Week Twenty Five - Subterranean Homesick Blues

Oh Holy God. I have it bad. I actually have a physical NEED to go home. It's giving me pains, like. Although that could be less to do with the homesickness and more to do with the fajitas we had for dinner last night.

To be honest lads I haven't been up to much this week, just crossing days off the calendar until the 31st when meseff and himseff are jetting back to the motherland for a few days. This week's grey days were punctuated by mortification and drunkenness though. Here's the highlights:

There is a new fella on our floor. A nice fella now, English speaker with a lovely accent. Didn't know what it was though until Tuesday night when I was taking scones out of the oven and he said:

"That smells really good."

"Ah thanks", I said and then went down the room to put one on a plate for him in the spirit of neighbourly goodness. Knocked on his door then and we had the chat about who we are where we come from. Turns out he's Canadian. He doesn't speak Italian and he is here to do a course for two months. Grand.

The next day anyway I was going to a funk gig that one of the lads is playing at and I said I'd invite the new fella along, seeing as loads of the lads speak English so he wouldn't feel like a tool. I went down to his room anyway. Knock knock.

He comes out.

"Oh hello."

"Well are you doing anything tonight?" I goes.

"Nothing much." says he.

"Do you like funk?" I ask.

"Nah not really", he goes.

"Pity now cos I'm going to a funk gig tonight and I was asking you along."

"What about your boyfriend...?"

This, like most things to do with awkward romantic situations, was lost on me. So I continued on, oblivious:

"Nah BBB's not coming, but all my friends speak English so no Italian is required."

"Um no, I'm not really into funk. Thanks though. Have a good night."

"Oh. Right. Eh, thanks, see ya."

I turned around then and walked slowly back to my room like "what the fuck just happened?"

A feeling crept over me. It wasnt until I was halfway back to me room that I copped on to what it was.

Mortification.

How did I know? Because all the classic symptoms were present: the big red head on me, the shaky knees, the SAS.

I suddenly copped on.

He thought I was asking him to come out in a rosemantic fashion.

Behind my boyfriend's Big Brown Back. Christ.

I thought about turning around and explaining myself, but that would only have done more harm than good.

Morto.

Now every time I want to go to the kitchen and BBB is not there to cover me I stick my head out the door and suss out the situation and then I leg it up at top speed, wrench whatever I need out of the fridge and then peg it back to the room, all the while praying he doesn't emerge from his room.

I just have to keep this up for two months, then I'm home free!

The rest of the week anyway was spent counting the seconds until our special Friday night: 89c prosecco in our scunders.

I woke up Friday morning, buzzing off me head, then I went to the supermarket and got 2 bags of jellies and 2 bottles oof prosecco for under €4 (I love Italy) and went home. In the evening I went for a cocktail with the girls, then I returned home to prepare the area for the calamity ahead.

After dinner myself and Gianluca took off our trousers (obligatory) and put our legs under the duvet and sat side by side drinking the prosecco straight from the bottles.

The next thing I remember is waking up Saturday morning.

I went into the bathroom to tinkle and the next thing I looked down and I was wearing a pair of red knickers.

That's odd.

I could have sworn I was wearing pinstripe knickers last night.

And what's more, when I went to pull them back up, something wasn't right. Something was definitely...amiss. I squirmed around a bit, and then I realised.

They were on sideways.

As in a leghole for a waist like.

I took them off and put them on again properly and went out of the bathroom laughing my head off.

"What's so...jesus!" BBB goes.

I looked down. There was a giant "scraw-eb" on my thigh, at least 4 inches long and 47 inches deep. It's ok though, it was balanced by the dinner plate-sized bruise on my other shin.

I have NO recollection of how either came into being. Or how I came to be wearing the red knickers.

I do know it was a BRILLIANT night though.

On Saturday then I had the world's worst hangover so we stayed in and relaxed for ourselves.

Then BBB suggested I try a puzzle game on the interweb.

4 hours later, he is rubbing muscle relaxant cream into my shoulders and neck and trying to pry my bloodied finger from the mousepad.

He should know better than to show me puzzle games.

I fucking LOVE puzzles.

On Sunday then we started PACKING OUR SUITCASE!!!!!

Excitement!

We'd be there folding up stuff and every three things folded we'd do a little excitement dance. Then we'd fold another three things. The give each other Excitement Digs. You know the ones. They are very similar to Love Digs.

Love Digs are what happens when you love something or someone so much that instead of hugging it or kissing it, you want to dig the head off it. Like my nephew Jack, for example. Every time I see a picture of him, instead of wanting to squeeze him and kiss him and hug him, I simply want to dig the little red head off him.

BBB suffers from a similar condition, called Love Seamuses. Sometimes he looks at me and goes:

"C'mere to me you!"

And as he pulls me onto the bed he INVARIABLY gives me a seamus. I mean without fail. He's after giving me at least twenty.

"Jesus! Me leg, ya bastard!"

"Oh no, have I seamussed you Love?"

"What do you think?"

"Here, give me a deadner back".

*Offers arm.

WHUMP!

"Mamma mia, you bastard!"

"Bastard is for boys and bitch is for girls."

"Oh right, sorry Love. You beech."

Lads I love when he speaks English. He says wonderful things like "Have you got your menstruation?" and "He wanted to go out with her but she renounced him."

Renounced, like.

Love Digs.