D.I.P. Shamrock Shakira

The Shamrock Shakira has found himself a lady friend.

And that lady friend is not me.

(Seth you can officially breathe a sigh of relief now).

It would appear that my Catholic mate from across the pond has found himself not one, not two, but three lady friends that are crazy about him (apparently the John Lennon late 1970's look with the long hair, beard and funky glasses does it for more than just Yoko Ono).

And to be perfectly honest, I can see why.

Obviously the man is a little too far away (although I've always wanted to go to England), a little too old (38 is after all a whole driving hormonal teenager older than me), and a bit too hairy for my tastes (as a child I was terrified of men with facial hair. Just ask my uncle). That and his interests are mildly odd. I'll just chalk that up to being English.

But the guy has a beautiful way with words.

And after cramming in an entire season of Showtime's The Tudors last weekend, filled with love letters from King Henry VIII to Anne Boleyn, I can't deny a sigh or two when a member of the male species has a talent for stringing adjectives, nouns and verbs together in a way that make angels sing.

Especially when you envision hearing them in an English accent.

*Sigh*

At least I can say we had our happy times together. When my coy smile alone convinced him to purchase every single Guster album available to mankind.

I don't even own every Guster album available to mankind.

Date In Peace Shamrock Shakira. It was lovely while it lasted.