Omagod! World take note. I actually have my own blog. After years of reading Britney and Victoria's I now have my own part of cyperspace to talk about stuff and set up polls on burning issues- just like TV3 news! I'd make a fabulous news anchor if anyone out there wants to offer me a job!

So, 2007 so far, guys?! New Year, New STUFF! I'm so happy with my Christmas loot. Well, vouchers for purchasing loot. As if I'd let my mother choose clothes for me. She thinks it's ok to wear a necklace with a polo neck. She actually showed up to my graduation with a hat. I was like 'Martina, this is a Media Studies graduation, not Winning Streak'. So I RANSACKED Dundrum last weekend and now look like a total ride. I was wearing my Uggs and new denim mini when Nools called over last night. I could tell she was thinking it was so two years ago so I just pointed to the be-Ugged Lindsay Lohan on the cover of Now! to nip any 'What happened to your Stella McCartney thigh-high' comments in the bud. It's not like Nools has a clue about fashion anyway. She just likes to catch me out. But I'm poised like a catwalk puma, ready to pounce on any seasonal faux pas.

Just had a mental week. It all started when Nools and I had arranged to go see The Holiday in Dundrum. In many ways we are like Cameron Diaz and Kate Winslet. I'm the glamourous fun one and she's the earthy one with the big hips. It's so weird the way you hang out with schoolfriends who are freaks of nature. I suppose you start out at the same level of freakiness. Although I NEVER thought it was ok to walk around with calamine lotion on my spots the way she did. She works on a stall in Georges Arcade that sells stuff you'd find in a twelve year olds bedroom. She thinks I'm crazy to work for my Dad but at least I'm using my media diplocert in his consultancy. Not everyone can say they work in PR, Marketing and Advertising. The only reason I still live at home at 22 is so Dad and I can liaise on stuff 24/7.

'Nuala's here, Aoiphe' says Mum (cringefully wearing a hickey neckscarf tied with a brooch). She knows I don't do door answering during Home and Away or The O.C.

Nools looks quite shifty as she sits there waiting for the end credits to roll.

'We're not going to the flicks' she says staring at the floor (still obviously dubious about my Uggs). I freak out and demand an explaination.

'Calm down' she goes. 'I got two tickets for Bell X1'.

I was like 'If you think I'm going to an Indie boy band in a venue smelling of Lynx you're very much mistaken'.

Surprisingly, there was no smell of Lynx. I decided to think positive since I copped a massive opportunity. Nools's sister Milsean knows the drummer Tim from school where they met doing Irish debating or some nerd socialising. He offered her the tickets but she couldn't go because she was organising a Ceili for the kids she teaches. I feel so sorry for those poor kids. Anyway, I knew that Tim went to the same rugby mad school as Denis Hickie. If he invited Milsean I reckoned he'd more than likely have his asked his mates (I personally would tell all the girls in my old school if I was supporting Hilary Duff or something). If I could work my charms on the Hickmeister then maybe I could get to meet his team mate- Celtic Love God- Donnacha O'Callaghan. My knees tremble in my Uggs as I type his name.

I left Nools to enjoy the music in a Fundamentalist Christian style trance up the front. I wove my way through the crowd looking for Hickie's fluffy head. Tragically, there didn't seem to be anyone there who would appreciate rugby, let alone play it.

Then I spotted a sign for Oxfam. I thought it would probably just be Peruvian hats and tiny boxes with badly glued bits of mirror but headed over anyway because I have a shopping addiction. What I found was not dodgy, incense scented merchandise, but a boy with leaflets and a large book. Not just any boy though. He had the head of Samantha's boyfriend in Sex and the City and the body of Donnacha O'Callaghan.

Imagine the babies we could make.

I was actually imagining these babies when he said hi and made me totally blush. Then I dropped my bag so I could bend and snap. It was all a bit rushed though and I probably looked completely mad. We got talking and he was telling me about Oxfam and I was like yeah, great, whatever, until he mentioned donating old clothes. I'm like 'Hello? If anyone has clothes they need to bin (I mean donate) it's me'. Then he must have felt a connection because he offered me his number. She shoots, she scores.

Like most career girls, I've read 'The Rules' and I know I'm supposed to wait several days before calling a guy. But I also knew I shouldn't have had a point-tastic lunch last Monday, but went ahead and ate 5 points worth of lasagne, garlic bread and cheesecake before throwing caution to the wind and ringing Basil. It was so cute the way he gave me his landline- very 1995. A husky woman answered, breathily introducing herself as Ella Osfem. Well of course he'd have a hot mom. Or sister for that matter. Although I'm usually not keen on dating men with hot sisters because they'd make bridesmaids that would be a bit too good looking. After all, I don't want to look like a dog on my wedding day. I divert. So I ask if I can speak to Basil and she just dropped the phone! I suppose I totally do that when one of my mum's golf trouts rings and I'm glued to America's Next Top Model. So Basil comes on the phone and I actually feel myself pulling a redner as I tell him who I am. He's like 'Yeah, great, of course I remember you. Are you still interested?' I'm like duh! So say 'Well, I have to check my diary' and he's all 'Why don't you pop round tomorrow and we'll see how we get on'. I'm thinking that's very forward. He gives me a Georges St address and I'm thinking if he has a gaff in town I'm sorted. Mintage central. I get an early night after laying out my outfit for my date. I'll look so hot after all my beauty sleep that his Hot Momsister will look like Jackiey Goody.

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I had some trouble finding the address. He'd given me 'Wicklow House' but it appeared to be an Oxfam Shop. I was mega confused but then saw him in the window. and hid. I sprinted (hard to do in new stilettos) down to Nools's stall in the Arcade to have a huddle on the matter.

'You knew he worked in Oxfam, didn't you?' she said, 'And he was at a gig trying to get people interested. You definitely appeared to be interested from where I was standing. I mean, I had to throw your coat on your head to get you to leave'. True, but I thought we had a connection. 'He wanted you go and talk to him about doing something for Oxfam, you muppet' she cruelly pointed out.

After about an hour of her blabbering at me I decided to go and talk to Basil. There was a slim chance that he still just wanted me for my body. And Nools was busy selling luminous tights. So I grabbed a smoothie (to look laid back and stuff) and took out a bunch of keys ( to look trés busy in case I'd to make a quick getaway) and sashayed back down to his shop. I held my head up and was just opening the door when he came bursting out and spilt my smoothie all down my Ralph Lauren top. It was SO that scene in Notting Hill where Hugh Grant bumps in to Julia Roberts. So I'm thinking maybe he'll take me back to his flat to change and we can get it on and stuff. It took him a good seven minutes to recognise me as he feebly patted my top in that 'I'm not molestering you but want to help' way. At last I was like 'Basil, it's me. Aoiphe. I was talking to you yesterday?' and he goes 'Wow! You look different. You're so orange and your hair's so straight!' Boys are rubbish. However, he had nice big veiny hands so I forgave him. So my top is ruined. He suggested I look at the tops they had in the shop. I'm imagining me on the 46A dressed like Mary Harney and am about to politely refuse when he pulls out this Chloe gem of a top. I can't believe how gorge it is and it's only 15 squids! I shell out and take the top. And another five items, including a fab pair of Seven for All Mankind jeans. This place is a treasure trove. I hung out there for a good hour and he was really sweet. I remembered what he said about donating stuff so I told him I'd see him tomorrow with some loot. I'm totally in love.

Nools called in but I was too busy to talk I had so much stuff to go through. She reminded me that I was missing a new episode of America's Next Top Model but I'd decided to watch the repeat instead. She knew something was up as I never do that in case there's a power cut. She saw my reaction to my mother taping the news instead of the season finale of The O.C. It wasn't pretty. Anyway, I had about sixteen bin liners full of clothes. I don't even offer Nools any because let's just say she has her own style (and gi-normous hips). Dad said I could borrow his SUV to drop it in. I agreed to drop Nools to work even though she's like anti-fuel guzzlers. Hippies are so fickle when it suits them. Basil was delighted with the haul. I offered to stay and help him sort it when I hear an aggressive humming sound. I turned round and there's this tall, leggy blonde with huge nostrils. I suppose she needs something to draw attention away from her ludicrous cleavage.

'Aoiphe, this is Mapi' Basil says. I'm like 'Mapi?' and she goes 'Marie Antoinette Patrice Isabelle'. Whatever. My name is Aoiphe Roberta Sonia Erika but I don't go by an acronym! She was the one who answered the phone to me and said Hello Oxfam, not Ella Osfem. God, sometimes I wonder how I managed to get a diplocert I can be so thick. So we have a cosy session sorting out my clothes where Mapi laughs at everything Basil says and makes a curious raspberry sound at everything I say.