DON’T TELL THE BRIDE

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No. Your eyes do not deceive you. That is me. Wearing a wedding dress. I thought about sending this picture to all of my ex boyfriends with the caption ‘it could have been you,’ but then I remembered that often what is hilarious to me, would incite the need for a restraining order in others.

Just to be clear, I am not getting married. I haven’t had nearly enough time to inflict Stockholm Syndrome on some poor, hapless man. I was trying on wedding dresses for work. In Huddersfield.

When I told my mother about my day trip she immediately asked for me to send pictures, ‘in case I don’t get another chance to see you in, you know.’

Her conviction that I am going to die alone with cats has reached fever pitch. So much so that my flatmate has offered to have a word with her so that I stop staring into the distance and muttering about spinsterhood. 

When I told her I’d given up booze for a bit she was aghast. ‘But how will you meet someone? What if you only drank gin? Or champagne?’ I despair.

The wedding dress designer was a charming man, who on account of me potentially putting him on the telly had told me that I had the kind of figure that could pull off any dress. He then realised that I would not fit into a single sample dress and put me in one which in his own words, (insert Yorkshire accent here) ‘makes you look like Ursula the Sea Witch.’ 

He also put me in the shroud below, which I think makes me look like Uncle Fester.

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In better news, I seem to have acquired an admirer. The Turkish man who works in the corner shop at the end of the road has asked me to run away with him. Last time I went in there to buy maltesers he giggled like a little girl. He should probably get some self respect. 

To be fair, I had just told him there was a frog on my doorstep. Perhaps he has construed this as a British innuendo. I also didn’t look hideous in all the dresses. To quote Keira Knightley in Love Actually, I looked ‘quite pretty.’ Maybe there’s hope for me yet…

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