inn of the seventh happiness

Woke this morning with the jaw more swollen than ever.
A fascinating array of mouth ulcers on my tongue.
Six at least.
Another actually balancing itself on my lip.
Also a smattering of acne on my cheeks and chin.
Teenage acne at the age of 42.
What a merry awakening.
I wondered briefly what could be the cause of these symptoms.
Maybe the drugs Doctor Barn has put me on for the jaw have produced a side effect with the ulcers.
And the acne might be the result of worrying to much.
But what on earth have I got to worry about?
Aside from my jaw and mouth ulcers.
Of course.
I was due to meet the Rose of the Orient at the airport in a couple of hours.
I have no romantic designs on her.
At least none that I know about.
On the other hand I haven't seen her in two years and if I'm subconsciously worrying about the reunion, then bingo, that would explain the acne.
It seemed clear as I struggled out of bed that whatever romantic designs the Rose of the Orient might still have on me, would evaporate as soon as she walked through the Arrivals door.
Let me put it this way.
My handsome preraphaelite features were not at their best.
Vanity thy name is James.
Still as long as she didn't actually recoil in horror, what did I care.
I wandered up to the kitchen muttering "the bells, the bells," to myself.
Paddy Pup joined me for breakfast.
"You've had your last kiss from me dog," I told him accusingly. "You and that bloody hamster. Look at the pimples you've given me. You've no hygiene, that's your problem."
The great jungle beast thumped his tail and prodded me with his snout for a biscuit.
I gave him one.
It's always nice when he pays me the compliment of asking first before scarfing food off the table.
Robin arrived at the window, seeking and finding madeira cake crumbs.
My spirits rose slowly as dawn flooded the garden.
And lo bold readers.
Within an hour I was standing cheery, dapper, and ulcerated, in the Arrivals hall at Dublin airport.
You should know this.
Dublin airport is a most Irish airport.
It's a ten time winner of the annual Salvador Dali award for Surrealism in Transport Management.
It is the home of absolute Paddy Whackery.
When I got there on Saturday, every computer in the place had shut down.
There was no information on the screens to tell you what planes had landed or departed.
Busy airport staff strode up and down on vital incomprehensible errands.
I asked a member of staff how I'd find out if my friend's plane had landed.
"There's no information," she said, "because all the planes have crashed."
I turned white as a sheet.
My swollen jaw dropped.
She left me there.
It was another full minute before I realised she'd said "screens," not "planes."
Then the lights went out.
I kid you not.
The terminal building was plunged into darkness.
Okay, okay.
Not quite darkness.
There was still some wan luminescence from the chocolate bar dispensing machines.
When the lights came back on, five minutes later, I was face to face with the Rose of the Orient.
She'd just come through the Arrivals door.
I need not have worried.
It was a glad reunion.
Like something out of a multi cultural Wuthering Heights.
My physical state caused her no apparent discombobulation at all.
We spent the day together.
Bliss was it, etc etc.
But I ask you gentle travellers of the internet.
Are all modern girls only interested in one thing?
Talking.
Talking about the war on terror.
She was insatiable.
Non stop for five hours.
Accusing Mr Bush of this, America of that, and Great Britain of the other.
She's lovely but for crying out loud...
As far as I can make out, the only people she thinks aren't resonsible for Nine Eleven are Osama Bin Laden and those jolly old murdering Arab scum of Al Qaeda.
Blah, blah, blah.
I'm telling you folks.
This war has been hard on all of us.
In recent times I've been thrown out of Sarah Brebion's apartment for accusing France of kowtowing to Islamic fascism. I've been verbally eviscerated by little Alejandra Sanchez in a Starbucks in downtown Madrid for suggesting Zapatero is the Spanish word for coward. (Memo to Self: No more debates with Spanish people about anything.) And I've lost a day of my life crossing swords with the Rose of the Orient on similar matters as described above.
Whatever the CIA is paying me, it ain't enough.
Yes the Rose of the Orient was interested in one thing alright.
But surely there are women out there with broader interests.
A bit of slap and tickle would be nice to begin with.
Just for a change.