Look, here’s the thing. Tom Cairn is here for the wrong reasons. It’s so obvious. And I’m not a man who bemoans romance, but I think you’d agree, there’s a time and place. And I tell you what, the Thursday evening Trad class just isn’t the time, and it isn’t the place.
Sure, you could bounce a quarter off of that jawline, and I don’t blame the ladies for being charmed a little. A little. But for a collection of people (women) who have allegedly grown to expect, on an evolutionary level, a bit of subtlety, I just don’t understand what they see in Tom Cairn.
Plus, he’s a widower, and that always—it does something, doesn’t it? The lasses are always yammering on about, “Oh poor Tom Cairn, I should make him a Shepard’s Pie.” Etcetera. Like it’s as if his tragic story somehow changes the fact that he couldn’t dance himself out of a Galway bus station?
It’s like I always say, “Court ladies on your own time. This is traditional Irish dance class.”
Apparently they like him in the uniform, too
