The thing about holidays is that you get into long lazy mornings, longer lazy afternoons, every day feels like Sunday, the bed gets warmer, the couch gets cozier, the sex gets better, everything becomes quiet, languid, slow, no structure, no order, just a delicious sense … Continue reading It’s over
‘Maybe this is the time to experiment with drugs,’ I suggested to my difficult friend while talking about the whole awful cunt Trump thing.
The problem with difficult men is that they have no sense of humour.
‘What do you mean Violet, this is not a time for drugs, this is a time for deep reflection, for looking inward, for…’
‘Oh for fucks sake, I’m kidding, I’m trying to find ways to deal with the world, a bit of LSD…’
‘Reflection, Violet, reflection. Lets see why people voted this way, what they…’
Jesus. I just want to talk about something light. Fun. Quirky.
Anything that is not Trump.
‘No drugs then. Fine. What else can we do?’
I made a few more suggestions…
Write a play together?
Rob a bank?
Join a cult.
He looked at me like I was mad.
‘The thing about Trump,’ he went on…
‘Polygamy,’ I tried.
He was very quiet for a while.
‘You know I don’t believe in marriage Violet, I’m never going to have one wife, why on earth would I have two…’
WHY DO I EVEN TRY.
He has no fucking sense of humour.
He is not funny.
He doesn’t want to do drugs.
And I meant polyamory not polygamy but everyone gets them mixed up and who cares.
It’s very hard to like a man without a sense of humour.
But I do love him a little bit.
And that does make it tricky.
I’m sitting in my coffee shop trying to write about poverty and politics but there are wedding planners at the table next to me and it’s been pretty hard to focus.
They’re talking dresses, flowers and cocktails and well, I’m getting very bloody excited.
The bride’s going to wear pink, the groom white, and the Boston Terrier is bearing the rings. The wedding planners are flouncing about and super enthusiastic. They’ve totally taken over my table and I’m tasting wedding cake and trying out champagne too.
I have become a Wedding Planner.
Every time I agree with them I shout out YESS YESS and I guess because they don’t know my history of weddings and planning and dresses, men, husbands and disaster, they’re taking me very seriously.
We’ve just decided on Japanese whisky, tons of rose petals and flower crowns.
This is going well.
It’s a yes to the extra salmon as the groom just loves salmon, also caviar linguini as there has to be a carbohydrate in the mix.
And lobster. Anything lobster.
But it’s a no to the extra tier on the wedding cake and suddenly this has become a sad wedding.
How can anyone say no to an extra tier? Especially when there are only eight.
Especially when it’s chocolate raspberry vanilla cream.
‘We’re trying to keep the costs down, Violet,’ Chief Planner Number One minced at me.
‘Remember our goals.’
Fine, fine, I said, although I have no idea what our goals are and I suddenly remembered that I was trying to write about poverty and injustice and had somehow become waylaid by merriment and meringue.
I decided to leave them to the planning.
I moved to a different table. But not before suggesting I perhaps come to the wedding to officiate. Or at least give a speech.
I feel that by now I know the couple well.
They’re taking my offer under consideration.
Maybe I’ll crack an invite. Maybe I’ll get to try Japanese whisky.
Maybe I’ll just write about poverty.