When I worked at another newspaper, many years ago, we had what we thought were very clever rhymes about everybody who worked there. If your name was, say, John Carty and you were known to be fond of socialising, the rhyme would be "John Carty, he likes to party".
If your name was Pauline Fleming, and you had slavish fashion sense, it would be "Pauline Fleming, she dresses like a lemming. I was married at the time, but let's just say that sometimes I didn't act that way. My rhyme, as a result, was "Róisín Ingle, she thinks she's still single". After a weekend chaperoning a younger friend out on the pull, all I can say is thank the love gods I'm not single any more.
Because I'm exhausted. And my feet, shod for the entire venture in my new silver clogs, are killing me. To put my expedition deep into the mating jungle in context, I haven't been out three weekend nights in a row since the days when Boyzone were just a twinkle in Louis Walsh's eye. Normally, a weekend is hectic if I've gone from work to a restaurant on Friday night and ended up playing pool at Renards nightclub (which doesn't happen often enough for my liking any more). I spend the rest of the weekend in recovery mode, pottering around organic markets, going for six-minute jogs, having lunch with my family and watching my boyfriend make Mars Bar Rice Krispie buns. (What? I like to lick the bowl.)
But my very attractive friend, who lives outside Dublin and is fed up with the men in her area, who never text when they say they will, was on a mission. So on Friday night we went to one of those ginormous pubs on Dawson Street, where the punters look as if they have walked out of an ad for hair straighteners - and that's only buachaillí na hÉireann.
The three of us - my boyfriend had reluctantly come, too - had barely taken our first sip when four likely lads arrived and asked to share our table. My friend had gone to powder her nose, so I wasted no time telling the lads that of course they could share the table, as there was more than enough space for the very slender and pretty young woman who would be back at any moment. I'm good at this, I thought to myself.
And, sure enough, when she came back it was to the attentions of at least two of the men, one of whom she fancied. As the night ended and we made our way outside, my friend took one look at the horse and trap at the door and said: "I want to go in one of those." Like Cinderella, she was whisked off to drink ridiculously expensive champagne with her new friends, while the boyfriend and I walked home through crowds of freezing, miniskirted women who hadn't been as lucky as my friend.
Saturday night wasn't quite so successful. I chose a pub where the music was to my taste - The Smiths, New Order, The Clash, Joy Division - but it turned out that the men were not to hers. We got chatting about what it was she was looking for. She said there had to be "spark", which you would know was there - or wasn't - within two minutes of talking to somebody. And there had to be "potential". "I'm past the stage of looking for one-night stands. I don't want to waste my time with someone if I don't feel there is a realistic chance of developing a relationship," she said.
There was only one thing for it. Lillies Bordello. Oh dear God. People actually wear hot pants in Dublin. By 1am my nerves were frazzled. I was treating this night out like a military operation. I couldn't relax and enjoy myself, because finding a man for my friend had become a reason for being out. The reason for standing squashed beside people busy having a good time, feeling about 100 years old. I thought that shuffling my clogged feet occasionally in time with the music might make it look as if I was also having a good time, but I'm not the actress I thought I was.
"Let's get our coats," said my friend. "No offence, but I'm not that desperate that I have to stand and look at you pretending to enjoy yourself." Something clicked. "Let's have a dance," I said. I put my hands in the air - I even made woo-woo sounds when the dance music reached a crescendo - we had a laugh and then we caught the Nitelink home, which is another crazy jungle experience.
On Sunday night I played it safe and brought her to Songs of Praise, the brilliant rock'n'roll karaoke night at The Village. I sang Brass in Pocket and Borderline while she applauded and scanned the place for spark and potential. Róisín Ingle, she's glad she's not single. Because she would never survive. Not in those clogs.