her to marry him. I was dressed as a parrot because nobody had asked me to marry them. She looked like an angel. But while I was painting my plumage I accidentally got yellow acrylic on her pretty white dress. I was so upset I started to cry and she broke off her wedding to comfort me.
Now, in six weeks’ time, she’s marrying a grown-up man called Bertrand. She met Bertrand years ago in a Brazilian restaurant. Simon had returned from Brazil to see everyone and decided that we should all go out for a Brazilian meal. He made us eat a weird stew made with meat and bananas and showed off by speaking Portuguese to the waiters. He was a bit upset that all the women were far more interested in the handsome Brazilian men on the table next to ours. One of whom was Bertrand. He gave Nikki his phone number and that was that. She moved in with him three weeks later.
‘You’ll be getting some tomorrow, Sarah Wet Knickers,’ says Julia, clinking my glass. I choose to ignore the wet-knickers comment, having risen to the previous six.
‘I won’t be bloody well bonking him,’ I tell the girls, blushing. ‘It’s a Sunday lunch.’
‘Of course you will. You’ll get there, he’ll give you champagne, take you on to his roof terrace and then he’ll say, “Do you want me to suck your nipples?”’ squeals Julia.
‘Julia, you cow, you said you’d stop taking the piss,’ I hiss at her.
Nikki starts laughing too. God, enough is enough, can you stop making me the butt of everyone’s jokes now, please?
This is the first time I’ve been in my local since the blow-out. I suggested meeting at the Wetherspoon over the road, but Julia and Nikki insisted that it was time to lift the Baldy blow-out boycott and return to our usual haunt. I’ve really gone off this pub though. When did everyone get so young? I want to tell all the young boys to pull their skinny jeans up. I feel like an incontinent old woman on the set of Bugsy Malone . And I don’t know what I ever saw in Baldy. My sister has always been stunned by the ugly men I’ve gone out with. She says I subconsciously go for the ugly-and-grateful variety. I think Baldy was a case in point. I’ve been watching him behind the bar. He is bending up and down taking pint glasses out of the dishwasher. He looks like a fat child apple-bobbing. Despite this I am still following the guidelines laid out for women facing men who have rejected them:
1)
I am pretending not to have noticed him
2)
I am talking and laughing a lot and trying to cultivate an aura of intelligent and amusing brilliance
3)
I have put on a lot of make-up and am wearing something that someone once said made me look slim
‘You have to sleep with him, that’s what he’ll be expecting.’
‘No it isn’t,’ I say indignantly. ‘He asked me out before he read the sex blog, remember. I just didn’t open the letter.’
‘Yeah, but now he’s read it it’s different.’
‘Why?’ I say, concerned.
‘It just is,’ says Julia seriously.
‘Help me here, Nikki, what do you think?’
‘Let me get this straight. He knows you haven’t had sex in a year, he’s read an in-depth account of how you want to sit on his face, and—’
‘Stop it!’ I scream, putting my hands over my ears. As I do Bertrand appears. Bertrand is half French, half Brazilian. Which means he is:
1)
gorgeous. He is dark-skinned with a shaved head and dazzling white teeth
2)
good in bed. There is a myth that the French are marvellous in bed. From what I can gather Bertrand takes that myth in his well-defined arms and teases and caresses it all night until it screams
3)
an unimaginably bad driver
He starts to nuzzle Nikki’s neck before taking her face in his hands and kissing her with his tongue. He looks up when he’s finished.
‘Ah, Saaaraah,’ he says in his delicious accent. He smiles at me and blows me a kiss. ‘Saaaraaah, you are spruced up. Where you off to?’
‘Nowhere,’ I mumble, embarrassed. ‘Just fancied
Now, in six weeks’ time, she’s marrying a grown-up man called Bertrand. She met Bertrand years ago in a Brazilian restaurant. Simon had returned from Brazil to see everyone and decided that we should all go out for a Brazilian meal. He made us eat a weird stew made with meat and bananas and showed off by speaking Portuguese to the waiters. He was a bit upset that all the women were far more interested in the handsome Brazilian men on the table next to ours. One of whom was Bertrand. He gave Nikki his phone number and that was that. She moved in with him three weeks later.
‘You’ll be getting some tomorrow, Sarah Wet Knickers,’ says Julia, clinking my glass. I choose to ignore the wet-knickers comment, having risen to the previous six.
‘I won’t be bloody well bonking him,’ I tell the girls, blushing. ‘It’s a Sunday lunch.’
‘Of course you will. You’ll get there, he’ll give you champagne, take you on to his roof terrace and then he’ll say, “Do you want me to suck your nipples?”’ squeals Julia.
‘Julia, you cow, you said you’d stop taking the piss,’ I hiss at her.
Nikki starts laughing too. God, enough is enough, can you stop making me the butt of everyone’s jokes now, please?
This is the first time I’ve been in my local since the blow-out. I suggested meeting at the Wetherspoon over the road, but Julia and Nikki insisted that it was time to lift the Baldy blow-out boycott and return to our usual haunt. I’ve really gone off this pub though. When did everyone get so young? I want to tell all the young boys to pull their skinny jeans up. I feel like an incontinent old woman on the set of Bugsy Malone . And I don’t know what I ever saw in Baldy. My sister has always been stunned by the ugly men I’ve gone out with. She says I subconsciously go for the ugly-and-grateful variety. I think Baldy was a case in point. I’ve been watching him behind the bar. He is bending up and down taking pint glasses out of the dishwasher. He looks like a fat child apple-bobbing. Despite this I am still following the guidelines laid out for women facing men who have rejected them:
1)
I am pretending not to have noticed him
2)
I am talking and laughing a lot and trying to cultivate an aura of intelligent and amusing brilliance
3)
I have put on a lot of make-up and am wearing something that someone once said made me look slim
‘You have to sleep with him, that’s what he’ll be expecting.’
‘No it isn’t,’ I say indignantly. ‘He asked me out before he read the sex blog, remember. I just didn’t open the letter.’
‘Yeah, but now he’s read it it’s different.’
‘Why?’ I say, concerned.
‘It just is,’ says Julia seriously.
‘Help me here, Nikki, what do you think?’
‘Let me get this straight. He knows you haven’t had sex in a year, he’s read an in-depth account of how you want to sit on his face, and—’
‘Stop it!’ I scream, putting my hands over my ears. As I do Bertrand appears. Bertrand is half French, half Brazilian. Which means he is:
1)
gorgeous. He is dark-skinned with a shaved head and dazzling white teeth
2)
good in bed. There is a myth that the French are marvellous in bed. From what I can gather Bertrand takes that myth in his well-defined arms and teases and caresses it all night until it screams
3)
an unimaginably bad driver
He starts to nuzzle Nikki’s neck before taking her face in his hands and kissing her with his tongue. He looks up when he’s finished.
‘Ah, Saaaraah,’ he says in his delicious accent. He smiles at me and blows me a kiss. ‘Saaaraaah, you are spruced up. Where you off to?’
‘Nowhere,’ I mumble, embarrassed. ‘Just fancied
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