Joanne the emigré rang me from New Zealand the other morning. Except, like, New Zealand is, like, waaaay in the future, man, so it was night over there. And she was jarred and heading to a pub. She was all like 'What's up, man?', and I swear, it was like she had never left the country and was ringing me drunkenly from Meath. Ah, memories.
'I am so, like, 18,000 miles away, man!' she says. I nearly pulled her up on this and reminded her that us Europeans are metric now but in the end I let it pass. I was hugely embarrassed the other day when I asked someone how many kilos it was to Cork so I won't be claiming to know anything anymore. Lucy Aughney: Henceforth ignorant.
So, she had little enough news except that she's going on a surfing holiday next month (how cliche) and that she is currently crushing on a Brazilian who has bullet wounds (!). I was naturally concerned. 'Don't panic!' she assured me: 'They weren't fatal!'
So I assumed. Then she was all up in my grill about my news. So, naturally I told her about my dog being scabrous and partially clad in plastic. Realising I had no more news I quickly rang off, claiming a library emergency. Which was very close to being true. My mother needed me to get milk from the shop.
Keep 'em guessing, I say. Also, always undersell. And, bring spare socks. All wise words.