Day 31: Family Ties and Tight Harmonies

A lovely family night out to Cooney’s in Ballymahon to see the always-brilliant Sheerin Family Band, with guest artist Matt Leavy.

The last time we heard them was last April—in Spain, no less—where they were performing their “Take It to the Limit” Eagles tribute concerts under sunnier skies. Tonight was a little cooler, but the music? Every bit as brilliant.

It speaks volumes about the kind of people they are that, whenever their schedules align, they return to Cooney’s—the very place that gave them their first break—and play a free gig. No fanfare, no fuss. Just pure joy and gratitude.

A special moment tonight was watching their dad take to the stage with his sons, daughter, and grandsons—to sing on his 84th birthday. His voice is still strong, his presence even stronger, and it’s clear where the family’s musical soul comes from.

There’s something incredibly inspiring about witnessing people do what they love, and do it with heart. Tonight wasn’t just a concert—it was a celebration of family, music, roots, and gratitude 

Day 29: A Walk on the Edge of the World

 Like much of the world, I woke up early this morning to the news that America had bombed three locations in Iran.

Getting back to sleep was impossible.

The headlines rolled around in my mind, tightening like a knot in my chest. The familiar ache of anxiety crept in. So I gave up on sleep, left the hotel, and drove out to Curracloe Beach, hoping the fresh sea air might clear my head.

The irony wasn’t lost on me—choosing to walk along the very beach where Saving Private Ryan’s harrowing D-Day scene was filmed, trying to forget about war.

The wind hit me like a slap as I stepped onto the sand. But slowly, it started to “blow the cobwebs away.” The crashing waves, the endless stretch of pale sand, the mountains in the distance—it all looked so… right. Untouched. How the Earth was meant to be, before we decided to bulldoze it all for convenience, greed, or some fragile concept of power.

I wasn’t the only one wandering the shoreline. Braver souls were throwing themselves into the icy surf. Runners zipped past me—(not hard, let’s be honest). Horses galloped past, kicking up clouds of sand in their wake.

Then a loud squawk cut through the air.
A trio of seagulls and a murder of crows were locked in a full-blown turf war over the carcass of some poor sea creature. They jabbed and danced around each other until there was nothing left but a shell.

But here's the thing: that’s nature.
It was the food chain in action. Brutal, yes. But necessary. Not one of them killed more than they needed. Not one hoarded leftovers for a later day. Not one burned the beach behind them.

No species—except ours—wipes out its own habitat.
No other animal wages war for power, or territory, or oil.
No other creature is actively endangering the survival of its own species.

Just us.
Just a few f@*king stupid humans, dragging the whole planet to the brink.

So much for my peaceful walk.

Day 26: Some tits and new tricks!

 Whoever said you can't teach an old dog new tricks was most definitely wrong.

Today, I had my very first Romanian lesson. Why? Because I’ve taken on the role of Master of Ceremonies for an upcoming wedding celebration, and I want to welcome the grooms’ parents in their native language.

Now, before all my well-meaning friends rush in with, “But Noeleen, you’re not a celebrant, you can’t marry people!” — I KNOW. This beautiful couple is already married. This event is all about celebrating their love and renewing their vows in front of family and friends. No legal stuff. No religious bit. Just love and laughter (and apparently, some linguistics).

So today, I was taught the two lines I’ll be saying in Romanian. To help my slow-to-adapt tongue, I recorded them and plan to listen to them ad nauseam for the next few weeks. I also wrote them out phonetically to avoid sounding like I’m summoning Dracula.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the Romanian word for "being" is “sunteti” — which is pronounced, rather unfortunately, as “some tits.”

And that, my friends, is the final line of the ceremony. So if you see the bride and me doubled over in fits of laughter, just know: it’s not nerves. It’s linguistic comedy gold.

Day 25: From the Bahamas to the bin in 60 seconds

 Today, the whole country was buzzing with the news: someone in Ireland had scooped a jaw-dropping €250,000,000 in the EuroMillions.

Naturally, my thoughts turned immediately to one thing: Did I buy a ticket?

I had a vague memory of doing so in the recent past. And so began the great search—pockets, handbags, the drawer of doom in the kitchen—you know the one. As I rooted around, my imagination took off at breakneck speed.

Call it manifestation.

In my head, I was already sipping cocktails on my private island in the Bahamas. I had a wardrobe full of designer clothes, a countryside mansion with a rose garden, and a holiday home perched on the Riviera.

Because let’s be honest—€250 million isn’t just “a win,” it’s a new life.

Finally, I found it. The golden ticket. (Well, light green—but we’ll overlook that.)

And then—reality.

Firstly, it wasn’t even for the right date.
Secondly, even if it had been… I had matched a grand total of ONE number.

Still, for a few fleeting, fabulous minutes, I knew what it felt like to be obscenely rich.

And maybe that’s worth the €2.50 alone.

Day 24: The One where I Swabbed and Prayed

 

I wasn’t feeling the best today. Still wrecked after the weekend, but what really did me in was being woken up in the early hours by a fit of coughing. You know the kind that feels like your lungs are about to land on the floor.

Later in the day, a message came through from the AIMS committee:

“We’d like to advise all those who were in attendance at the weekend that a number of members from lots of different groups around the country have been in touch to advise they have tested positive for COVID.”

Not exactly a shock, I suppose. I mean, you can’t beat a musical theatre crowd for enthusiastic hugs, kisses, and the odd impromptu group number.

So, off I went in search of a test. Back in pandemic times, you couldn’t turn around without tripping over a pile of antigen tests. Now? It’s like a black-market treasure hunt. Eventually, I tracked one down and brought it home like it was the Holy Grail.

Cue the eye-watering ritual: swab up the nose, swirl it around, try not to sneeze the house down.

Then came the wait… the tense 12 minutes of watching the little window, praying not to see that second red line.

And… nothing.

Negative. Thank God!

I’m due to head off for the weekend with Aunty Peggy, and I couldn’t risk exposing a 92-year-old to Covid. That would definitely not get me a Favourite Niece nomination this week.

Honestly, I’ve never been so relieved to fail a test.

Well…
Actually.
There may have been a long-ago pregnancy test that also brought a fair bit of relief…
But the less said about that the better!

Day 23: AIMing high, lounging low

 

Ah yes, today I heroically did very little—a noble act, really. I sprawled like a retired cat across the couch, absorbing the genteel drama of Queen’s tennis while sipping on Pimm’s and nibbling strawberries and cream (I might have made that last bit up!). Lawn tennis season has officially begun, and I’ve leaned into it with all the athleticism of someone expertly balancing a remote control and a cocktail glass.

But let’s be clear—I’ve earned this luxurious laziness. After surviving the glorious chaos of AIMS weekend in Killarney with LMVG, my soul required recovery. Friday night kicked off with a pub crawl, and not just any crawl—we were dressed as school kids, a nod to Our House, though the only lessons being taught were in how to stumble stylishly between bars.

Saturday? Bottomless brunch. Which is just code for “let’s make poor life choices before noon.” Then it was onto prepping for the Awards Banquet—where we somehow still managed to look polished after two days of musical theatre-fueled mayhem. Oh, and by the way… we casually won Best Choreography AND Best Choreographers. (No big deal. Just try not to bow too low when you see us.)

Celebrations continued well into the wee hours, fueled by adrenaline, Prosecco, and possibly a little bit of jazz hands. Sunday was, mercifully, quieter. I went full introvert mode: nature walk, deep thoughts, silent woods, recharging the ol' social battery like a phone that’s been used exclusively for TikTok for 48 hours.

And today? Reality. Well, if your reality involves sipping summer cocktails and pretending to critique backhands from your sofa throne. Honestly, I’m thriving. Wimbledon, I’m coming for you—cushions, snacks, and snarky commentary in hand.

Day 19: Simply the best: Seat in the House

 

Tonight was a night out with my Theatreworx family—and what better way to bond than with good food, good wine, and great theatre?

We were headed to the Bord Gáis Energy Theatre to see Tina – The Tina Turner Musical. I’d heard glowing reviews in advance, which always makes me slightly wary. Things rarely live up to the hype.

But we started the evening on the right note: food, wine, and laughter. Always a winning combo. us nearly

When we got to the theatre and saw our seats were in a box.. Up the stairs we scampered (as gracefully as a group of musical-theatre enthusiasts can), only to find a man already there. No matter—we’re friendly sorts, and he was clearly brave to share a box with a gaggle of excitable women.

Pleasantries were exchanged, naturally. And then, of course, we asked him to take a photo of us. He obliged with a smile.

Then Carol did what Carol does best—she got chatting. In the space of about 90 seconds, we learned that this lovely box companion was none other than...

THE DIRECTOR.

Well! We weren’t going to miss our chance. We casually (ahem) dropped into conversation that we’re from a musical society—amateur, yes, but nominated for Best Overall Show at the upcoming AIMS awards. (A girl has to represent.)

He said he’d love to hear our thoughts after the show.

He didn’t come back after the interval—perhaps wisely—but just in case you’re reading this, Mr. Director:

I. LOVED. IT.

It was powerful. It was moving. The whole theatre was on its feet for the final fifteen minutes. 

The actress playing Tina? Unreal. And the young girl playing her as a child? Phenomenal. The talent, the energy, the emotion—flawless.

A truly unforgettable night of theatre.

And in the words of Tina herself?
It was Simply the Best.

Day 18: Soleless in the cemetary

 As I cautiously walked across the gravel in the graveyard, I was terrified I was going to twist my ankle in my high heels. Aunt Angela would definitely not have been impressed—she always preferred sensible shoes and sensible behaviour.

Then I felt it: a suspicious little “flip-flap” sound underfoot.

I stopped to inspect the damage and, to my horror, saw that the sole of one of my shoes was hanging on by a thread—well, glue, probably. Either way, it was dangerously close to flapping right off in front of the mourners.

So, what to do?

Power on and risk tripping? Or rip it off and try to dodge all the sharp stones in my tights?

I chose the latter and made it through the ceremony, walking with all the grace of a half-barefoot flamingo.

Still, in reflection, I suppose I wasn’t the first person to lose my sole in a graveyard.

Day 17: A Day Off from Grief (sort of)

 

Thinking back to organising Mam and Dad’s funerals, I remember how tough it was—and there were five of us to lean on each other. I honestly can’t imagine how much more difficult it must be for an only child.

That’s where extended family steps in.

Today, I took my cousin’s eight-year-old daughter off for the afternoon so her parents could finalise arrangements for Angela’s funeral. What was needed, clearly, was a proper girly day.

First stop: a bit of shoe shopping (because obviously, priorities).
Next: a good long browse around Fagan’s toy shop.
Final stop: the cinema to see Lilo and Stitch.

As it was an early afternoon screening, we had the entire cinema to ourselves—like our own private showing. The film was hilarious and heartwarming… until the last 15 minutes.

And then: SPOILER ALERT.

Why was there no warning that Stitch dies?! I could feel it coming, but not in time to stage a distraction. All I could think was: We’re here to gently take her mind off the fact that her Granny just died… and now we’re watching an alien’s heartbreaking final moments?!

Thankfully, through the miracle of CGI and jump leads, Stitch came back to life. But there was a jarring moment. Only that morning, her parents had gently explained that Granny had gone to Heaven and couldn’t come back. And now—bam—resurrection via motor vehicle.

It made me think of something from my PDST drama training:

Drama helps children explore complex feelings at a distance, in a safe space.

Maybe this unexpected twist was exactly that—a safe way to engage with grief, without it being directly about Granny,.

On the way home, we had a good chat. I didn’t raise the film’s ending, but I gently opened the door for her to bring it up. She didn’t dwell on the sad part—instead, she talked about all the funny, irreverent things Stitch had done.

So maybe the movie wasn’t the wrong choice after all.

I did warn her parents there might be some… unusual questions tonight

Day 16: Together Again

 

This post is a more somber one than usual.

Aunt Angela was married to our Uncle Maurice. When he passed away 11 years ago, I wrote a blog post about him—about the kind, gentle man we all loved, and the loss we felt.

https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/preview/3787687663741365658/8473566903157009863 

Over the past few weeks, Angela’s health began to decline. I went to visit her, knowing things weren’t looking good.

As she lay in bed, she looked at me and said quietly,
“You know I’m dying?”

I was taken aback. I mean—how do you answer that? What do you say when someone  looks at you with that kind of clarity?

But I didn’t have to answer. She went on,
“But I’m happy. It means I’ll soon see Maurice again.”

And in that moment, I heard the saddest—and most beautiful—thing I’ve ever heard.

Today, Aunt Angela passed away peacefully.

Of course, it’s a deeply sad time for all of us, especially her daughter. But there is a kind of comfort, a quiet joy, in knowing she truly believed she would be reunited with the love of her life.

And now she is.

Day 15: From Vintage Curls to Vintage Friends

 

Over two weeks into the 100 Days of Summer Challenge and I’m still going strong — though I may have slightly overdosed on cultural enrichment and historical facts. (If I enter one more ancient graveyard I might combust.)

So tonight, it was back to basics: a good old-fashioned night out with the girls. And yes, we still call ourselves “the girls.” Don’t question it — it’s a vibe, not a birth certificate.

Now, I know you’ve been dying to ask (or maybe just politely ignoring the subject), but let’s talk about the hair.

How did my trial run go, you ask? Oh wait — no one asked? Just me? Grand.

Well, let me tell you anyway: it was a triumph! The hair stayed up, the ends had a glamorous 1950s flick, and I didn’t wake up looking like I’d been in a hedge trimmer incident. It lasted all day and all night — things are looking promising for that August wedding. Kim K who?

We hit Mullingar for dinner, drinks, and the kind of belly laughs that only come from 30+ years of shared mischief and mutual blackmail material. Honestly, if any of us ever fell out, we’d have to enter witness protection — we know too much.

As the saying goes:
You can’t make new old friends.

Day 14: Beauty is an Ugly Business

Today, I had a first-hand encounter with the darker side of the beauty industry.

Later this summer, I’m off to a Sunday wedding celebration in Galway. Lovely, except for one tiny issue: I won’t have time to get my hair done that morning. So, today was trial-run time.

Armed with rollers, clips, and copious amounts of hairspray, my miracle working hairdresser, Geraldine,  transformed my head into what looked like a tribute to a 1950s housewife crossed with Enda Sharples. The plan? Sleep in a hairnet tonight and wake up with full, bouncy hair. The reality? We'll see. I may also wake up looking like I wrestled a hedgehog in my sleep.

And yes — I am aware that the hairnet is a passion-killer. But go on… ya still would!

Meanwhile, the AIMS Awards weekend is fast approaching. As you know (and if you don’t, where have you been?), I’ve been trying to lose a generous few pounds to squeeze into that dress. After a reality check on Day 7 I unfortunately lost the run of myself.

 Enter: Skims. 

Yes, those magical body-shapers from none other than Kim Kardashian herself.

THESE ARE MY CORRECT SIZE!

. They technically fit. And by "fit," I mean I had to do a full cardio session just to get into them. But the dress? Still says no. Loudly.

So, Plan B it is. Possibly involving a different dress, less Lycra, and significantly more vodka.

Challenge status: Mildly suffocated but still showing up.
Mood: Compressed, coiffed, and cautiously optimistic

 

Day 13: From Round Towers to round tables

 Today’s challenge took me deep into the heart of the Midlands—to Co. Laois, where I was off to visit my school friend Majella. Yes, that Majella. The very one who introduced me to Genevieve all those years ago. (Don’t ask. That’s a story for another day.  Day 11.)

Like any good adventurer-slash-tourist, I consulted my trusty tome, Ireland’s Curious Places, to see what oddities might lie nearby. Lo and behold: Timahoe. A round tower, a saint, and the most bizarre trio of pets this side of a Disney film—a mouse, a fly, and a rooster.

You may recall (or not—no judgment) the legend of St. Mochua, a 7th-century hermit. He owned nothing except a deep commitment to prayer and the weirdest wake-up crew in Irish history:

• A rooster to crow him awake in the morning.

• A mouse to nibble his ear if he nodded off mid-prayer.

• And a fly that walked along the lines of his scripture like a living highlighter. (The world's first bookmark.)

Naturally, the monastery at Timahoe got raided a few times by Vikings with no appreciation for rodents or scripture-flies. So the monks built a massive 30m round tower in the 12th century—no diggers, no cranes, and clearly no planning permission—and it’s still standing tall today.

I arrived just as the rain stopped (briefly). The sun came out, the clouds parted, and for 30 glorious minutes, I felt like I’d stepped into a time machine. There’s a plinth with carved figures of St. Mochua’s curious companions standing proud, guarding the tower like a medieval Pokémon team.

Then, of course, I did what I always do lately—wandered into the adjoining graveyard. At this point, I’m practically a connoisseur of cemeteries. But today... today I saw the saddest gravestone yet. I won’t go into detail, but it left me wondering what heartbreak must’ve visited that poor family. It was a jarring reminder that every stone tells a story.

And just as the clouds regrouped and the rain resumed its usual programming, I set off in search of two things: tea and a toilet. In that order. Thankfully, I spotted a shop on the corner—aptly named “The Corner Shop”—with a sign that promised both tea and coffee. I was sold.

Inside:gingham tablecloths straight from Granny’s attic and two chatty auld lads holding court like they owned the place. (To be fair, they probably did..and were probably the same age as me!)

One looked up and said, “And how are you today?”

I answered, “I’m great! How are you?”

With a grin, he replied, “Ah sure I can’t tell you that... You’d be jealous of how good I actually am!”

Honestly? The most Irish response I’ve ever heard. Somewhere, a leprechaun raised a pint in approval.

As I sipped my tea (and delayed my dash to the loo), I couldn’t help but overhear—because let’s face it, they were shouting. They were discussing the local choir, its last rehearsal, and their next big performance. I was fully expecting talk of GAA matches or tractor repairs. But no. Choir gossip.

Another man wandered in, and immediately they pounced. “Why haven’t you joined yet? You’d love it! Great craic altogether!”

Later, at Majella’s over another cup of tea (this is Ireland, after all), I told her about the singing shop lads. She smiled and said, “That’s the Men’s Choir. The new priest set it up a few years ago to tackle mental health issues in the parish—especially among  men. A cross between a Men's Shed and Glee”

And would you believe, it worked. They’ve performed all over Ireland. Even marched in the St. Patrick’s Day Parade in New York. Not bad for a group that started with a few shy fellas mumbling hymns in the back pew.

And let me tell you—those men were positively beaming. Tea, tunes, and talk. Sometimes that’s all it takes.

I couldn’t help but wonder... if St. Mochua were around today, would he trade in the mouse, the fly, and the rooster for a pint and a place in the tenor section?

I hope he would.

Day 12; Chalk it up to my Ancestors

 

Teaching is one of those professions that seems to run in families. You often hear things like, “My mother was a teacher, her father before her, and our family chalkboard goes back generations.”

Not in my case.

In fact, I remember my Carysfort College interview vividly. This was back in the '80s, when just getting enough points in your Leaving Cert wasn’t enough — oh no. You also had to survive a triathlon of interviews: English, Irish, and Music. I think I blacked out during "Báidín Fheilimí."

At one point, they asked, “So, any teachers in the family?”
I froze. “Eh... no.”
I was sure that was it. Career over. Thanks for playing. But miraculously, they let me in anyway — probably due to my heartfelt rendition of Doe, a deer.

Fast forward to today, when I was thumbing through Tales of Westmeath – History and Folklore from The Schools Collection by Shay Callaghan (yes, the same book that earned me "Topper Niece" status last week — I’m still clinging to that crown).

One entry caught my eye — a piece about the hedge schools that sprang up before 1832, when it was illegal for Catholic children to be educated. Despite the risks and the dire wages (we’re talking a penny a week, folks), brave teachers set up secret schools all over the place.

And there, in an account from Ballinvally Boys’ School, was mention of a Master Lynam. This is not too far from where Granda Lynam's people came from.

Cue dramatic music.

 

Could this be one of my ancestors? Is that where my teaching gene came from — smuggled down through generations like contraband chalk?

Granted, I’m not thrilled at the idea of being paid in pennies (unless it’s vintage coins on eBay). But the whole “residing in a rich man’s house in the district” sounds quite posh. Especially if that house includes central heating and someone else doing the ironing.

So maybe, just maybe, teaching does run in the family. It just took a couple of centuries to kick in.

---

Challenge Status: Still learning
Mood: Feeling oddly inspired… and also underpaid

Day 11 of the 100 Days of Summer Challenge: Plot Twist—Even summer has rainy weekdays

 

Okay, let’s talk.

This 100 Days of Summer Challenge?
Turns out, it’s not all sunshine, Magnums, and spontaneous road trips.

Shocking, I know.

Sure, I’ve got big events circled in neon on the calendar—music weekend, beach days, trip to London, maybe even skydiving if I stop Googling "skydiving mishaps" at 2 a.m.

But it’s the in-between days that are sneakily difficult. The quiet, grey, start-of-the-week, oh-look-it’s-raining-again type of days. The kind where your “adventure” is discovering a mystery Tupperware in the back of the fridge. (Spoiler: it was not edible.)

Come to think of it, the clue was in the name: 100 days. As in, every single day. Not "some days when I feel like it" or "just the weekends and maybe the occasional Tuesday."

So now, I’ve taken matters into my own hands. I’ve dusted off my bookshelf—literally, because these books haven’t seen the light of day since 2019—and I’m crafting a backup plan. A low-effort, rain-friendly, Tuesday-proof list of mini adventures.

Think:

·         Baking something that doesn't involve setting off the smoke alarm.

·         Finally starting that book I keep lying about having read.

·         Inventing a new dance move called “The Slippery Sock” while cleaning the kitchen floor.

·         Or, of course, continuing my epic knitting quest. (Project update: still unclear what it is. May be a scarf. May be a wool-based existential crisis.)

So yes, I’m improvising. But isn’t that half the fun?

Stay tuned—because even when it’s drizzling and I’m knee-deep in laundry, this challenge is still on.

Barely. But still

 

Day 10: From Satzenbrau to Scientology- a Friendship Mission

 

Something happened  that made me think about what sets "best friends" apart from just regular friends.

But to explain, we have to rewind all the way back to 1986 — a time of perms, shoulder pads, and Satzenbrau.

I had just landed my first teaching job and was looking for somewhere to live. My lovely secondary school pal Majella tipped me off about a house share with two fellas and a girl named Genevieve. Majella swore we’d get on famously, especially with Genevieve, who she described as "quiet and reserved."

Spoiler alert: she lied.

The night I moved in, Genevieve was out at a teacher meeting. So, off I went to the pub with the two lads for a bonding pint or two. We returned later to find every light in the house blazing. The lads immediately panicked. "That’s not like Gen," they whispered.

Then we heard it — a rhythmic thud coming from upstairs.

As her boyfriend Vincent wasn't there that night we knew it wasn't that making the noise:

"Gen, are you alright?"

A muffled voice replied, "Of course... hic! Come in."

We peered in like the three bears spying on Goldilocks, to find Genevieve, fully dressed with her nightie worn over her clothes, repeatedly knocking her head against the wall.

Turns out she had gone out for drinks after the meeting and had, for the first time ever, sampled alcohol. Two bottles of Satzenbrau. Lightweight.

She squinted at me and said, "Oh, you must be the new girl. I'm so sorry. I'm not usually like this, hic...thud."

I looked at her and thought, Someone was lying about how quiet you are... I think we’re going to get on just fine. 

And the rest, as they say, is history.

Not long after, we went to see the hot new release Cocktail, starring a young lad named Tom Cruise. And just like that, Genevieve was smitten. A lifelong crush was born.

I leaned more toward George Clooney (that head tilt and those eyebrows), but Genevieve’s loyalty to Tom never wavered. Not through the Scientology years, not through the Oprah couch jump, not even when he ditched Katie Holmes and Suri.

She’s so loyal, in fact, that Vincent, her now husband, accepts Tom as her official Hall Pass.

And so, 37 years later, there we were — Genevieve and me, heading to see Mission Impossible: Dead Reckoning (or whatever increasingly dramatic title they’re on now). This time, Vincent and their kids Briain and Sadhbh came along, too.

The film was two hours of improbable stunts held together by a threadbare plot — exactly what we came for.

By the time the credits rolled, I was so worn out I felt like I’d swum into that submarine and clung to the outside of that airplane.

As we left the cinema, Genevieve and I hung back to have a quiet word, as only best friends can.

We agreed: Tom is looking just as good now as he did 37 years ago.

                               

Though in fairness, he’s probably saying the same thing about us.

Challenge status: Still hanging on, just like Tom on a cliff edge.

Mood: Nostalgic, giddy, and possibly converted to Scientology (just kidding... probably).

Day 9: My Only Winner wore a Waistcoat!

 

I headed off to Kilbeggan Races to try my luck. It was purely a coincidence that today was Best Dressed Guy competition. I mean, that's not my scene at all!

I had the usual wander around the racecourse, placed a few bets, and studied the form... the horses, of course. Though truthfully, I may have been slightly distracted by the brogues and blazers!

When it came time to announce the finalists for Best Dressed Guy I just happened to be at the enclosure where it was taking place. Total coincidence. Honest. (Okay, maybe I loitered a little.)

And can I just say — it was brilliant to see the men getting judged for their style for a change. Equality in fashion scrutiny at last!

When the winner was announced, I gave a cheer. I’d spotted him earlier and thought, "Now there's a chap who knows how to wear a suit." He was the only winner I picked all day

.

Which just goes to prove: I should stick to what I know — fashion over fillies.

Challenge status: Still fabulous.
Mood: Slightly poorer, but sartorially smug.