Ask Audrey has been sorting out Cork people for years
So are the people who live there. You think you have it bad. My Conor is from Inishannon.
That lot make Cavan people look like the Red Cross.
His mother is giving me a set of glasses she got from Texaco in 1988, one glass at a time.
The only way I could stop Conor from going the scented candle route was to tell him I wanted lingerie for Christmas.
He tried a supermarket bra and knicker set.
Once. It was as sexy as a bridge tournament in Kilfinane.
It’s been Victoria’s Secret ever since. (He’s as frisky as two Donald Trumps.)
I’d rather teach a Killorglin man the rules of Paper, Scissors, Stone. (You’re talking two days, minimum. And that’s for the ones that went to school.)
In terms of your office, there is talk now of companies looking again at the South Mall.
That’s a street in town where businessmen like to whisper to each other, unless they are talking about their salary.
Alternatively, you could look at something down around South Main Street.
It seems like there will be plenty of office space available down there next year.
There was talk of an event centre by the river. But that seems about as likely as meeting a Norry in dark socks.
Congratulations. I feel your pain though.
My posh cousin’s eldest fella arrived home with a little terrier he picked up at the animal rescue centre. She brought it straight back and swapped it for a rabbit, in case people thought they had turned Norry over-night.
I hear Tibetan Mastiffs cost a fortune, so see if you can get your hands on one of them.
They’re gorgeous animals.
I’m sure if you get one, Monica, it won’t be long before she’s the most popular creature in your house, above the cat and your au pair.
Be careful in Kinsale. We were chatting to a lovely couple there one night when your man asked if I wanted to see his collection of leather underpants.
It turned out I did, but I know it’s not for everyone.
This isn’t a great time to head into a pub in rural Ireland.
The crack in June is a heaving pub full of hot Europeans, listening to a fella playing the squeezebox.
The crack in November is the same fella roaring, “We were never cut out for senior football, Timmy boy” across an empty pub, before falling off his stool.
If you pick him up, you’ll have to drive him home.
Trust me, it can take anything up to six months to get the smell out of the car.
What are you doing tomorrow night? It’s so amazing to hear from an Italian that isn’t like a dog with three mickeys.
There’s absolutely nothing you can do to find a girlfriend in Cork, because I’m never going to let you out of my sight.
Obviously, we’ll have to keep certain things a secret.
It wouldn’t do for a married woman like myself to be seen in public with someone from Turners Cross.
So, say West Douglas if anyone asks.
(They all say that in Turners Cross.)
