De-Tox in the Dail - they need it

It was the last night of the juice detox. The 25 year old sporty teacher in my class was morbidly inquisitive about bowel movement, nudging me nightly for detail. I lied. Anyway, I was going to have real food next day, my neighbor and I had arranged a scrambled egg breakfast to bolster our rehab.

My next challenge was to meet a couple after college in a restaurant, so that’s 8.30pm and my resolve was no problem, I ordered hot water and lemon and chatted, perhaps tapping my feet a bit manically as their food arrived. My phone was going a bit ballistic, I checked it. Lots of missed calls and an urgent text to call a senator. Oh holy f**k, I bumbled, slight oversight, a long planned dinner in Leinster House had been forgotten, you see it really does affect your concentration. I was wearing jeans (just to prove I could get back into them), a tee shirt and Uggs. I think I'd slept in the tee shirt, I have six wardrobes of cocktail dresses, and two of shoes, for once I’d have had an excuse to get dressed up this year.

My girlfriend was wearing a very fetching dress and offered to do a swap in the loo, the Uggs wouldn't have gone with it and her dainty feet didn't match mine. Hell, it was only Leinster House, I muttered bravely.  But I was already an hour late, that's bad no matter where you're going for dinner.

I zoomed up to the gates and asked the garda if I could come in, there were loads of spaces, I love when guards aren't checking your tax or breath. I got profuse apologies instead, they would let me in but those indoors wouldn't have it. Legging it back from several streets distant, the usher was very decent about me keeping him waiting and escorted me through.

My host was beyond understanding, he’d been late too, but I doubt if I'll be asked again, he and the other guest had already tucked into wine, no way could I heap bad manners on to the already bad mix up, and tell them about the detox. I couldn't even remember why I was there, to discuss senate reform or something, activism of some sort, but why waste time on that when there was gossip to be exchanged.  So I had the delicious seafood platter, it would have been rude not to have just the one glass of wine. Flip anyway, I nearly did the full 72 hours.

With the exception of my very healthy host, the Dail diners looked like they could do with a good de-tox. James O'Reilly came over to our table, all curious, and then Richard Bruton, and nice, charming rural TDs, wondering why the eminent senator had such a ruffian at his table. Well Chatham House rules about the gossip, but whatever you suspected about a certain high office, it is true. Only Worse.