Doney has left the building

[In case you're not au fait with the lingo, Doney is the younger, less successful brother; a bit incompetent in the family's chosen field, perhaps a bit of an embarrassment to his more famous sibling. Doney Hendrix plays the ukelele. Doney van Gogh can only paint sunflower seeds. Etc.]

Doney Casanova moved out this morning, back home to mammy and daddy with his tail between his legs, having lived the past five months as if London actually was the city of boundless glamour as mentioned below. Our local, which has just secured a licence to open until 4am, is going to go bust.

We did a little verbal tango this morning - "Thanks for everything", "Sure, we'll see you again in no time", "I'll be back Paddy's week" - which is what guys to when they're going to miss each other. It was great having him here, even if, because of my work schedule, we didn't get to hang out every night. The Special One has buddies nearby in Kilburn, and even a few in college, no matter how much she complains about the 18-year-old bimbos; I have fewer social outlets. I get on fine with a few people at work, but it's not like at De Paper, where we'd finish in time for a drink, there was a pub under the office and everything was five minutes' walk away; finishing work at 11.30pm or 12am means a) the pubs are shut, and b) everyone's got a long journey home to make - at that time of night, once more unto the breach of London's famous central London, stone-cold sober, isn't very appealing. I guess I could keep a hipflask under my desk, but it's that kind of attitude that led to Doney Casanova's downfall in the first place.

There's no-one quite like Doney Casanova for a few hi-jinx. Whether it's spinning around a car-park in a trolley, sitting at the bar laughing about our sitcom, or skinny-dipping in the bayeau, Doney Casanova's your man. Of course he can be a grown-up if the situation absolutely requires, but for the most part, he's about sheer, sometimes childish, enjoyment - if it feels good, sure why the feck not - and that's quite the stress-buster. We used to tease the Special One sometimes, usually about some joke that she wasn't getting herself, which would annoy her, but like all of the fun we have together, it's meant in a purely no harm, no foul, kind of way. And, of course, it worked vice versa too - we're both very hard to upset. (He's also going to be my best man, which scares the Special One a little; well, she fears for my life, really.)

So, as will the local, I'm going to miss Doney Casanova. The plan is that he works with his old man for a couple of months, saves some money and comes back, hopefully having learnt his lesson, but it's hard to call - the lure of home-cooking, being chauffered to work instead of tubes and buses, the old faces and places - so we'll just have to wait and see. In the meantime, we've plenty of people set to come and stay - the Baby-Faced Assassin, Cousin Rashers, possibly Twitchy, which I haven't mentioned to the Special One for fear of the moaning and whining - but none of them really match up to Doney Casanova.

He drank late, he slept in, he spent all his money - hell, he even pulled, three times by my count - will we ever see his like again? Here's hoping.