She suddenly storts whistling. Stunning as she is, this girl is a hard hat and a Polish passport away from being a construction worker

She has brains to burn, but more importantly she's, like, seriously low- maintenance. So I'm thinking, no bird could be this perfect. Lo and behold . . .

Birds-wise, my life has become a bit of a plate-spinning act. Up until this week, I had three on the go, the pick of which, I would have to say, was Cora Callorie - and not just because she's a ringer for Heidi Montag.

She has brains to burn, this bird - we're talking second year PR and event management here - but more importantly she was seriously low-maintenance, knew all about my rep as a ladies' man but wanted no exclusive rights over me.

Sunday night, roysh, we're walking Dún Laoghaire pier and she's telling me that she has no interest in, like, being with anyone else at the moment, but if I had anything else in my in-tray she was, like, totally cool with that.

So I'm thinking, oh my God, no bird could be this perfect. There has to be, like, something wrong with her, when all of a sudden - we're talking, out of the blue here - she suddenly storts whistling. Not that sort of, like, under-your-breath, nervous whistling either. We're talking proper whistling, as in whistling an actual tune, like a focking tradesman.

Of course I don't want to come straight out and go, "Er - what do you think you're doing?" so instead I try to tell her subtly, because it's nice to be nice.

I'm like, "What's that - Yellow Submarine, is it?" and Cora goes, "Yeah, I'm not even a Beatles fan, but it's been in my head, like, all day?" Still, she doesn't take the hint, though. On and on it goes, all the way to the end of the pier, then all the way back again, 27 verses, the same number of choruses, and she doesn't miss a note.

It's, like, half an hour ago, I wanted to have my sweaty way with her - now I feel like Huck Finn to her Tom Sawyer, two little rapscallions kicking tin cans and running away from home in search of adventure.

It's 48 hours before my libido recovers and then we're in her gaff - aportments in Ticknock - settling down to watch a chicklit movie that I know my way around - One Fine Day, featuring Clooney as a chorming, wisecracking newspaper columnist - a role I can identify with - and Pfeiffer as a smart but vulnerable architect.

Ten minutes in, roysh, I'm as horny as a bogger's dog and I'm thinking maybe we'll take this show upstairs when Cora decides to suddenly make popcorn. She disappears into the kitchen, from where, over the sound of those little seeds exploding in the pot, I can hear her whistling what sounds very much to me like New York, New York.

It's seriously off-putting. Stunning and all as she is, this girl is a hard hat and a Polish passport away from being a construction worker.

Those of you who know me will probably be shocked that there was an actual third date. But, like I said, she was perfect in every other way, so Thursday night I agreed to meet her in Tiger Becs in Dalkey, deciding I'd try to put this really irritating habit of hers to the back of my mind by just concentrating on her boat race.

So we're there, roysh, and for storters, Cora orders the wonton soup and I ask for, like, the chicken satay skewers, and Cora happens to mention that - oh my God - she cannot go near satay because she's, like, seriously allergic to nuts - they make her, like, so sick.

Then she excuses herself and hits the TK Maxx. While she's gone, Oisinn rings and after, like, 60 seconds of shooting the shit, he happens to go, "How's Roger, by the way?" I'm like, "Who?" And he goes, "Roger Whittaker - that's her nickname, Ross." I just, like, freeze to the spot.

He goes, "The whistling doesn't bother you, no?" I can't even bring myself to answer the goy.

He's like, "I know a couple of dudes who went out with her - we're talking big-time love here - but the whistling drove them chicken oriental. It'll get you eventually . . . " I hang up feeling like I've been, I don't know, taken for a ride here.

It's, like, major humiliation.

The storters arrive and, out of mostly anger, I end up doing something that I wouldn't be a hundred per cent proud of.

I give Cora's soup a good stir with one of my chicken satay skewers.

So she comes back from the can, sits down and asks me what's wrong. I'm there, "Er, nothing," and she's like, "Cool," then storts tucking into her soup.

Bear in mind, roysh, I've decided that me and Cora are parting company tonight and I couldn't spend the next two hours looking at her. I'm also thinking, how bad could a nut allergy be? In 10 minutes time, she'll be outside, spitting chunks on Castle Street and I'll be home in time for Podge and Rodge.

"Have you seen the lights on Grafton Street," she goes, by way of conversation. "I can't actually believe it's nearly Christmas," and I'm thinking, yeah, you won't feel the time going before you're whistling Frosty the Snowman.

I look up, roysh, and - I swear, this is not an exaggeration - I actually jump back with fright when I see Cora's boat, because it's like something out of a horror movie. Her forehead has storted to, like, swell, as has her left ear, to pretty much the size of a baseball glove.

"Is it just me or is it particularly hot in here?" she goes.

I'm about to answer when I hear a voice behind me go, "My God - what have you eaten?" I turn around and this goy - another diner, basically - is rushing over to our table. "I'm a doctor," he's giving it. "I need to know what you've eaten." Cora looks at me in, like, total shock. "Nothing," she goes.

I'm there, "Er, well, she has, like, a nut allergy?" and when the doctor looks at me, obviously wanting more, I'm like, "I stirred her soup with one of my chicken satay skewers," which sounds bad the way it comes out.

"Are you insane?" he shouts - actually shouts - at me. "You could have killed her," and he tells someone, anyone, to phone for an ambulance. Then he stabs her with what turns out to be an adrenaline pen.

Cora looks at me with her big cartoon face and goes, "Ross . . . Why?" and I go, "I just didn't know how else to end it," which draws, like, howls of disgust from pretty much every table in the place.

She goes, "Oh my God, you are a total and utter . . . " and I'm there, "Whatever word you're thinking of using - believe me, I've heard a thousand times before." The ambulance arrives. By that stage, she's storted to look a bit better, it has to be said, as they load her onto the stretcher and wheel her out of the place.

I might have imagined this but I even thought I heard her whistle.

Something by Leona Lewis, I think.