I've written a novel.  That means I'm an intellectual. Please note.

Popeye and me. He's the one in blue.

 

 

Marigold says...

 

This blog post thingie is all me, including the photos. Feel free to stop reading now. 

 

 People keep asking G when he's going to write another book. No chance. Been there, done that. I did like the idea of having lots of different names like when G wrote his books, four different names, I think and I kept forgetting what to call him. He wrote half a dozen books, or was it seven, sold millions of them, (not actually millions, but a lot), but writing books leaves no time for anything else and we much  prefer our life as it is now, poor but happy. Not even poor, but definitely happy. Anyway, G says it's my turn next. 

 

The very idea of me writing a book, a proper book... I started one once. Here it is. G loved it. He's very loyal. I thought better write chick-lit as they don't have be any good, or not the ones I've read anyway. G made the punctuation make sense and checked word count and it seems I have written less than one percent of a book. That's it then. They reckon everyone has a book in them. Well, it seems I have almost one percent of a book in me and this is it. I can retire as a novelist now. 

 

The photos are nothing to do with the subject as that would be boring. G found some more pics, some of them are of me with celebrities. Hillary Clinton gets Katie Perry, I get Popeye. I know who got the best deal. Just hope Katie Perry didn't smell as bad as Popeye did. 

 

There's no title. Is that important or not? Probably is, but am a trendsetting novelist so no title. Will just have a blank cover and people will buy it because it's intriguing. Or cheap. Here goes. 

 

 

Wedding Day.

 

5.00AM. Bloody hell, rain, rain, rain. Sitting on the toilet, having had first bath of the day and third fag. Must give up, Gordon doesn’t approve. Wish Mum and Dad would get up and tell me the weather will improve. 

 

I’ve only known Gordon for eight months, so don’t know him at all really. I’ve got nervous diarrhoea. What if I fart going down the aisle and it’s a really wet one and soaks through my dress. Start laughing and have to cover face with towel. Tried to sleep, got big bags under eyes, but no good. I’m 22 going on 12; Gordon is 26 going on 45. What am I doing? This is mad. 

 

So, he’s good looking, well fairly good looking, plus he’s the only man who’s ever asked me to marry him. Which must mean something. Mustn’t it? He’s really sensible, which everyone says will be good for me, got a really good job with enough dosh to keep three wives, and as my Mum says, I’ll have to go a long way to find better. So get your head together Rachel, and be happy.  Think maybe I’ll have another bath and then maybe clank some dishes around in the kitchen and get people up.

 

9 o’clock now and the makeup artist has arrived.  Her name is Sam.  She is blonde and wearing pink leggings, so from a distance she looks nude.  My mother has arranged all this carry-on.  Do your best, Sam.  

 

Half an hour later, make-up in place, nails painted fuscia, I go into the bathroom to inspect.  OMG!  I look like a New York transvestite.  Sam is doing my mother at the moment and I can’t wash it off till she’s gone.  The false eyelashes are the worst, really tacky.  What if I can’t take them off and they take root?

 

“Rachel,” mum  screeches?”

 

“I’m just on the toilet, mum, won’t be a mo”.

 

"Sam’s gone, dear, isn’t she marvellous?  Come out as quick as you can and let me see you.”

 

Feeling safe, start to wash the gunge off my face.  Have to soften the cruddy eyelashes with loads of hot water.  My eyes are going to look as if I’ve got hay-fever, bloody stupid Sam.  Perhaps when I get them  off, I’ll stick them on the end of my nipples and give Gordon a fright.  At last they fall off and I have to poke them down the sink, as they just lie there like hairy caterpillars.  I reach for my own make-up and bung on a bit of mascara and some pale pink lippy, really minimalist after all that other stuff.

 

Sneaking out of the bathroom, I bump into mum on the landing.  I want to scream, this is what my mother will look when she’s dead.  Standing there is her Victorian nighty, her face embalmed.  

 

“Darling,” she says, “you look lovely. It pays to have an expert to do these things.  That Sam really knows what she’s doing.”

 

“Mum”, I lie, “you look gorgeous”.

 

All the way to the church dad whistles “get me to the church on time”.  My nerves are frayed, and if he doesn’t stop I’ll…..

 

Suddenly, the car skids onto the pavement bumping over something.

 

“What the hell was that?”

 

“Oh nothing,” the driver says calmly, “I just ran over a cat.”  

 

I’m well away now, screaming for him to stop and check if it is dead, or just horribly injured.  This is such a bad omen.  The car stops and then backs up.  There is a bit of blood  but no cat.  I start hunting in the bushes and a crowd gathers.  They see me in my wedding dress and probably imagine it’s some ritualistic thing where I’m offering my blood to Christ.  

 

Finally, off we go again.  By now I am on the verge of a panic attack.  I have all the symptoms and worse.  All I can think about is the cat.  Perhaps when today is over I’ll put an advert in the paper “was your cat run over on ….did it survive?” but, what if someone replies saying it got back home, crawled into the kitchen, horribly mutilated, and breathed its last breath.  Maybe I won’t bother.  They might even say it crawled in on its one remaining leg, looked up with its one remaining eye, opened its crushed jaw and died.  Definitely won’t bother.  

 

We arrive at the church 15 minutes late, dad moaning that his suit is uncomfortable and his shoes hurt.  I tell him that if he was wearing my suspender belt, he would really have something to moan about.  Into the church now, everybody looking sort of pink or blue.  My two little bridesmaids loving it to bits.  What’s aunty Doris got on her head?   Surely not the squashed cat.  There’s Gordon, bless him, very smart with a pale grey cravat.  All I hear as I go down the aisle is “doesn’t she look lovely?”  Well, yes I think I do, just the right amount of shoulder on show, not at all tarty, even regal.  Lucky Gordon.  Anyway, I didn’t fart or fill my pants, so everything was perfect.

 

 

Quite a friendly pirate, but no parrot

Different shoes and no pink bag. Third different pair of glasses, which is  impressive.