Practice Makes Perfect

It’s Tuesday night which can only mean one thing in Lobomonsterland – HOMELAND NIGHT!  So as with most Tuesdays, I am at Panties and Hangsandwich’s abode, where I usually pop over before the show for dinner (tonight’s feast was steak and mash), tea and some form of cake (we have iced and poppyseed varieties tonight).  Cue also huge discussion about the various plot twists and where it’s all going and the apparent POINTLESSNESS of the two teenagers killing the pedestrian whilst speeding through the streets of DC, and Tuesday night becomes very special indeed. 

Horrificially, I have signed up to go to a social function tomorrow night, alone, because in a fit of madness I decided that in order to obtain something resembling a life, I would have to leave my home and ”meet” people.  No I was not drinking at the time, but by the power of Greyskull I will be tomorrow.  Anyway, this brings me to my second point about Homeland night, which is that, during the ad breaks, Panties is threatening to do some ”role playing” with me, but not the good kind.  No, as I have the social skills of a floor duster, I have to be schooled in the art of small talk, as opposed to glassing a stranger who happens to say hello to me in a bar (why can’t I meet anyone, I wonder?). 

I am worried that this will involve Panties asking me such seemingly simple questions of ”hi, how are you,” which I must resist answering truthfully at all costs.  I mean, no hapless handsome stranger wants to hear about the fact that I received a call in work today from an allegedly fully functioning member of society who needed to speak to the girl ”with a turn in her eye,” do they?  Do they? 

Sigh.

The ”event” I am attending is a result of joining an internet group thing – no NOT a dating website but a Dublin social club where people meet up to do normal things and this one just happens to be for single people.   Allegedly, a life ”coach” will meet us in a bar and talk to us about ”issues” facing we, the miserable alone, in what has promised to be an ”amusing” way.  We drink first, listen to the talk and assuming I haven’t run screaming from the building by then, drink afterwards.  So yes there is some drink involved, but it isn’t speed dating, which appears to be the only social function option available to us ”One is Not a Lonely Number” types and in fairness to whomever has organised it, it doesn’t sound TOO bad.  No, the horrific bit is the fact that I have to go, me, with the subtlety of a bin truck (and hips the width of one) and the charm of a fart in a lift, and make this small talk stuff with complete strangers, and not fall to the floor in a screaming heaving mess afterwards.  Can it be done?   I cannot answer.  All I can say for sure is that when I arrive home from work tomorrow I will put on lipstick and some gin and tonic – and ensure I am sufficiently tanked by the time I get there.  It really is the only way.  Strangers don’t need the truth.  It would be cruel.

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