She suddenly sits bolt-upright in the bed, like she's focking spring-loaded or some shit?

"Where are you going?" she goes.

It's probably my least favourite question in the world . . . after 'Can we see each other again?' and 'Why didn't you tell me you were married?'

She goes, "You weren't going to sneak out without saying goodbye, were you?"

Actually, I'm going to make a focking list of these.

Of course I was going to sneak out without saying goodbye.

That's obvious. But with some birds, it's like they actually want you to give it to them with both barrels.

I'm about to go, 'Are you stupid as well as flat-chested?' but I don't, roysh, I actually hold back.

I mean, usually saying shit like that is second nature to me but this morning it's, I don't know, different. It's either I don't have the hort to do it or I don't have the energy.

"I was actually going to go and fix you breakfast, " I find myself going. "As in a fry?" She screws up her face, like it's the most ridiculous thing she's ever heard. She's like, "Breakfast? I don't eat breakfast."

Yeah, that's why you've got tits like a seven-year-old boy. Again, I said that in my actual head, rather than out loud, which is, like, totally weird for me.

I hope I haven't got a tumour.

She slaps the duvet beside her and goes, "Come back to bed, " and, like a fool, I do. I whip off my jacket, shirt and trousers, kick off the Dubes and climb into the sack beside her. I lie with my back to her and she sort of, like, cuddles into me and I'm thinking, what the fock is going on here?

Why couldn't I red-cord the sappy bitch? It's not like I'm even interested.

Granuaile's like a kick from right underneath the posts . . .yeah, they all count, but it's no focking challenge.

I suppose you could say she's pretty much a neighbour of ours, lives on, like, Westminster Road and I played rugby in UCD with a mate of her brother.

She's a seriously good looking bird, roysh. I actually think she looks a little bit like Kathryn Thomas, which would be a major attraction for me. Probably the biggest turn-off was that she didn't put up a fight at all. Well, that and the fact that she could iron her Abercrombie without taking it off.

I literally tipped over to her in Reynords . . . funnily enough, I'd actually been watching No Frontiers before I went out . . . and I went, "You're wrong, you know, " and she was like, "Wrong?"

Immediately interested. She's there, "Wrong about what?"

And of course Slick Mick here goes, "Wrong to think that I'm way out of your league. I'm very much in your league . . . and I like what I'm seeing tonight, " a line which, about 80% of the time, earns me a slap across the old Ricky Gervais or even a drink down my shirt.

Not this time. Granuaile just goes red and gets all excited and giggly. To be honest, roysh, it was like playing poker with an elderly relative . . . she's showing all her focking cords . . . and of course half an hour later we're heading for the taxi rank, her trotting happily alongside me, Triggs to my Keano.

So then it was, like, back to her place in Foxrock . . . her old pair are in Portugal . . . bailed in, took her to heaven and back again, blahdy blahdy blah.

But now I'm lying there, staring at the wall, having one of my world-famous intellectual moments, contemplating the big existential question . . . why the fock am I still here?

And I suppose if the truth be toldf Well, I rang Ronan yesterday.

He still hasn't spoken to me since Sorcha caught me, well, just caught me.

"What do you want, Rosser?" he goes. Doesn't call me a benny.

Doesn't ask me am I on a secure line. "What do you want?" is all he goes.

I'm like, "Just reading about that security van robbery in Drogheda. I'm expecting some focking birthday present out of you this year."

But insead of laughing and going, 'You've some fooken balls, Rosser, I'll give you that, ' or, 'Go on ourra that, you doorty looken doort boord, ' or even, 'You'd better hope Plod isn't earwigging this, ' he just goes, "I've fook-all to say to you."

So I go, "I just, er, wondered what you were up to at the weekend . . . if you fancied, like, staying over and shit. We could, like, watch the Orgentina game together."

"Sorcha's already asked me over, " he goes. "Haven't seen her or me little sister in agesf" There's no answer to that, roysh, because what he's basically saying is that that's my fault. And he's not wrong.

I'm like, "So, what do you think of the side Eddie's picked? Big test for Brian Corney, huh?" and he goes, "I've no fooken interest in talking to you . . . are you Mutt and Jeff?"

I'm like, "There's no way I'd speak to my father like that."

"Don't fooken ring again then, " he goes and he just, like, hangs up.

I'm staring at the wall, roysh, just, like, remembering the conversation over and over in my head when I hear Granuaile go, "I need to ask you something, " and without thinking, I'm just like, "Shoot!"

She goes, "It's my 21st next week? Mum and Dad have booked the Silver Glider in Leopardstown for, like, dinner?

Well, it's more than dinner. It's for, like, 150 people . . . all my really, really good friends. It's, like, in the afternoon, before the races. I mean, we're going out afterwards as well. Look, I'd understand if you said no but" "No, " I hear myself going. "I'd love to go, " and she lets out this focking squeal of excitement, which for some reason really, really annoys me.

Maybe it's because she's beautiful and she just hasn't a Betty Boo how to use the gifts The Man's given her. It's like listening to someone grind the gears on a Ferrari.

And yet all I do is go, "I can't wait, " because there's, like, enough people in the world who hate my actual guts at the moment and far be it from me to add to their number.