This is entirely fiction. Completely. Utterly. Except for any true bits
July 1st. Told to meet First Of Her Name in town ‘to help me chose.’
Terror grips all morning as I speculate what it is I am to help choose.
In normal circumstances our marriage has remained steadfastly democratic: if we are to acquire anything new, be it a sofa or fridge or wall paper, we are both involved in the decision process thus:
- The First Of Her Name determines three possibilities;
- I am asked to choose which I think works best, having regard to all elements -viz, style, cost, suitability, availability etc;
- I choose and communicate my decision as de facto head of house to the chief operating officer;
- The COO informs me if I have chosen correctly; and
- If I have not I am given a further two opportunities.
In the case of the Wedding, these arrangements have apparently been suspended. At 3pm I am summoned to ‘Williams, Millinery’. Heart sinks quicker than a concrete crouton.
I am presented with three hats. The first appears to be a felt representation of the Shard. Decide on humour. ‘I suppose the periscope will help you see who is objecting to the Wedding at the back of the Church.’
After stopping nose bleed, I view number two. It is circular in a startling red and is what is described as a fascinator. ‘What does it remind sir of?’ says the grammatically ignorant flunky.
The urge to say ‘a placenta’ is all but overwhelming. With my mind blank, I fumble for anything that might avoid further violence. ‘A Bakewell Pudding?’ I volunteer and begin to weave to the left.
To my surprise The First Of Her Name turns on the flunky. ‘I told you!’
We appear to be left with the last one. It is in a rainbow of stripes with a wide brim. It is completely wrong. She puts it on and her whole face is hidden from view. I look at the flunky. He nods; I nod.
‘Perfect,’ we both intone.
She emerges smiling. Everyone is happy. All expectations have been met.
She buys the periscope.