I just figured out why I always get hit on.
Sunburned and bruised (only monstres can manage to get bruised practicing Kung Fu stances out in the grass behind a celtic festival) and slightly tipsy from guinness and far more sunlight than I've had this year - princess and greg and brian and a handful of others and I wandered along the damp and springy grass on the grounds of the Douglas Hospital for the Insane.
I danced a fast-paced britannic waltz on the front steps of a looney bin.
I love that.
And everywhere I turned... Beautiful women in medieval garb, stunning young men with leather bracers laced to their wrists, flowing burnished copper locks afloat in the breeze.
And then my breath stopped (as it is wont to do) on the Most Beautiful Woman I have ever seen.
I can't describe her, I don't know how, she was heart-achingly lovely, her hair a fiery copper that curled about her face the way gilded frames do about renaissance Angels.
A touch of white in her gathered blouse brought out the roses in her cheeks, somehow her lashes, thicker and longer than a paintbrush, touched an ethereal emerald to her eyes that held my stare until she turned in my direction and I blushed and scurried off after my princess.
Further along the rows of tents, I stopped a lovely young lass and praised her on her beautiful dress, I paused to hug another girl, tell another man from the indian reserves south of here how stunning I thought his hair that fell below his hips was.
But I couldn't, Brave, Indestructible, foolhardy-try-anything-several-times-to-make-sure-I-might-not-like-it, Monstre - couldn't think of a word in my head to say to this girl.
I made my excuses to be able to brush past her a few times, and each time felt the familiar urge to say something wonderful to a stranger - but, just, couldn't.
Apparently there is a cap to my arrogant confidence, and she was beyond my reach.
Today.
If we go back tonight for the fiddlers, I'll seek her out and speak my mind to her, but in the meantime,
I know why it is so easy to talk to me.