Monday 22^nd August

The solicitor, Mr Harding, was prompt and efficient, arriving exactly on time and immediate in his business. He was clearly familiar with the layout of the house as we followed him to the study to begin proceedings. At least I think it was the study. It was one of many rooms in the house filled with books, so it could just as easily have been the library, or the other library or the office. It's not important. There were eleven of us in total, gathered in the study, awaiting the outcome.

Bert was the model of indifference, laying casually across a camel wing back, his long legs swinging playfully over the side. His family on the other hand, perched on the edge of their chairs, were beginning to sweat.

Mr Harding got right to it.

A reading of The Last Will and Testament, according to Joe;

“I, Joe Turner, being of sound mind and body, do hereby bequeath the farmhouse and all of its contents to my son, Bertrand Turner. The ninety eight acres on which it stands, the stables and any and all livestock, I leave to my son. The cottage in Cobh, and my home for the first sixteen years of my life and the numerous antiques therein, I leave to my son. Any property, material possessions, or monetary wealth I may have at the time of my death, I leave to my son. To my sister, Morag, her husband Mick, and all the subsequent children calved as a result of their loathsome alliance, I leave nothing. Not a penny. Not a red cent.”

The room was deathly quiet and then Bert started to laugh. He laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks, and his face turned red from lack of oxygen. Standing in the corner, Mr Harding held a single finger to his pursed lips and despite his best efforts, I could see a grin beginning to form at the corners of his mouth. The other eight sat stock still, frozen in disbelief. Bert eventually composed himself, and picking up the large sheepskin rug, which he draped across his shoulders, proceeded to stride around the room, humming the tune to “If I were a rich man”.

Da Dee Da Dee Da Dee Dum.....

Bert was two verses in before the guests finally got the hint. Red faced and furious, the eight exited the room, muttering various threats and expletives under their breath. Bert thanked Mr Harding and assured him he would be in contact regarding his inheritance and the sale of the house. When all the guests had departed, Bert stood in the hallway with a vague smile on his face. I was genuinely happy for him but there was something I just couldn't let go.

-Bertrand???

-That's Lord Bertrand to you.

-My apologies, so what's the plan of action?

-Money bath?

-I like it.

Unfortunately, the money bath had to be postponed until Bert was actually in possession of his inheritance, and since that was weeks away, we decided to head back to Dublin to celebrate in style. On the drive back, we stopped at the cemetery to say a proper goodbye to Joe. I waited in the car and watched, as Bert pilfered flowers from the adjoining graves, picking through various bunches, and throwing back carnations in disgust. After some serious deliberation, he eventually settled on a bunch of Tiger Lilies in the next row. A classy choice by Bertrand.

Bert made a few phone calls and our entire evening was arranged by the time we arrived at my apartment. As I rummaged for my keys Bert pulled yet another note off my front door. He read out the brief note, another soliloquy dedicated to yours truly, and true to form, it had all the charm and eloquence of the first.

“Ms Good, it is becoming clear to me that you think that the rules of this building do not apply to you. Though it is not written in the lease, as it was not felt necessary, it is still and shall always be forbidden to attack crows from your balcony. Furthermore, the residents of this building would greatly appreciate it if you would refrain from befriending the local vagrants, as it lowers the tone of the area. Failure to adhere to either of the above will result in a final written warning, and should your shenanigans continue, eviction from the building.

George.”

Well, if that's how you want to play it George, that's fine by me. You might have the residents on your side, and possibly the ISPCA, but I have something you'll never have...an overgrown man-child with no conscience to speak of and a penchant for evil dealings. You will rue the day you messed with me. And Bert! Actually, maybe just Bert.

I prepared for the evening ahead, as Bert set to work on designing an elaborate scheme to wreak havoc on the life of one George Barry. By the time I emerged from my room, fully equipped for a night out, Bert was still busy, furiously scribbling away on a notepad he'd requested earlier. Wads of paper were strewn about the floor, illegible markings scrawled across them in red ink. He was clearly having a little trouble coming up with a suitable revenge tactic, as plans were disposed of one after another, the paper pile slowly beginning to mount at his feet. No matter. Bert dispenses misery like China dispenses crap. He'll produce.

Our table was booked for eight at The Grocery, a restaurant built in the wine cellar of a run-down building near Dun Laoghaire's waterfront. Attended by Dublin's elite, and lit by church candles and hand crafted lanterns, its white washed walls painted an elaborate display of chic and impossibly slender silhouettes. Our obvious age difference and comparatively healthy appearance caused quite a stir as we entered the premises. Not one to shy away from the lime light, Bert placed an arm around my waist and planted a big wet kiss on my cheek. Still not satisfied, he began rubbing my head, something he intended to be a loving and tender gesture, though it actually felt more like the attention one offers a cherished pet or a woolly simpleton. Still carrying on the charade, Bert took the liberty of ordering for me, an act of chivalry I cannot abide. Fortunately, I eat with the man on a daily basis so it was exactly what I wanted, giving me no cause for complaint.

We discussed at length the George situation, the Newbie situation (I'm still owed some tears there), and after three bottles of wine, my sex life, or lack thereof. Since my break up six months ago, I had taken a sabbatical from the world of men, giving myself time to grieve. I was devastated. I spent two years with that man. I could never get that time back.

Bert informed me that enough was enough, and the time had come to get back on the horse. I informed him that there was no way in hell I was getting back on anything in the near future. Fool me once shame on me, fool me twice and I deserve everything that's coming to me. Absolutely not. Not now and not in the foreseeable future. The argument raged on for half an hour before he decided to tell me it was too late now anyway. He'd already set me up with Rob, a man from his building, who was apparently picking me up tomorrow at eight. There's no point in even including the remainder of the night, as it could easily be summed up in the following brief and infantile exchange:

-I'm not going.

-Yes, you are.

-No I'm not.

-Are.

-Not.

-Are.

-Not.

Got into bed shortly after twelve, and read a few more pages of J. Richardson's book. I can't make up my mind about this guy. I honestly don't know if I pity him his pernickety pilgrimage through life, or envy him the endless opportunities for smugness that only a perfectionist can enjoy. I text Bert “Not” and turn my phone off. I will not be bested.