--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I spit out the acrid taste of gristle and wipe the sand from my eyes and as my sight dares reappearance I send a message of congratulations from the back seat of the car. It’s the ubiquitous news of the age, another one newly betrothed, and how thrilled are we? Well, take away the rancid bile of jealousy, the nausea of how it was done, and the wish that it would rain on the blessed day, I am quite delighted. One reason I am almost happy is that never have I had such a complete diary, it’s almost bulbous, or if I had one it would be, flushing with Saturdays in new hats! My credit card has been taken for many a Thursday night stroll!

‘Can’t wait for celebrations!’ I say, or type and send, in my pseudo-girl voice. High and tilted, or that’s how she’d imagine it to be! Champagne all around, even though I am yearning rather for the trickle of beer down my gullet. I sit at the back of the car and quietly scowl as messages inundate my inbox. ‘Bloody hell, it’s only a vow that gets broken every other minute!’
I see two heads turn around, raised eyebrows (why can’t I do that!). The one, the driver – that would be Catherine – is already married, no romance, just a last minute decision and she was in the office on Kings Road, with I as the witness – and oh the trouble I got into for that – and a kiss and afterwards a few drinks that led to many and subsequently led to her phoning her mother and sister who was more than irate and slammed down the phone, so that’s Catherine, married. She turns around, shakes her head in bemusement and then continues to plaster eyes on road. The raised eyebrows come from Lisa, blonde hair and Chinese top, she who is getting married – in three months, in Cliveden for pity’s sakes – they have hired out the ENTIRE place. I mouth a ‘what?’ to her, ‘For gods sakes, give me my glory!’ I say, and then realising that one must not make such comments with a neurotic bride from demonic hell in near vicinity, I smile sweetly and mutter a ‘just joking’ apology. I almost go into convulsions as we get out of the car, ‘Is this what it is now?’ I ask a smirking Catherine, ‘I have to watch my every word in case some betrothed nightmare lambastes me for cursing her blessed day. Great!’ I say and mock a gag.

I’m considering going out on the hunt for new friends. But a few problems are posed. Firstly, I don’t make friends all too easily! It takes approximately a year for someone to like me and my macabre ever cynical ways, secondly it’s just all too bloody exhausting, and although my friends are 100 metres in front of me, and I am blind from all the muck getting hoofed into my eyes, I am quite content with who they are – possibly for the reason that they are easy going with my not so easy going personality. But, as I sit and chuff on cigarettes, one after the other and I am only a three a day smoker and I listen calmly to the conversation of weddings, and dresses and I interrupt occasionally to ask a question, or to make a comment I think that I can deal with it – it’s okay, I sip eagerly on my champagne and eat the strawberries, and exhale loudly and just dread the moment that babies are roaming around, then I will truly have to take a backward step! I am still in the shallow end, with the duck and fellow eighteen year olds, except I am an eighteen-year old ten years their senior! The conversation is exhausted by diamonds and going back again and again to the story of how he proposed. Oh yes, frolicking in the Mediterranean Sea, he whispers (he truly does whisper) into her ear ‘Do you want to…marry me?’ and she laughs, out loud and says a not too demure ‘YES!’ he produces no ring and she breathes a great sigh of relief and to this hugs and kisses him and to us, in her message she says, ‘Of course, no man must ever chose my bling!’ and I look at my empty fingers and light a cigarette. Of course I get drunk, horrifically so, I sip champagne and wine and vodka and all things acidic. I sit with a fellow single wench, she and I – together it seems in this war of proposes! I look at her, in all sincerity I say, ‘But why the hell are you single? You are beautiful, far more attractive than a lot of woman I know, and you are down to earth. You are not into all this sweetie darling crap, or maybe that’s it!’ I scream, as though I have discovered a new element to the earths structure, but we both know its not ‘it’, its something inexplicable, I have no idea, I can’t pinpoint it – being single ones entire life and you begin to think that you are somewhat deranged, I am something abnormal! I have had manic moments of despair, ‘Oh, what’s wrong with me!’ I have cried out and dramatically throwm my body on to the bed letting out a shrill wail! I have had hours of staring at my reflection, of analysing my personality of cursing the veins in my legs!
‘What I loathe,’ an inebriated Michelle slurs, pouring more champagne into my glass that has a wee bit of vodka and watermelon in it, ‘I loathe people telling me that I am too fussy’ she finishes the sentence raising the champagne glass in the air, and spilling just a bit on my diesel jeans! ‘What’s that mean, that I am too ugly for the man I want! Pah!’ she screams, and turns around pulling a finger at all our friends, who are sitting around the table, cooing at the proposal, speaking wedding, comparing ideas, giving advice and what not, I have nothing to offer except I say ‘At a wedding, you must have excess booze, good music and people that smoke! I am telling you – non smokers are notoriously dull’ and of course, my non-smoker friends shake their heads and ignore my drunkard nonsensical rambles!

At last the talk appeases, I lie on the couch, my head thumps. I am drunk, and still the wedding bells are chiming in my head. Or is that the thud of champagne, the knocking of a treacherous hangover, ‘Can I visit?’ oh bugger off I answer, in mind of course, for I can’t speak, but I do feel my stomach doing some sort of aerobic action, and I crawl to the toilet and hug on the bowl, the cool tile somewhat refreshing as I wipe my mouth and lie back. ‘Help!’ I whisper, as I think of Mediterranean Seas and diamond rings and a wedding cake with a Barbie and Ken, and then as suddenly I retch!