So I told Mom that Saoirse had invited me to dinner with her first-cousin-once-removed, the famouse Irish rock star and she said, bless her heart, "I'll send over a comfort package for you to bring."

My mom believes that everyone's life is improved by her cooking. She's not necessarily wrong, but is it appropriate to go to dinner in the house of a hugely wealthy rock star with a jar of bottled moose, some partridge berry jam and a bottle of Screech? Would that make me cute, or just a bit of a weirdo? Then again, maybe going to millionaires' houses with carefully packaged home-cooked produce, complete with smiley faces on the label, is just a nice thing to do.

I asked Bepe and he said, enigmatically, "The cooking of a mother is a sacred thing. Of course, my mother is a really good cook." He also said, "I don't really like that sort of music anyway," which is kinda missing the point.

That didn't leave me any wiser, so I just left him to his remote-controlled airplane repairs and got back to agonising. The dinner is next week, so maybe mom's comfort package won't arrive on time, which would make thing a heck of a lot easier.

Meanwhile, I went to the comedy show at the International Club and boy did I laugh. When I went in, I was a bit taken aback because the venue is tiny and quite grotty. It looked like there was room for about twelve people in there, but they had packed in maybe sixty. I'm telling you, these guys are hilarious. Hilarious! I didn't even think I liked stand-up! But I am going to be back for sure. There were three acts, all hilarious, and a compere, also hilarious. I wasn't the only foreigner there--there was even a bunch of Germans who seemed to be following. Well, I'm a convert. I always comedy was stupid but it's now something on my regular beat!

Bepe invited me to the Phoenix Park on Sunday to watch him fly his planes. I'm torn. I want to go, but I don't want to be the sort of person who watches remote planes. It's a problem.


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