This is entirely fiction. Completely. Utterly. Except for any true bits
August 2nd. 9.17am. Am disturbed in a moment’s contemplation by First Of Her Name: ‘Are doing the bloody Sudoku in there again? I need you here.’
‘Coming Sunlight Of My Joy.’ Hurriedly place said puzzle on windowsill and begin to finish up. No paper. ‘Diamond in my Firmament, could you perhaps facilitate my swift exit by providing me with some paper consumables?’
‘I need a loo roll.’
‘I know you’ve got that Sudoku; the page is missing from the newspaper.’
‘Indeed, that is especially perspicacious of you.’
‘Well, do something useful with it.’
A slow horror dawns. I can either (a) finish the super fiendish and be belaboured about the head for delaying whatever it is that is exercising her, or (b) give up my puzzle for an unbruised cranium. (b) wins.
‘Yes, Oh Crepuscular Wonder?’
I am always thrown by these presentations of mere unexplained statements. What, pray, is a wedding favour? Some rosette one pins on the bride? First Of Her Name understands my silence as utter befuddlement. ‘They’re gifts that the guests take with them as reminders of a perfect day. You’re in charge.’
‘Of which aspect, Wondrous Glow? Design? Procurement? Mere financing?’ I am confident it is at best the last element and at worst the last two.’
Something suspiciously like a smile crosses those Awe-full lips. ‘Everything. First Born wants something unique, useful and a reminder of the day.’
10.23am. Google tells me the usual suspects for these favours are artfully designer bags of sweet treats, biscuits iced with the happy couples names or image, and small pots of oils and ointments. While that seems easy enough, when I check on pricing I find the decimal point is further to the right than that Ghoul in a Grey Suit, the Transylvanian Member for the 1950s, Jacob Rees-Tosser*. This needs thought.
7.22pm. In Pub with Male Heir and the Fiancé, discussing rescuing the planet (I misheard at first, thought they said ‘rescuing the plants’ and said I thought frosts in July were unlikely, to which Male Heir responded with a lecture on the impacts of Climate Change. Fiancé adds that First Born ‘is equally passionate’ in her fears of the looming end of the world; I explain I’m more concerned about the end of the week if I haven’t sorted these favours). End evening promising to ‘do my bit’.
9.13pm. A brainwave. Google provides me with a way to answer both days’ conundrums; viz a wedding favour that channels my inner Attenborough. For half the price of bespoke hobnobs, I can obtained recycled (using left over Government white papers) toilet rolls embossed with the images, on alternate sheets, of First Born and Fiancé. Contemplate adding First Of Her Name every fourth sheet but cost considerations prevent that plan. I order 200 rolls. Unique – tick; useful – tick; a reminder of the day – every time the guest visits the little room they will see their smiling faces, tick.
10.44pm. First Of Her Name in bed, rubbing golden goose fat into her eyelids when I appear. Asks ‘what kept you at that thing – viz the laptop – so long?’ Consider confessing to my brilliant plan but decide to leave it. She will be stressed come the Big Day and my cunning plan is sure to amaze her. Fall into pleasant sleep, knowing for once I have done the ‘right’ thing. Imagine guests applauding my wit and my environmental compassion.
*an oblique reference to a Brexit supporting Tory Member of Parliament whose bloodless mien and strident views make him a darling of those who are hard of thinking