Cheers to the anonymous eagle-eyed commenter who pointed out the logistical flaw in the last entry. How could the bodysuit possibly have pinned my arms over my head if I still had the crotch snaps done up? Good point!
I can only blame that inaccuracy on hurried blogging close to midnight with a bellyful of champagne. I actually tried on two evil bodysuits. The first one got stuck on the hips and then we discovered the snaps. The second one saw me undo the snaps but still getting stuck when I tried to pull it over my head. Obviously the chronology of events became blurred by Veuve Clicquot.
My apologies for any confusion, but one reassuring thing is that the bodysuit is definitely in the Warm Autumn Palette, as is the wedding frock
. . .
I’m having sporadic Freak Outs about getting hitched. I was whining down the phone to The Mothership that I was genetically predisposed to being crap at marriage. For example, The Fathership is on his third wife. The Mothership told me that you don’t have to let your genes dictate your path in life. Which is true. Joe Stalin had kids, and as far as I know they’re not genocidal tyrants. There’s no reports of Apple Paltrow-Martin writing boring but heartfelt songs. YET.
So is life all about Nature or Nurture? Or is it the Nature of the Nurturing?
An example. The Mothership always sends me Sensible Cotton Undies in the post, because she doesn’t want me wasting money on British Knickers when Aussie ones are so much cheaper. Parents seem to like buying smalls for their kids no matter how old they get, it’s a way of keeping their hooks in; a machine-washable reminder that no matter how cool you may think you are now, there is still this lady that used to wipe your arse.
The Mothership once sent a six-pack of Bonds briefs. Two white, two grey marle and two lilac. The lilac ones had the word PURPLE printed all over them in giant white letters. PURPLE! All scrawly and cursive, like the Plat du Jour on a restaurant menu. PURPLE! Just in case you were colourblind and couldn’t see for yourself. PURPLE!
“She hates me,” I brooded. “She is trying to sabotage my love life. She never wants me to find a man. These aren’t even in the Warm Autumn palette. Who will love me with PURPLE undies?”
When my birthday rolled round Mum asked did I need another shipment.
“Sure,” I said, “But can I have them sans-graffiti?”
“What’s wrong with the Purples?”
“Every time I wear them Gareth cackles, ‘PURPLE! Woohoo!’ and it’s bloody embarassing.”
Anyway, my point is: I managed to convince someone to marry me IN SPITE of the off-putting undies, thus overcoming both Nature AND Nurture. Therefore there is a chance I can outwit the divorce gene. Hurrah!