old doll saw it in the paper said Dowcha Donie, that’s the most expensive street on Monopoly and we could probably afford one of the smaller houses even though we’re Norries (She do have confidence issues.) Could you ask Tommy Barker, the property lad in the Examiner, to get us on the list? — Dowcha Donie, Blackpool, would we fit in?
No, you’d stick out like a clean shaven woman in Kanturk. I’ll have a word with Tommy anyway. He’s always welcome at these exclusive developments, as long as he promises to park his Renault around the back in case people think he’s only a postman. (Imagine.)
How’re oo’ goin’ on? The brother-in-law is flying over from London next weekend to boast about his wealth and remind us he’s next door neighbours with the Russian fella that owns Chelsea. Anyway, didn’t he book us all into one of the two new Michelin star restaurants we have below here in West Cork. (How do ye like that in south Kerry, hah, hah?) There is a problem and it’s a big one. I only eat Chicken Maryland when I’m out — do you think they’ll have it on the menu? — Dan Paddy Andy, head out beyond Drimoleague until you see an anxious looking man saying, “Pour away girleen, it could be methylated spirits and I wouldn’t make a fuss.”
My cousin became a well-known food blogger because she hates paying for anything when she’s out. I said, what are the chances of getting Chicken Maryland in a Michelin Star restaurant? She said pretty high if you don’t mind ordering Poulet La Terre De Marie served on a re-imagined breeze block. I said, sorry I didn’t understand a word of that. She said that’s ok, you’re not supposed to.
Hello old stock. I’m serving the final week of my exclusion order at work, which bans me from coming within touching distance of a cheeky babe after a misunderstanding at our Blue Sky Going Forward Brain Storm Session in Kenmare. (The last time I’ll be drinking gin.) The whole thing is a nightmare because I’m itching to make a pass at our new head of marketing (Swedish), who apparently loves Japanese food. Any chance you could get us a table for next weekend at the new Michelin star place, ichigo ichie? — Reggie, Blackrock, it sounds like a condition you’d bring back from a weekend in Kinsale.
Blackrock? Oh, you mean ichigo ichie. Hilaire. I checked with the Posh Cousin about a booking. She said not a chance, now he has the Michelin, a table at Takashi Miyazaki’s restaurant is one of the most popular things in Posh Cork. I said, more popular than acting all cool when you’re standing next to Donncha O’Callaghan at Douglas Farmers Market even though you’re dying to post a selfie with him so everyone can see you’re wearing this season’s 250 quid North Face jacket. She said no, obviously, nothing beats that.
Now, listen up Paddy. I’m over from London, visiting my estate around north Cork this week, having a good old chin wag with some of the local tenants, while secretly thinking these people are the scum of the earth. (No offence meant, of course). It has come to my attention that you Irish view our man Boris Johnson as some kind of clown, particularly when he suggested the solution to the Brexit puzzle is a bridge across the Irish Sea. I’ll have you know that Boris is a great friend of Ireland. Would you like me to get him to come over and address you? — Lord ‘Bunty Horseface’ Von Mitchelstown, I’m rather drunk.
There’s no need to apologise for calling North Cork the scum of the earth — you should hear what we call them down here in the city. I must say, I don’t know any Irish person who thinks Boris is like a clown, we’ve far too much respect for circus performers for that kind of insult.
In fairness, his proposal to build a bridge across the Irish Sea is ridiculous — we’ll need at least two bridges to cope with the west-bound traffic if Boris gets elected prime minister.
My Ken is really old school and insists on our kids working their way through college. (It’s turning me into a laughing stock at the gym in Hayfield Manor.) My daughter Fiona is doing medicine (#Proud) but thanks to My Ken, the poor girl is stacking shelves in Dunnes four nights a week and I’m terrified that one of my neighbours in Sunday’s Well will see her and think the worst. (That we’ve been forced to move to Glasheen.) I’m thinking of getting her a headband that says “I don’t need the money”. Good idea? — Monica, Sunday’s Well, not that there’s anything wrong with Glasheen.
Hilaire. (There so is.) Your headband idea is as daft as expecting to find someone from the RCYC on a flight to Salou. (Imagine.) Seriously, if one of your Sunday’s Well neighbours sees Fiona, it’s not like they can just tell everyone they were shopping in Dunnes!