A Series of Unfortunate Events

“Twilight screening?”

“Yes, midday.”

“Oh.”

The exchange which explained why we couldn’t see any screaming teenagers yet. An hour early. Sinéad must learn to read emails.

I recently claimed that I would never self-hate enough to take myself to a Twilight screening, feeling that I could never really take to a story about a very old vampire having a jones for a very young girl. Can you say McDisgusting? No imprinting please, I’m Irish.

“Bwahahaha,” I laughed down the phone to my friend Sarah, “a funny thing happened  today. I got offered tickets to Twilight. Can you imagine. I said no, of course.”

“Get the tickets,” said Sarah

“Bu…”

“Tickets!”

“I don’t wa…”

“Tickets now!”

“Yes Sarah. No problem Sarah.”

When we eventually sat down to watch it, it really wasn’t so awful. Aside from the clapping at the end. Shamer. How many journo mammies and daddies handed over tickets into the gleeful hands of the teenage girls all around us? The amount of estrogen in the room could’ve felled a donkey. If estrogen were a donkey’s kryptonite. Oh, you see where I’m going…

Yes. Twilight. Not so bad. I won’t spoiler you because that would be cruel, and I’m not a cruel sort. I am in fact infinitely possessing of a sad, sad mix of ridiculousness and stubborness. This is what led to the second unfortunate event which goes to make up the series (no really, a series can be two. Don’t quibble with my choice of words, gosh darn it).

“You see that place. I read that they have toilet seats on the wall arranged in the shape of the Chanel logo,” I said.

“Can we go there?” asked Sarah.

“Yah,” said I, long having wanted to visit Shebeen Chic. It’s been reviewed in most of the Sundays and I’ve read a lot about it on account of regular Gastronom rounding-up. So in we went, and the man said we could sit anywhere we wanted. He really did. So we chose the small table with the chaise longue and the many antique chairs.

And now I feel we may be ensconsed in a window display.

It is something to do with the way my knees knock awkwardly up higher than the edge of the table, and how occasionally people looking in from outside have that look on their faces that seems to suggest they believe Sarah and I have been hired to sit here. It also may have something to do with the two empty-but-clean glasses that were on the table when we sat down. Who does that? A window dresser, I tell you.

Unfortunately, due to the aforementioned stubborness, we are braving it out. We would like if someone joined us to validate our seating choice, but we know nobody else could be as uncouth as all that…

We ordered drinks, feeling the staff would be endeared to us if we patronised them.

“Fresh orange juice?” said the barman.

“Yes,” I replied.

“No, sour orange juice,” said one of the men who looked like he’d been in his barstool since early morning.

I saw the barman pour my drink from a Squeez carton. I am totally okay with it. I really didn’t think that I would be getting oranges freshly juiced just for me, but he implied it with his question. This is a very strange place. Hold me?  Or at least tell me you have previously seen patrons of Shebeen Chic on the chaise longue. Please?