Restepah to the barman massive

I think my brain is going to explode. Last night I was just learning all the basics of the bar, I don't know how I'm ever going to cope, remembering where every single drink is, what it is, and on top of that, the 6 billion cocktail recipes. They also had me practicing pouring measures into test tubes. I don't think I have very good hand-eye-bottle-test-tube coordination, because I was constantly getting too much or too little in the test tube. If it wasn't going all over the floor that is.

Right now I think there's more chance of me joining the Corrs, settling down and having lots of little Irish babies with all 3 sisters (yes, I know there's a brother as well, but I think having babies with him is probably pushing the boundaries of chance, reality and heterosexuality a little too far, even for me) than becoming a good barman.

Afterwards I consoled myself by going back to Arron's house and eating about 57 chickens. My tummy did not feel good for that this morning, I can tell you.

My dental check-up consisted of the usual: have teeth and gums ripped appart, spilling my own blood everywhere in the dental surgery, foul tasting liquids, fat-middle aged nurses, wierd sensations, dark glasses and people telling me to drink less coca-cola and that I might need 20 fillings. And that was just the hygienist.

The dentist, who I saw straight after, was much nicer, and told me my mouth was fine (even though it was still dripping blood everywhere from the hygiene nurse's mini evil hook-claw-thing), and that I should rest up and take it easy. Actually he didn't say that, but he seemed like the type of guy that might. Then he gave me a lollipop and sent me on my way.

True story.