'I didn’t say shy. I said introvert: someone who is energised by being alone'

Saturday, 6.45pm. Home.

Sat, 26 Mar, 2016 - 00:00

Aida Austin

“You know we’re going out tonight,” he says.

“I’m deaf to distraction,” I say.

“Seven thirty,” he says.

7.30pm. My husband reappears. I am still reading.

“Seriously,” he says, “I don’t understand you,” he says, “you’re such a people-person but getting you to go out in the evening is like pulling a tooth.””

I close my eyes.

“What are you doing?” he says, “you need to get ready.”

“It’s exhausting,” I say, “being married to an extrovert.”

8pm. I’m putting on lipstick in the car.

“What I don’t understand,” my husband says, “is how it’s like pulling a tooth and yet when you do go out, you have such fun...”

“You’ve pulled the tooth,” I say, “stop analysing it.”

“But I can’t work it out,” he says.

“I’m basically an introvert,” I say.

He laughs until he chokes.

8.01pm. “Alright,” I say, “an extroverted introvert.”

8.06pm. “Maybe you don’t like going out in the evenings because you’ve never been much of a drinker,” he says.

“It’s a grievous affliction in Ireland,” I say, “being a lightweight. But it’s not that.”

“What then?”

“I told you, I’m basically an introvert.”

“YOU?” he says, “SHY?”

“I didn’t say ‘shy’. I said ‘introvert’: someone who’s energised by being alone.”

“You get your energy from people,” he says, “In fact, I’d put exactly that on your headstone: ‘Energised by People’.”

“I’d just put ‘Wrong’,” on yours,” I say.

“Strictly speaking,” I continue, “what you should put on my headstone is, ‘Energised by People; Daylight Hours Preferred’.”

“Stand over that statement in the morning and I’ll agree to it,” he says.

“What statement?”

“That you’re an introvert.”

“No problem,” I say.

8.15pm. We arrive at our destination.

“You’ll need to pace yourself in there,” he says, “not a house for lightweights.”

“I’ve learned a lot about pacing recently from my sisters,” I say.

“I know my way around wine now. It’s all about drinking lots of water first.

“I’ve got all the tips — I’ve got pacing DOWN.”

“Stand over that statement in the morning and I’ll agree to that one too,” he says.

9pm. Inside our destination, there is gin.

I don’t know my way round gin; my sisters haven’t given me any tips on gin. Just wine.

9.02pm. Perhaps, I think, the drinking-lots-of-water rule applies to gin.

But it looks like there is lots of water with the gin. I wonder if that counts.

“Now, what can I get you?” the host says.

The gin, I must say, looks devastatingly handsome.

“One of those, please,” I say, pointing at an assembly of mammoth goldfish bowls winking on slender glass stems, each one filled with sparkle and ice.

The host hands me a goldfish bowl.

I look at it. I am thirsty.

“Hello handsome,” I think.

11pm. We’ve finished the main course.

A lady is saying something about how very much she enjoys lifting weights in the gym.

I am thinking about gin.

The reason my sisters didn’t give me tips on gin, I think, is because you don’t need any: gin is SAFE: the more gin you drink, the more you keep your wits about you.

For that is exactly what has happened to me.

11.03pm. The lady says she really likes lifting weights.

11.04pm. I really like gin. SAFE gin.

11.05pm. I am challenging the weights lady to an arm-wrestle.

11.15pm. I am challenging another lady.

11.40pm. I am on lady number 4.

This is down to having all my wits about me.

12am. I am challenging the host.

He has a farm and is known as The Strongest Man in his Townland.

12.05am. I am arm-wrestling The Strongest Man in his Townland.

Sure I’m only TOYING with him.

Home, Sunday morning 6am.