True Love Conquers All…?

Well, folks, it’s that time of year where mine and Niall’s love is pushed to the limits. That’s right. It’s time for the Scotland/Ireland Six Nations match.


All morning, we laughed and joked and pretended that we were totally kidding with those thinly veiled death threats.

Such hostility.

Such hostility.

The battle lines were drawn.


We were ready for the bloodbath to commence. Or, as ready as one can be for a bloodbath while snuggling under a duvet.

See, we live in one of these beautiful Bruntsfield flats, whose high ceilings, wooden floors and enormous windows are charming when you view the flat in the Summer. And then the Winter comes and you wonder, as you climb into bed with four pairs of socks and a hat on, how you were caught out by this again. Our kitchen does have the advantage of homing this guy:


But on this occasion, was beaten out by the living room homing this guy:

photo 3

So we had no choice but to crack out the spare duvet and hide underneath.


Hiding and avoiding eye contact with the enemy.

We were totally psyched.

Smudge being totally psyched. Or baffled. Difficult to tell, really.

Smudge being totally psyched. Or baffled. Difficult to tell, really.

And then the game started. After about 7 minutes of actually quite decent play, our team seemed to forget what sport they were playing. Instead of playing rugby, they suddenly started showing some serious promise in the Scottish national sport of Fannying About (not to be confused with English national sport of Being A Fanny).

What followed was a comprehensive masterclass in Fannying About. Seriously, any of you amateur Fanny Abouters looking to turn pro should take a look, there was some pretty inspiring stuff in there.


Not the greatest start for Scotland, I’ll admit. But at least the tension of Scotland/Ireland is over and Niall and I can once again present a united front, dedicated to the hope that England will get well and truly trounced.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a consolatory cup of tea waiting. He’s not a bad lad, for an Irishman.

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