(This post is all out of sync. I’m now at home reclining in my boudoir in the Bet Lynch Primark dressing gown. But read on…)
530pm. I’m between weddings. By which I mean I’ve just performed a wedding ceremony and am about to perform another – my fifth of the day. Would you believe me if I said each one is as special, unique and important as the one before? Well, you should believe me because I mean it. It’s a privilege and I get a massive chufty* every time I reach the part where I go “and by virtue of the declarations made by you both – in my presence and in the presence of these witnesses and guests – it is my great pleasure to pronounce you husband and wife/declare that you are now married” (the latter in the case of same sex marriages) and triumphantly snap my pleather folder shut before whipping out my fountain pen for the signing of the register.
In an interesting footnote to the afore, I really, really get the urge to say “in the presence of moyself and these ‘ere witnesses” in the style of Pam Ayres instead of the actual words. Christ knows why. I bloody hate shitty Pam Ayres and her stupid poems.
If you know me in real life (does anyone really know me? I mean REALLY know me? I’m suffering from the dreaded existential angst today and have declared twice, throwing my hands dramatically in the air to demonstrate my point “I mean what’s it aw ABOOT? Why do we BOTHER?” to anyone who’ll listen, prompted by nothing in particular except the baker’s shop not having any brown rolls left at 1pm for my ham salad roll) you’ll know that this isn’t my day job but I love it just as much as the actual day job. (I feel like I’m sailing close to the wind here but so be it. I’m a maverick)
Back to my point, as if there ever is one. Here I sit, sweating like buggery in the ol’ Labia, (don’t panic – it’s a play on words – labia is Cockney rhyming slang for Skoda Fabia – or it is now) 40 minutes early for my next wedding. I’ve done all my admin, which, if you know me in real life, will gast your very flabber. I hate admin. Any admin – as the Clusterfuck of Life Admin in the Tesco Carrier Bag For Life will testify. So, admin complete, I decided to read The New Yorker and was delighted to come across a feature on Fitbits by my favourite – David Sedaris. I get the same feeling I get when eating a Mars Bar when I read anything by Mr S. It gives me nice feels, and I get sad when it’s finished. Here’s the link, lest you fancy reading it. It’s certainly more articulate and enriching than this pish.
I’ve been toying with buying a Fitbit. I’m not sure why. I’m lazy, and unless they set an ice cream van off in front of me I’m unlikely to run after anything.
*chufty (n) = a chuffed expression. A self satisfied warm glow of the face. See also: chufty badge (n)
That’s it for today, unless anybody could see their way to popping in and fetching me the poppadum I left on my dressing table. I can’t reach it from my bed and the Bet Lynch might fall open if I try and I couldn’t face a naked me at this time of night.