Mingling

The smoke damage from the fire in my local Friday night did not help my recovery from a chest infection (bronchitis in American). I took it easy on Saturday, cutting back on the cigarettes and taking a 2 1/2 hour nap. I didn't even think about doing the work I am supposed to do this weekend. I wasn't able.
I managed after my nap to cook a nice dinner for Pops, as well as a homemade dessert. How spoiled is he? I rested after dinner again while we watched the boxing. I really like the sport, although I shudder to see the damage the fighters do to each other. I argued with the taxi driver that it is a sport. He said it was obvious that I knew what I was talking about boxing and was suitably impressed. I was not impressed however when he said after vehemently contesting that boxing is not a sport "Well, never argue with a woman. It is easier to let her think she is right." If I was married to that dude, I would make his life a living hell... or retrain him.
Anyway, after the boxing--Dunne lost by the way; the other guy simply outclassed him--I started to get ready to go to my late-night winebar. Pops just shook his head in disbelief. He had hoped that I would stay in and rest. I explained that I wouldn't be able to sleep after such a long nap and that I had arranged to meet people. I took my time getting ready and tried to empty my lungs in a boiling hot shower. It sort of worked, as did the Lemsip (with a drop of medicinal whisky in it). Needs must.
I arrived at the winebar slightly ahead of my friends. However, I said hello to the owner who knows he has met me over the years but cannot remember my name. All the staff know it though. I chatted with one of the waiters and the bouncer before heading downstairs. Shortly after I ordered my wine and a glass of tap water (it is always about the pacing), my friends arrived. We moved to the best table, our favorite corner.
A few more friends arrived. Reggae Cool commented that I seemed restless. I said I was just mingling... in good form. I danced a bit and wandered in and out of the place to have a cigarette or three.
One of the times that I was outside on my own (either my friends don't smoke or they have recently quit), I stood apart and watched people--other patrons of the winebar and the various passing strangers. I critiqued the fashion choices, although I am hardly a fashionista. I noticed a patron on his own approach a group of others to ask them for a light. He then made his way over to stand by me, assuring me that he wouldn't bother me. I shrugged and said it was grand. As one does, we got to chatting. He was a nice guy, easy to talk to.
So we stayed there talking. He offered me one of his cigarettes. I being in a chatty mood told him stories. He was a good listener. I did tell him it was ok to tell me I was talking too much, but he seemed to be enjoying himself. He told me about his negative impression of the French, based on a bad experience he had with a pretentious chef who kicked him and the clients he was entertaining out of the restaurant because he had quietly requested a vegetarian only meal. I laughed, then explained my take on the French in general and food in particular. His reply was "I know, I know" (translation from Irish speak to "I get what you are saying but I am not changing my mind"; perhaps that one is universal to all native English speakers).
This morning Pops asked me what time I got home. "Late" was my reply, with a cheeky grin. He shook his head again. "Was that guy there?" he asked. "Nope, but I met another guy... Irish this time."
"Oh no, be careful. Those Irish guys are up to no good." (It takes one to know one, I'd say.) I defended the guy, saying he was not like that, he was nice. Funny how things change... Pops used to tell me to be careful about dating guys from other cultures; that it was too hard. Subtext: nonwhite cultures. Now however he is telling me I should not date guys from my adopted culture, one that is not a million miles away from my family culture, given my father's background. If I were to follow his advice, the dating pool available to me would be shrunk down significantly--not that I can remember the last time I dated an Irish guy, other of course than the one who broke my heart a decade or so ago. Bygones.