Until, that is, we tried to get a taxi and experienced a flashback to the pre-deregulation days when you had to wait hours and hours to get a taxi in the wee hours of the morning. For there wasn't a free taxi to be seen, and the kerbs were dotted with people trying to flag down even the ones that didn't have their lights on. And it was FREEZING. We ended up walking practically to Ballsbridge to pick one up rather than standing in an icy queue - when it's that cold I'd rather be moving - and tumbled into bed at about four in the morning. Which is why I woke up today at twelve in the afternoon. Oh, the debauchery.
Today, however, there will be no drinking or flag waving or any other activity associated with March 17th. Because I hate Saint Patrick's day and the surrounding nonsense (I'm a St Patrick's day Grinch!), and I am not going anywhere NEAR the booze-filled city centre. Instead, I am going to stay at home and drink tea and read Julia Quinn novels. So there. My horrible teenage neighbours, however, seem to be starting the party early, as what woke us up at twelve was blaring music and what can only be described as hooting and hollering, as these repellent brats seem to be unable to listen to anything without singing along at the tops of their dischordant voices and interjecting whoops between every few lines. This'll probably go on ALL WEEKEND so God help us all.