Plastic Paddies

I must be getting old because I moved St Patrick's to Friday evening.  School is hard enough at the moment without a black velvet, Irish coffee hang over.
Louis and Séléna turned up in a nostalgic-for-Cork mood with a bottle of Scottish whiskey.  
I pointed out that it was Scottish, but Séléna batted that one back by saying I was British.  I batted that one back by saying that a whole lot of Northern Irish Catholics had Irish passports which shut her up because most of the French I run into in these parts bang on about the Ring Of Kerry but don't venture North of the border to admire the Mournes or the cliffs and glens of Antrim.
It was a 2-1 win for me.
Louis toasted and buttered my wheaten bread, making our kitchen smell like Glenview mornings at Nana Kay's .  
Séléna layered scotch with coffee and cream, topped with grated nutmeg and orange peel.  I kept my mouth shut. 
I ladled Coddle into bowls.
Aidan sent me a message telling me to lay of the Guinness if I didn't want another Christmas baby.   
At the end of the evening I sat looking at my empty tin of stout, thinking of my Christmas babies and knowing that there weren't any more in this pint.
The Harp began to look a bit sinister, like an unfriendly face, so I turned it upside down and felt better.