The Irishman

My standard lunch consists of a book, a table, and some food at one of the local fine dining establishments. Usually these lunches afford me some time to catch up on my reading and a moment to catch my breath before diving back into the daily grind at work.

Today was no different. I went to one of my favorite cafes and ordered the usual soup and half a sandwich combination. It was lovely, as always. But today I also had the fortune to be the table-neighbor of a group of business men discussing some grand new venture, and one of them was Irish.

I could have listened to him all day. He had a pure and unmolested accent. He was born just outside of Dublin and spent all of his formative years in Ireland, moving to the States much later in life to pursue his entrepreneurial vision. He was talking about the most mundane topics, but they seemed almost lyrical as he spoke.

At one point one of his companions made the statement, "Not that you have an accent, but where are you from?"

Not that you have an accent? What is that?!? I would have asked him in quite a different manner. More like... "You have the most magnificent accent! Vivacious! Full of history and spirit! What could this be, this music to my ears? From whence on the Great Island do you hail??" (I visualize myself prostrate on the table before him, hands clenched in eager and humble appeal, eyes damp with admiration.)

Then again, that might have been a little overboard. But what can I say? An honest Irish accent coupled with blue eyes is like kryptonite to me.

In fact, when I was in college I was approached one day on the way to class by this gorgeous creature who was ultimately trying to get me to be a part of a cult. His accent was Australian, thankfully. Who knows what would have happened if he had been Irish?

(See, Dad, it's not so bad that I have a tattoo. Things could be a lot worse.) :)