Ireland

September 2026

I'd already figured out the contents of the e-mail long before I read the subject line. The name alone at the top was sufficient make my heart do a back flip.

"Would you please deliver a presentation on your most recent paper at the XXXXXXX conference in Ireland, September 2026. Please advise on availability. All reasonable expenses covered.

Best,

John

Invitations like this are fairly common in academia, especially if you're actively researching one of the popular fields. Sadly, most invitations come to nothing for a whole variety of reasons - a lack of money or issues with sponsorship or just poor take-up amongst academics. However, these specific events have enjoyed a good track record in the past and so I accepted the invitation in a heartbeat. I probably should have waited until I had the approval of my new Boss, Leonardo, so that was my next step.

I immediately went around Leonardo's office, essentially to seek his approval but also to chat because he's an excellent Head of School and really good company, too. Leonardo immediately said "Yes!", as I knew he would, and he even hinted that he'd make an effort to attend in person too. [He didn't. Good thing too!]

Eagle-eyed readers may wonder what happened to my former boss, Sir Spartacus of Thrace. Well, rather predictably, Spartacus is currently suspended from his post on full pay for 'activities incompatible with his supervisory role', which is a posh way of saying he'd been caught shagging one of his Post Graduates.

Of course, a lot has happened since that invitation arrived back in March. Anders, my boyfriend, happened specifically. I made Anders fully aware of the conference within a week or so of us meeting and, of course, extended an invitation, assuming he was still in the frame.

Alas, that was just the start of my troubles.

My Mum is fond of a saying "Hindsight is a cruel mistress," and she's right. I really should have seen the warning signs.

So, four days before flying over to Dublin, I asked Anders if he had booked a plane ticket. It's not like this event hadn't been discussed. It had. Indeed, I'd marked it on the diary on the diary in the kitchen in B I G R E D L E T T E R S. I'd added the event to his Google Calendar and I'd even stuck Post-It notes to the fridge door. He knew it was going to happen. He'd even booked the Friday off work.

Alas, Anders had not bothered to book a flight. That was my job, he said. Furthermore, he hadn't bothered to sort out the car hire either for the same reason even though he'd previously agreed to take on he job.

In the end, we were able to find a cancellation so that Anders could fly out with me. However, as was to be expected, we were not able too sit together. Sorting out a hire car wasn't that much of an issue so, despite a few snags, we were good to go.

We arrived at Newcastle Airport in plenty of time only to discover that Anders hadn't downloaded the Ryan Air app. Worse, he hadn't bothered to check that he had a valid boarding pass, which he didn't. He couldn't log onto the airport's Wifi to download the app and, once we'd jumped that hurdle, he had go through the registration process, which took ages. The clock was ticking and we running late. Alas, the Ryan Air Staff themselves were utterly clueless and the end result was that we missed our flight to Dublin.

Gee, thanks. Idiot.

The Gods were with us. We managed to book tickets on the evening flight albeit at a two hundred pounds premium but at least we'd be on our way. We then spent much of the day not speaking to each other whilst shuffling between the various Departure Lounges. At one point, we hopped on a Metro and tried to find somewhere nice to eat in Jesmond, which wasn't difficult but added another forty or so pounds to the travel bill.

I texted the event organiser, Dr. John McClane, and advised that we would be arriving much later than expected. Plainly worried, John texted back immediately, expressing some concern. I called him and let him know that we were on a later flight, which put his mind at ease. A little.

We finally boarded the plane at around eight o'clock in the evening. The flight was mercifully short and smooth but, alas, locating our Hire Car was an absolute nightmare. Worse still, neither I nor Anders could figure out how to turn the bloody thing on. Press and hold the foot brake then press the 'Engine On' button. There! It worked!

We had a long and difficult journey ahead of us in the dark and in a foreign country. As if life couldn't get anymore chaotic, my phone refused to connect to the Irish phone network, despite assurances from my provider that the rotten device would work as advertised. On the other hand, Anders' phone was still operating as normal so at least we had Sat Nav. That was all good until his phone battery gave out. We survived by scribbling road numbers and way-markers on a piece of paper, and by putting the phone into a low power mode. I found that a quiet prayer worked wonders, too.

We eventually pulled up in front of our accommodation, a grand old Georgian Mansion, shortly before one o'clock in the morning. Anders and I were at least on speaking terms by then. He'd done a terrific job getting us from the airport right to the destination using little more than good map reading skills, some hand-written notes and a partially working Sat Nav.

Well knowing that we were very late, I knocked politely on the front door and awaited an answer.

A small man with a big head appeared in front of us.

"Hello, can I help?" he said in a gorgeous southern Irish accent.

"I'm looking for Dr. John McClane."

"Dr. McClane?" said the little Irish man. "The only Dr. John McClane I know is in the other village, down a way. About five miles or so. Give or take."

"But I was told to come here," I said pointing at the flickering SatNav.

"Oh no! That's just your wee box playing tricks. You want to be down the road a bit!"

By now, I was starting to loose my temper. The day had been long and difficult and I was not a happy bunny.

"Okay," I said. "Sorry to have disturbed you."

"Awww, don't worry, Doctor De Winter! You didn't disturb us! We were still up anyway."

I was about to get into the car when I realised that I'd been pranked.

"You know my name?" I said.

"Ach, I do!" said the Little man. "You're Doctor De Winter, for the lecturing tomorrow."

Okay, that's when the Red Mist came down. I was ready to start shouting. Truthfully, I really was!

The Little Irishman stuck his hand out, changed his tone and shifted his balance. He seemed taller, strangely.

"Doctor De Winter! Professor John McClane!"

I hadn't recognised John at all. I'd seen his Linked In profile and we'd exchanged copious e-mails over the last year or so but I'd never actually seen a proper photograph of him. For reasons that are entirely personal, I had another John McClane entirely in my head - Bruce Willis from the Die Hard movies to be specific. The man in front of looked more like my mother's water butt than the man who jumped off Nakatomi Plaza on Christmas Eve back in 1988.

Maybe I watch too many movies.

All the same, Anders grabbed my arm and whispered something vaguely like "Please don't hit him! He'll set the Garda on us!"

"Come on in," said John. "We're still up although some are feeling a bit sleepy."

I went inside to do the meets 'n' greets whilst Anders dragged our stuff from the car.

"Just a silly joke," said John. "Forgive me. You gave us a bit of a scare."

"He got me, too!" said a tall, thin youth with a mass of curly brown hair.

"And me!" said a man who was old enough to be Curly's father and, indeed, he was.

I was introduced to the rest of the speakers in turn. I already knew that John McClane was an engineer turned Buddhist. He was roughly sixty years old and quite, quite round, like an oversized beach ball. Curly and his father were both biologists and heavily into the philosophical consequences of their world-changed work. Next was a husband and wife from South Africa, who sat at the far end of the table but neither party stood nor bothered to introduce themselves, which I thought was quite, quite rude! But so it goes, I guess. Welcome to academia.

Last but not least, there was Niamh, a lovely warm friendly native of Ireland, who greeted both Anders and I with open arms. She was roughly thirty two, quite tall, say five foot ten or eleven and blessed with a slim build. She was also very pretty with a thin, almost elfin face, deep black eyes and a pale complexion. Better still, she was capped by a mass of jet black curls that tumbled down her shoulders and her back like a cascading waterfall. I was instantly smitten.

Niamh quickly began sorting out drinks and food for both Anders and myself. I liked her in an instant.

Anders went to grab our stuff from the car and then appeared in short order at the kitchen door, fully laden

"I can't get the car to lock," he said, looking flustered.

So that was the next problem. Fortunately, Anders and John figured out the mechanism very quickly but, by then, Curly and his Dad had gone off to bed and John was suddenly called upstairs to try unlock Niamh's bathroom door, which had jammed. Anders and I were therefore left with the South African odd-balls though they still weren't really interested in what we had to say or indeed, why we were there in the first instance. That much was very obvious.

The good news was that those two miserable so-and-so's disappeared off to bed without further ado. Anders and John got on like a house on fire almost immediately and, within minutes, they were knocking back whiskey doubles and getting very rowdy. A good time to head off to bed, I thought.

I bumped into Niamh at the top of the stairs. "I can't turn my blasted shower off!" she said in a lovely warm Dublin drawl. "I need to find John!"

"I can have a look, if you like!" I said.

The shower tap was jammed solid but moved with ease once you figured out how the child-proof lock worked. As you might imagine, everything in the room, myself included, was pretty soaked. Niamh soon found a mop and, together, we dried off the floor and the walls, which were absolutely sodden.

We were both down on our hands and knees mopping up the spill when I looked up and discovered that Niamh's bathrobe was open to her navel, and I came face to face with her boobs. Yeah, the girls were right out there in front and waving the Irish National flag. Good for her! Niamh didn't seem too fussed either so I smiled, said nothing and just got on with wiping the floor down.

Ten minutes later, I was under the same shower in an effort to rid myself of the car's awful perfume, which reminded me very much of an old Tramp I knew in my days working in a Derby homeless shelter. I emerged from the cubicle only to find Niamh cleaning her teeth at the sink. I did what I could to cover myself up - modesty is all - but she still turned to admire the view! She smiled and then, just as quickly, looked away again, perhaps embarrassed.

That Niamh chanced a second and a third look really got my heart pounding, and I have to admit that I took my time drying myself off. Yes, I'm an exhibitionist and I love an audience but you knew that already. More so, Niamh didn't walk off and instead, stuck around whilst casually chatting about the arrangements for the following morning.

I went to my room a happier bunny. I'd been flashed and I'd returned the favour. Wow! That was a buzz!

I climbed into bed and waited patiently for my beau. I was half expecting / looking forward to a quickie with Anders before lights out but I found myself alone. A quick fuck would have served two purposes a) it might heal the rather obvious rift left behind by the business with the missed flight and b) take my nerves off the day to come. Alas, Anders was still in the kitchen with John and, from the sound of it, already fairly drunk.

I woke the following morning at about six o'clock and quickly put on some pyjamas. Niamh was already up and about, and scuttling around the top floor clad in just a huge bath robe that was way bigger than she could manage. She was obviously feeling a little bashful but nevertheless, served up a rather shapely and very athletic thigh, which got my motor running more than a little.

"My window is jammed," she said. "And I really want to air the place out."

Once again, I ran to her aid and helped her un-jam the window, and whilst nothing happened, there was definitely a connection there. A real connection. I knew in an instant - in fact, I think we both knew - that we'd hook up at some point in the day.

With the idea of a casual romp buzzing away on the back of my head, I carried myself off downstairs with a real spring in my step. I couldn't get the image of Niamh out of my head and I wondered where this adventure might lead. Was it real? Or was it just imagined? A fantasy?

I found Curly and his father eating breakfast in the kitchen and asked if they'd seen Anders. Curly said no but remarked that they'd heard snoring coming from down the corridor.

I followed the noise until I came to the Conservatory where I found Anders and John fast asleep. Judging by the empty whiskey bottles on the floor, I reckoned they'd gotten themselves pretty hammered well into the early hours. I cursed (loudly!) and then went to get some breakfast. Yeah, I was pretty annoyed.

Niamh and I ate breakfast together, which was fun, and we were soon joined once again by Curly and his Dad, who'd been outside, exploring the gardens. 

"You need to go see for yourself!" said Curly's Dad. "It's amazing! I had no idea this was an RHS [Royal Horticultural Society of Ireland] garden!"

And so, still clad in our night attire, Niamh and I went exploring. What we found was beyond idyllic - an orchard crammed with apples and plums ready to pick, a wooded area full to bursting with all manner of fungi and a meadow overgrown with a mass of delicate summer flowers in their last full blaze of colour before the ravages of autumn robbed them of their beauty. Like I said, idyllic. 


Niamh seemed to happy and content, and at peace with the world. She took my arm and, together, we walked for around half a mile until the cold started to get to me.

You want to know something? Given half the chance, I'd have stripped Niamh naked, jammed her up against one of those gorgeous apple trees and made love to her in a heartbeat. I'm actually convinced that Niamh sensed my interest because what happened next remains one of the most arousing, most erotic memories I have ever known.

I noticed Niamh looking left and then right, and then behind us, plainly checking that the coast was clear. At a suitable moment, she threw off her robe and then dropped vertically onto the lawn. Still wearing nought but a thin, one piece nightgown, she began rolling across the wet grass until she was dizzy. Every time she rolled her nightgown became more and more translucent and I soon found myself staring at a nearly naked woman. Lovely boobs. A lovely round bottom and a large patch of jet black hair spreading liberally across her belly. Wowza!

[Yes, Dear Reader! I had to pause there for a moment whilst I ran that memory through my mind's eye a few dozen times.]

"Damn!" I thought. "I could have joined in, couldn't I?"

Why didn't I?

I don't have a good answer.

Niamh kept this up until the cold really got to her whereupon I grabbed her robe and suggested that she might like to get dressed because a) I didn't want her to catch a chill and b) Mr. and Mrs. Happy were moving in our direction.

Indeed, Mr. and Mrs Happy were almost upon us when we turned and fled, both giggling like a pair of naughty schoolgirls. Had they seen Niamh? Did they imagine that there might be some bare flesh on show? What do you think?

Back in the house, the fairly sour atmosphere had started to lift and I began to properly enjoy myself. Even Mr. and Mrs. Happy seemed happy upon their return from their garden sojourn.

I retreated to my room where I washed in a small hand basin and then dressed, pausing only to apply a modicum of war paint. That's make-up in case you didn't get the reference.

The clock on the kitchen wall read roughly nine thirty and we had to be at the venue by ten in time for the arrival of the first delegates. I went to the Conservatory and, once again, tried to rouse John and Anders but neither party was suitably coherent. I have to admit that I used some rude, rude words before then left them to sober up. Not very pleasant. Not very ladylike.

How do we get to the venue without John? Good thing that Curly knew the way and offered to drive us all in his Dad's Range Rover.

The conference kicked off at roughly half past ten albeit with a stand-in MC, a dour man called Idris. Curly was on his feet first and he was fairly interesting but lacked what I would call even basic presentation skills. A very flat delivery and lots of very intense Powerpoint slides. Not good.

His Dad was up next and he was by far the more interesting of the two. He used Powerpoint sparingly and paused to make his points slowly and carefully.

A short break followed before Niamh's talk kicked off. I thoroughly enjoyed her presentation and so did the audience. John McClane should have been next but he hadn't turned up so Mr. Happy went up in John's place. Alas, I was bored rigid and drifted off to sleep after twenty minutes so I can't comment on his presentation because I don't remember any of it.

Lunch followed but there was still no sign of John or Anders. I called Anders' mobile. No response. Others, including the sponsors, called John. Again, no response. This was quickly turning into a bit of a shit show.

The afternoon session began with two faces I didn't know and hadn't been introduced to, and they were both riveting. Very good. Another break followed before John and I were scheduled to close the conference.

I should point out that Niamh was beside me throughout, probably because she sensed that I was getting more and more agitated, which I was. Thankfully, with about ten minutes to go before curtain up, I spotted John bumbling around at the back of the hall. Alas, Anders was still missing.

The drama continued.

John had lost his notes, his microphone battery was flat and he couldn't get his presentation to load. Consequently, he was ten minutes late starting his talk. We'd been warned that the venue was on a strict curfew and that even though I was the lead speaker, I'd have to cut my session short if John overran.

As was to be expected when the speaker has a monumental hangover and couldn't get his proverbial shit together, John's talk was both muddled and confused, and worse still, his computer refused to work consistently. Not good. He finished early and, somewhat red-faced, walked off stage to lick his wounds, cursing as he went. Maybe it would have worked if you hadn't been so damned hungover, you idiot!

I was waiting in the wings when Anders finally rolled through the door. I heaved a sigh of relief, crossed myself and just got on with the job.

Public speaking engagements are very like having your own personal time machine. You hop on board, switch it on and off you go. If all goes according to the plan then time accelerates. The converse is true if your talk falls flat or your delivery isn't up to par. In that case, time slows, often dramatically.

Thankfully, it was the former because, all of a sudden, I was done. Forty five minutes had gone by in the blink of an eye, just like that.

Of course, the day wasn't over. I still had to endure the inevitable Guest Panel. Curly was already up on stage with his Dad trailing in his wake. He was soon joined by John and Mr. Happy. I took my seat and waited for Niamh but she'd gone in search of a loo.

There followed the usual round of questions - What about X? What what the effect of Y? All familiar bread and butter questions - right up to the point where one delegate stood and asked me a direct question.

"What are the logical and theological consequences of...?"

A good question. A logical question. Someone had actually read my paper, which makes a change. Okay, so I already had half an answer in the back of my head and...

Mr. Happy plainly wasn't happy. From his point of view, this was his field of expertise. He felt he had the most experience and also the most to say. As far as he was concerned, he was the star of the show. Mr. Happy held on to the microphone and decided that he would answer my question on my behalf. After all, what did I know? A mere woman?

I put my hand out but Mr. Happy held on tight. Clearly he wasn't going to allow a silly young thing like me to answer a question he was perfectly capable of fielding. I looked across at John. He just looked puzzled. I looked down at Niamh, now sitting in the front row. Her expression was one of abject fury. I sensed that she would have happily come up on stage and whacked Mr. Happy across the chops at the drop of a hat.

Sensing some unpleasantness, John McClane leaned across, took the microphone out of Mr. Happy's hand and passed it over. I delivered my response even though Mr. Happy was determined to talk over the top of me. Twat.

I made my point. Mr. Happy just made himself look silly.

The conference ended and the delegates went away happy or as happy as delegates usually are. I signed a few books. I answered a few more questions from those too frightened to raise their hands during the session and discussed at least two future appearances at similar conferences. Yes, my ego had been well and truly stroked by the time the custodians began to close down the venue.

What's next? The speakers and their partners had been invited to a post-conference meal in a nearby pub, and I was delighted to discover that Niamh had taken the seat on my left. Anders was on my right although, frankly, he looked ill. Very ill.

"How much did you have to drink last night?" I asked at an opportune moment.

"Too much!" he replied. "Way too much!"

"Are you going to be able to eat anything?

Anders went pale and shook his head. "I doubt it," he said, swaying in his seat.

There it was again. A nagging feeling that I really should have just left him at home.

Ten minutes later, and just as the Waiters began serving starters, Anders excused himself. He couldn't face the food. Not one bit of it.

"I'm just going to sit in the main bar," he said. He stood, excused himself and scuttled off to nurse his throbbing head.

Well, damn! Did the Red Mist descend? No, it didn't. Did I loose it? Not a chance. I was having too much fun but, in that moment, I had more or less decided that Anders was now just another 'also ran'.

Anyway, I just sat back and smiled, and thought some unkind thoughts, but that was all. He really isn't the one, is he? Not based on this trip.

I had an empty seat on my right. John McClane, who had been at the head of the table and didn't seem at all comfortable sitting on his own, came to sit next to me, which plugged the hole nicely. I soon got into a really detailed and intricate discussion with both John and Niamh, which took my train of thought of into some rather interesting and productive areas. I was glad I'd taken along a notepad. The end result was that I didn't give Anders a second thought for the next two hours.

There was a really buzz around the table with lots and lots of interesting conversations going on left, right and centre. Even Mr. and Mrs. Happy looked pleased. And, incidentally, the food was superb. Just a shame that my partner wasn't able to be part of the fun.

Niamh and I spent a lot of time talking. Presently, we got onto hobbies and pastimes, and I talked all about my garden, my wonderful friends and my love of wind instruments. Niamh began to tell me all about her passion for dancing and choreography, and I was transfixed. Eventually, she pulled out her phone and dialled up a Youtube of a TV appearance from some fifteen years ago, which showed a young girl in a black leotard dancing on a bare stage.

"That's not a very good one," she said. "This is better!"

A second video appeared, this time showing Niamh a few years on, definitely more mature and beautifully filled out all over. A bare stage, sparse lighting, no audience. Bare-foot, Niamh entered stage left wearing a thin white covering but not much else, and accompanied by a weird Celtic/synthetic soundtrack that was utterly mesmerising.

"This was for an arts festival near Cork," she whispered. "Caused at bit of a fuss at the time. This is Ireland. This show wasn't very Catholic at all."

And, indeed, it wasn't because Niamh was largely topless and also pretty much bottomless, too.

"Wow!" I whispered. "That's... amazing. Please, send me the link. I'd prefer to watch this later, when there isn't so much going on!"

My phone pinged a second or so later. "There, you have it!" said Niamh, giggling.

I sat back in my chair and smiled. Niamh's motives were now very clear.

Did I mind? Not at all.

Would I encourage her? Absolutely.

With the formality of dinner out of the way, John took his place at the head of the table and made a speech. He then opened the floor to Mr. Happy as he had a few words to say, and they weren't nearly quite as dull or as openly misogynistic as I'd feared. Mr. Happy even earned a round of applause, which was nice. However, just as he lowered his rather corpulent frame into his seat, I felt something touch my thigh. I turned to my left and...

Niamh was staring right at me, right into my eyes. Her intent was plain. She was trying to gauge my response. Was I open to a spot of tomfoolery? Or would I back off?

What do you think?

I left her hand exactly where it was and I smiled. My expression shifted from one of joyous professionalism to one of 'Yeah, let's do this. I wanna fuck.'

Niamh's eyes lit up. Truthfully, I don't think she was expecting such an immediate response. We were clearly on the same page.

What about the elephant in the room, I hear you ask? What about Anders?

You want a polite answer? I really, truthfully, honestly did not care. From my point of view, he'd fucked up the flight and fucked up the car reservations, and rendered himself incapable through drink. What would you do in a similar position? He could spend another night in the Conservatory for all I cared.

As for Niamh, she was in the here and now, and she'd been kind and caring all day. She absolutely wasn't skulking in a bar downstairs whilst nursing a colossal hang over.

Then it was then my turn to say a few words so the spell Niamh and I had woven was broken, if only briefly. I kept my comments short. I thanked the sponsors and I thanked John for inviting me. I also thanked Niamh for all of her help and support through the day and, of course, Curly and his Dad for driving us back and forth. I even found it in my heart to thank Mr. and Mrs. Happy.

I sat down and heaved a sigh of relief.

Niamh was smiling. "That was lovely," she said in that delicious drawl. I'd have humped her then and there if the room hadn't been so full.

The evening soon drew to a conclusion but I stayed behind to talk to Curly and his Dad, to the sponsors and, of course, to Niamh. Finally, when the Landlord decided he'd had just about enough of us, Curly led us to the car and took us home. Niamh sat next to me and we held hands all the way albeit under a coat. I don't think anybody noticed.

Where was Anders? I didn't know and I really didn't care. Not one iota.

Back at the house, John poured us all a generous glass of a fine Irish Whiskey and thanked us for our contributions. We spent the next hour sitting around the table enjoying a fabulous evening and, obviously, even more food.

At some point, more than a little drunk, I went to have a look at one of the many bookshelves that were scattered liberally about the house. I found a gorgeous collection of historical texts dating (I would guess) from the nineteen twenties and they held my attention completely until (you're ahead of me) Niamh appeared at my side. Of course, this kicked off a massive literary splurge where we discovered multiple shared interests and passions. She loves books as much if not more than I do.

"Sweet Momma! This woman is perfect!" I thought every single time I looked into her luscious eyes, eyes that were the colour of night and sparkled like jewels. I also thought "She's going to kiss me, isn't she?" and she very nearly did. However, John McClane was suddenly on top of us. He very obviously had something important on his mind.

"Where's your other half?" he asked.

"You mean Anders?" I replied. "I have absolutely no idea."

John scowled. I got the message.

"I'll call him," I mumbled a few seconds later simply because to do otherwise would have been remiss.

I rang Anders' phone and he picked up. "Hey," he said. "I'm in the main bar but I can't find anyone. My lift has disappeared, too. Have you gone home?"

"We're all here," I said. "And we're wondering where you are."

"I'm fine," he said. "I've found some friends."

"Sorry? What?"

Then followed some strange, strange sounds, like the phone being dropped, and then the line went dead.

I put my phone away. "Okay, that was your last chance, matey!"

John was still scowling and Niamh just wanted to be someplace else but none of us were happy. John wanted to organise a search party. I wanted to go to bed.

"He's alive," I said. "He's found friends. He's a big boy. He can look after himself."

And that was all I was going to say on the matter. John, wisely, smiled and went on his way.

Strangely, the idea of dumping Anders and moving on seemed like the right choice. Emotionally and spiritually, he'd failed even the most basic of tests.

Niamh had drifted off downstairs so I followed. I said nothing to anyone though pretty much everyone around the table, even Mr. and Mrs. Happy, sensed there was something amiss.

The clock crawled around to one by the time Niamh announced that she was heading off to bed. She had to be up early, she said, which was a little disappointing but, such is life. I judged the moment over. We had our chance but... It wasn't meant to be.

Thanks, Anders, you prick!

I followed suit shortly afterwards and then slid into bed somewhat disappointed. Any chance of a quick frolic had seemingly evaporated.

That said, I could hear Niamh moving around in her room. I chanced a look and noted that her door was open, if only by a sliver. I wondered if this was an invitation. After all, if she'd wanted privacy then she should have closed the door properly. The open door suggested that the game was afoot.

Yes, I am a relentless and utterly unrepentant optimist!

The urge to clean myself, to make myself anew again, was overwhelming. I felt dirty. I took myself off to the bathroom where the shower was warm and comfortable, and exactly what I needed to wash away the stress. I was single again (and glad of it) and I finally felt comfortable. The realisation that this relationship had gone the way of all the others wasn't a huge surprise but so be it. I didn't give the man a second thought. Yes, I'd completely detached myself from Anders and was now focussed entirely upon Niamh.

At the forefront of my mind was how I could I approach her. What would be the best method? The ever-so-subtle knock on the door? The accidental 'Oh, I appear to have walked into the wrong room' ruse? Would that work or would she see straight through the artifice? I certainly lingered longer in the shower that I ought in the hope that she'd 'discover me' but, alas, all I succeeded in doing was draining the hot water tank, much to John's considerable annoyance.

With no sign of any action on the horizon, I made myself decent and returned to my room, half expecting to see Anders stretched out on the duvet, probably on the look out for a quickie. That certainly wasn't happening.

I was about to pull back the duvet when I heard Niamh's door creak open, which was followed by a gentle but polite cough. Yeah, I know that sound. Somebody, somewhere wanted to attract my attention.

Barefoot, I shuffled towards my door and turned the key in the lock. The door opened without a sound and there, on the opposite side of the hallway and so very artfully framed, was Niamh. She was wearing a long crimson nightgown, the colour of mystery and passion and unbridled lust, and the sight of her with her mountain of black curls tumbling down her shoulders made me feel dizzy.

My heart skipped a beat. Her intensions were plain. This was a very definite 'Come get me!' invitation.

Then...

Niamh began to slowly unbutton the gown from the neck down. I had a quick peak along the corridor simply to make sure that the coast was clear because I really did not want this moment to be interrupted. Not for anyone.

Niamh's hands moved slowly, carefully, one button at a time. My legs began to tremble. So did my lips and I could feel my nipples poking against the soft cotton pyjamas.

Then, when there but two or three buttons remaining, Niamh stopped, stared right into my eyes, smiled and then rolled the gown over her shoulders. Gravity did the rest and I was suddenly presented with a very naked lady.

Niamh smiled rather nervously and then stood in the doorway, her hands at her sides, one leg slightly raised. I couldn't believe my luck.

I advanced slowly, one step at a time and, when I was close enough to see the veins in her neck pulsing away, Niamh backed into her room. I paused to pick up her discarded gown and then followed, stepping over the threshold like a panther stalking its prey. The door closed behind us and the deal was done. There was no backing out now. I made sure of that by turning the key in the lock.

Niamh led the way to the bed, which was illuminated by a single lamp that threw haunting shadows up the walls and over the ceiling. She paused before lowering herself on to the mattress and then lay back, her arms above her head, her legs crossed.

What an absolute vision. Curves aplenty, like an oil by Rubens, and skin the colour of fine white alabaster. Hair tumbling over the pillows. Breasts round and full, and firm. Her waist narrow, her belly flat, I noted a ring at her navel. That was unexpected. Her thighs were a little on the full side - full but muscular - and her feet were slender, dainty even. Then there the mass of jet black curls spreading across her belly like an enormous spider's web, and still wet and delicately perfumed, too. I so wanted to loose myself in there.

I undid my rather shapeless pyjamas as quickly as I could without giving the appearance of being in too much of a hurry. Niamh dropped her arms and began rubbing her breasts and then her belly.

My pyjamas were gone in a second or two but I still took my time approaching the bed. I really wanted to enjoy the moment to the absolute maximum because I knew that this encounter was precious and that the images would stay with me for a very, very long time.

Bare to the world, I stood at the side of the bed and let Niamh admire the view before sliding down next to her. The duvet was the pulled across as we folded into a tight embrace.

That first kiss made me feel faint. Soft and delicate and yet full and honest, she was plainly into this encounter as much as I. She rolled me over onto my back and then straddled me, her thighs across my waist, as if to say "It took long enough to get you here. You're not getting away from me without a struggle!". On the other hand, the sly glint in her eye suggested that she might prefer if I struggled a little, which I did. Yeah, she was into that, too!

We kissed long and hard until both of us were forced to break free, if only to breath. I had a strange, strange vision of a pair of Humpback Whales coming up for air. Then my face was lost again, enveloped by her mane of dense black curls, which hung around her face like a Monk's cowl.

When I could plainly take no more, Niamh shifted sideways and went to work on my neck and shoulders. I wanted to cry. I really did. My shoulders are beyond sensitive, the small of my back doubly so. Tears began to form.

Niamh shifted once again so that she was lying on my right, which proved a good move because, without being an insensitive cow, she was still quite a weight on my torso for one so slim. Her free hand began to explore, first my breasts and then my waist and hips, and then my thighs. She artfully avoided my loins, perhaps saving them for later.

She played with my nipples for a couple of seconds but quickly picked up on my obvious discomfort. My nipples are like landmines. Okay to play with from a distance but get too close and they're likely to go off in your face.

'Time to get physical,' I thought. 'Time to get really involved.'

I had no intention of remaining passive, of lying there as a naive supplicant. I had the hots for this woman and I wanted to go to town on her.

I ran my hand down Niamh's chest and then her belly, and let my fingers explore her pubis. That got her attention and, very quickly, she was bucking and pushing back, and I started to wonder if she was going to come very quickly indeed. I slid down the bed and, facing her, pushed my hand between her thighs. Her eyes went wide, really wide, and her mouth fell open. However, she quickly shut her legs, jamming my hand in place.

Niamh opened her eyes and smiled. "Gotcha!" she mouthed.

Rather than fight her, I left my hand where it was and simply began rocking her back and forth. Friction did the rest and she was soon riding my arm like it was a fairground ride.

I wasn't sure if this was normal for her - define normal - but I did wonder if she wasn't all that experienced or hadn't enjoyed that many partners.

My arm was going numb. Thankfully, I was able to pull away and, at an opportune moment, I got up on top of her and then pinned her arms to the bed before going to work on her breasts. Her scent was rather delicious, a weird kind of perfume, perhaps honey-based. She smelled amazing, especially her pits, which are a favourite of mine. Her nipples were out and proud, her breath deep and slow, and I figured now would be a good time to journey south.

Still holding her arms in place, I kissed her sternum then the gap between her breasts and then further still. Her belly button was full of fluff, which we both found amusing.

I released her arms and went lower until my tongue and lips were at the border of that forbidden forest, the mass of black curls. I looked up, deep into her eyes. Niamh looked nervous, frightened even.

"Ah," I thought. "This is unfamiliar territory."

I toyed with her pubes, running my fingers through the curls, finding the lay of the land so to speak. I found a scar. Quite a big one, and wondered how and why but decided to leave that question until later.

When I finally arrived at the apex of her thighs, Niamh parted her legs very gently and put her head back. She moaned a little as I ran my tongue up and down her slit. Better still, I soon found the bulge of her clitoris standing proud. That got her attention and she began to shake a little. Nerves, I guess.

Niamh spread her legs as only a dancer can and then hoisted them into the air so that I could gain full access to her mysteries. She was wet, very wet with pussy juices pooling between her ass cheeks. I wrapped my mouth around the entrance to her body and savoured the moment before pushing my tongue through the folds of skin.

Niamh went wild and let out a huge gasp, and then pinned my head in place with a free hand.

I sensed movement outside - perhaps somebody listening at the door - and so I paused. The delay only served to heighten the tension. I looked up into Niamh's eyes again. They were wild and wide and bordering on a delirium.

Whoever was out there shuffled off at a slow meandering pace. Probably Mr. Happy, I surmised. Or John? Who cares? We were enjoying ourselves.

I returned to my former task. Niamh approved, her hips rising to meet my lips so that my neck wasn't in such an uncomfortable position.

I paused, shuffled backwards a little and went to work on the back of her thighs and then her knees, an activity which I find utterly intoxicating. Such a position also affords an excellent view of your partner, a chance to savour the goods on show.

Niamh was an incredibly sexual creature. A thought entered my head, a nuance that I hadn't sensed before, that here was a woman who had spent most of her life suppressed and restrained by life and her culture, and who was finally letting go, perhaps casting off her chains. I would loved to have photographed her in that moment, captured her beauty, her essence, for eternity. But alas such joys are ephemeral at best.

I wondered if Niamh was into having her feet touched. She wasn't. Not at all and she bucked and kicked like a mule. Not a good move, Portia! A little warning next time.

Niamh had decided to take matters into her own hands, which is to say her fingers were buried up to the knuckles in her pussy. That, in itself, was a very memorable image to capture for later cogitation.

I inched back up the bed until my head was the level with her belly and then set about digging deep into her body. One finger, two then three. A fourth? Why not? Yes, she was up for that? The full fist? No, that was beyond her.

I finger-fucked the poor girl for a minute or so until the bed became just a wet mess and the sheets had developed a sheen of their own. Niamh then began the slow build to an orgasm. I held back, deliberately prolonging the experience. At the same time, I caught a glimpse of the bedside clock - 0233 hours - and I wondered if I'd get some of my own? Or would Niamh just roll over and go to sleep?

Niamh's breathing became deeper and deeper and then slowed to just a couple of heaving gasps before her eyes went wide again and she stared into space like a possessed wraith. I love this moment more than any other. The first time with a new partner. An orgasm face that few have seen before.

And then the come down. The drop, as they return to reality and the sudden realisation that they'd jumped the shark and sinned. Girl on girl is still a taboo for many even in my enlightened enclave.

Niamh took several minutes to unwind. I saw an opportunity to drink from the glass at the side of the bed. I somehow missed my mouth in the half dark and poured freezing cold water down my shoulders and breasts. Niamh noticed but didn't immediately respond. She could, so very easily, have licked me dry but, as expected, she rolled over and went to sleep, seemingly exhausted.

A little disappointed, I decided to finish off on my own and diddled myself to a short and not particularly satisfying orgasm of my own.

Niamh woke at around six and took herself off to the bathroom. She returned fifteen minutes later more or less fully dressed. Okay, that pissed me off a lot. I clearly wasn't getting any and she'd gone downstairs before I'd even found my pyjamas, which I bundled under my arm before retreating to my room.

I really didn't expect to bump into Curly. That was a shock. Equally, I don't think Curly fully expected to see a very naked woman moving about so early. He smiled and said "Good morning" but otherwise went on his way, perhaps pausing to check out my ass as it disappeared into my room.

I found a fresh change of clothes and my phone. No messages. Three e-mails, none of any consequence. The shower was warm and brief, and that's all.

Breakfast was a strange, strange affair. Curly and his Dad were out in the garden. John McClane was serving up eggs and bacon at the far end of the kitchen, head down, very busy, very happy but also plainly reluctant to meet my gaze. Mr. and Mrs, Happy were their usual sullen selves. Our party was soon joined by the two other speakers, whose names I had failed to catch (or even remember!) the previous day. On the whole, the atmosphere was rather joyous.

The elephant in the room was plain for all to see - that Niamh and I had enjoyed an evening of sapphic lust whilst Anders was AWOL - but nobody said a word. That felt strange. Very strange indeed.

Curly and his Dad reappeared just as Niamh returned from loading her car. They smiled and were polite but we all knew what they were thinking. Someone had some sexy time. They didn't.

Did I commit a faux pas? Is it considered impolite to get deep down and dirty whilst you're away on business? [I mentioned this afterwards to a friend, Juno, since you were asking and, yes, we did commit something of social boo-boo! Ireland is still a Catholic country and some places are VERY Catholic. Having a bounce around with a person of the same gender is not Catholic, so I am told. My bad!)

Curly and John then got into an interesting discussion with the two unknowns, Kerry and Majel, [Yeah, I remembered their names] over genetics and I was transfixed. I have no knowledge at all of this field so their comments were a little over my head but I was able to keep up fairly well.

Then the weirdness started.

Mr. and Mrs. Happy received a telephone call from home, home being somewhere on the outskirts of Johannesburg.

"We've been burgled!" said Mr. Happy, his tone shifting into hostile. Thereafter began a deeply, deeply unpleasant exchange with the person at the other end of the phone who, it transpires, was a neighbour.

I won't go into the details. They're not at all nice.

John McClane appeared at my shoulder. "I just received a text from Anders," he whispered as discretely as possible. "He crashed on someone's sofa last night. He doesn't know where he is and his phone is now dead."

"So we have no way of contacting him?"

John shook his head. "Guess not," he said. "I'm at a loss."

Working on the assumption that someone, somewhere would have a phone charger, I sent Anders at text. "Leaving at three. Flight at nine. Meet outside conference venue at three fifteen."

And that was it. He had one option. Mess this one up and he could make his own way back to Dublin Airport.

Niamh and I ignored each other as best we could and then returned to our respective rooms to wash and to finish packing. I overheard her talking to someone and, from the tone of the conversationist the exchange was friendly and positive.

When the time seemed right, I took a peak out on to the back lawn and spotted John and the gang on another accompanied tour of the grounds, as was his habit. I seized the moment and went directly to Niamh's room. She was't there. She was in the shower. I knocked on the bathroom door but, alas, there was no reply.

I waited. Still nothing. I went to her door. Again, nothing.

Annoyed, I finished packing and dumped my bags in the car. What about Anders stuff? If I took them then he wouldn't have anything to wear? If I left them then he could have them couriered across. Best option? I tried calling him.

Anders picked up. "I was just about to call you," he said. "These nice men down at the Police Station helped me find a phone charger."

"Police Station? What happened?"

"Oh, nothing," said Anders. "They found me asleep in the Park and put me up in a cell."

"A cell? Really?"

"Well, not quite a cell. More of a reception room."

"Why? What did you do?"

"Nothing at all," said Anders. "I just explained that I'd become separated from my friends and my lift had gone home."

"And?"

"And? They're fine. I'm fine. Nice blokes. Small town. They don't see much action."

So, Anders was safe. That was a relief. There was a knock on my door. I excused myself and put my phone away.

Niamh.

She was washed and dressed and plainly ready for departure.

Small talk ensued.

Then...

"I'm sorry," she said. "I did what I hate most. More than anything. I got what I wanted, what I needed, then rolled over and went to sleep. That was awful of me."

"Yeah, you did," I said in a whisper. I didn't want to upset her at all but I was still annoyed. Annoyed and frustrated.

"Can I make it up to you?" she said.

"How? We have to leave in ten minutes."

She smiled. "Ten minutes is all we need."

Thirty seconds later, I was bare breasted and jammed up behind my bedroom door, my jeans around my ankles and a mop of jet black hair fixed between my thighs. And when I could barely stand, Niamh took me over to the bed in a graceless shuffle before stripping me naked. That felt utterly delicious and completely debauched.

Her mouth landed between my thighs and she brought me to a quick and very energetic orgasm in just a few short seconds, and all the while, I could hear John's booming voice in the garden below, talking about the history of the orchard and how some of these species were on the point of extinction due to climate change.

I let go completely with a series of loud and hearty gasps, which would have been clearly audible in the garden below. Did I care? I did not.

A minute later, Niamh was out of her clothes and lying atop my shattered frame. At an opportune moment, we flipped and engaged in a hearty sixty nine, albeit briefly. Voices again, this time at the bottom of the stairs. Silent mode. No sense in advertising our frantic coupling, which had already drawn the ire of Curly's Dad (as I later discovered).

"Couldn't they at least be a little discrete? It's what we did in my day when the Parlour Maid was about!"

Niamh and I were lying together, face to face, my fingers running up and down her pussy lips when she reached across, grabbed my phone and pulled up the camera. The flash was quite, quite blinding but at least we had a record of our mating ritual.

Niamh pushed the duvet down so that we were bare and took another picture, and another picture of our bellies pressed together. That was rather arousing. I'm not really used to being photographed in the middle of a love-making session but I was prepared to run with it. It was on my camera after all.

Niamh shuffled down the bed and, with her head and shoulders directly adjacent to my neatly trimmed triangle of pubes, she took another picture, this time with a beaming smile.

More voices outside, plainly hunting for a pair of errant scallywags. Time to dress and be on our way.

Niamh grabbed her clothes and, when she was attempting (rather gracelessly) to pull a t-shirt over her head, I snapped her in all her finery, boobs, pubes the lot. Though faceless, I had a nice little reminder of this lovely adventure.

Niamh skipped off to her room and grabbed whatever was left behind.

I called Anders. No response. I texted him, simply to confirm that we would meet at three fifteen in front of the conference venue and then drive into Dublin after we'd had a chat. There were still a few places of historic interest that i wanted to see plus we'd have a chance to clear the air a little.

Downstairs, Niamh appeared in the hallway just as I put my phone away. She was pleasant, friendly and polite but, as ever, something had changed. This happens. I'm used to it.

John offered us a final tour of the garden and we accepted because he'd been such a good host despite getting Anders plastered. The garden tour was fun and full of historic details that I found invaluable. I put them away in my memory palace for those times when I need inspiration. That said, the tour was over far too quickly and so Niamh and I were left alone with nothing more than an uncomfortable silence. The party was over.

Mr. and Mrs. Happy were quickly gone and, frankly, I hope our paths never cross again. I will say no more. Curly and his father left a few minutes later, and then finally Niamh said her goodbyes. A shame, I thought. I wonder if I'll ever see or hear from you again?

Then, as the clock rolled around towards twelve, I went to speak to John one last time. He was in fine form and keen to talk about next year's conference. Over the course of the next hour, we had a very full and frank discussion. He'd apparently lost a lot of money on this event. I hadn't realised he'd self-funded nearly everything and I wondered how much his sponsors had contributed. Not nearly enough, it transpired. A shame but I still had my expenses. He wasn't getting off the hook on that score. I later changed my expenses claim and left off the two hundred pound premium because we missed our first flight. That was entirely down to Anders anyway. He could foot that bill himself, assuming we ever spoke again, which I seriously doubted at that point.

Anyway, John and I hugged and then waved a fond farewell, and I was off.

The final trip into town was a chance to shop for some goodies, to enjoy the atmosphere and see a little bit more history before I teamed up with Anders for the trip back.

I found Anders sitting on a bench in the Town Square. He was more than apologetic but his new found attitude cut no ice with me. That ship had sailed as far as I was concerned.

I drove us back to Dublin but instead of visiting the City Centre, we went directly to the airport, arriving at roughly seven thirty. Alas, Ryan Air being Ryan Air, there was a screw up on the return flight and we didn't take off for another three hours. Worse, because Anders had booked his flight late, we weren't able to sit together and that made matters worse because I found myself sitting in the midst of a bunch of very unruly slobs.

Newcastle Airport wasn't at all busy. In fact, the arrivals lounge and the main concourse were deserted. Neither Anders nor I said a word to each other after that.

I dumped Anders in front of his flat.

"I'll call you!" he said but I was gone in a cloud of fumes before the words had even faded into dust.

That was three weeks ago. I haven't heard from him since though that's because I blocked his number as soon as I got through my front door and his e-mails go directly into the Trash Can. He turned up at my offices unannounced ta week ago. Just a shame I was at Sheffield University for the day. I didn't return his messages either.

So it goes.

However, rather than end this episode on a sour note, I received two interesting e-mails within days of my return. The first was from John McClane. He thanked me for my contribution and invited me back either next year or the year after, depending entirely upon his available resources. So good news there.

The second was from Niamh. She's coming over to Newcastle before Christmas.

And I cannot wait.