Sunday, February 12, 2012

Missing: One Dude

Is it weird when you're in a bridal party and haven't met the groom?

Actually, no-one's met the groom. Including the bride's sisters.   Or her parents.  Or any of her friends.

(Wait, wait; I'm wrong. Siobhan doesn't have friends.)

It does explain, though, why there wasn't an engagement party. When Anise asked Siobhan about it, Siobhan just kind of waved her hand and muttered something about being busy.  We didn't think much of it at the time - it's not like Siobhan is a regular person, experiencing joy and happiness and other human emotions - and Anise and I went out and had our own engagement party anyway, which mostly consisted of vodka martinis and saying, "Who would marry Siobhan?" in between them, but somewhere between the hours of 2 and 3 am we both began to wonder... What if there is no groom? 

Could Siobhan be deluded enough to organise a wedding without having anyone to marry?  Could she be organising some kind of mail-order groom from Uzbekistan?  ("This is my new husband, Stavros."  "Bezhak." 
"Sorry, Bezhak.  Stavros is my pet name for him." And then she would do a tightly hysterical laugh from behind clenched teeth.) 

So I thought I'd ask a few questions.  In hindsight, it probably wasn't brilliant to start investigations during yet another dress fitting. 

"So, Siobhan," I said, as I was being laced into some godawful thing with ruffles on it.  "What's your other half doing today?"

"Who?" she said, inspecting a giant tiara with distaste.
"Your partner.  Better half.  Other dude.  Whatsisface."

"Richard."  She put the tiara down, rubbing her fingers together. 
"Richard, right."
"I think that should be tighter," she said to the dress fitter, who yanked the laces in a bit more.
"What's he doing today?"

"Why?"  Po-po-po-po-poker face! Poker face!
"I was just wondering," I said.
"Tighter, please," she prodded the fitter.

"Has he got a suit yet?" I said, though I was starting to wheeze a bit due to the boning biting into my ribs.
She marched to the front of the shop, turned, and squinted at me. 
"I'd love to ask him how you met. Was it romantic?"
"Tighter, I said!" she barked.

"What's his middle name?"
Siobhan took matters into her own hands. Unfortunately for me, I mean that literally.  She strode back, shouldered the fitter aside and grabbed the laces of my bodice. "We met..." (YANK!) "...on a business trip..." (YANK!) "He lives interstate..." (YANK!) "and. Is. Very. BUSY."  Then she put her knee in my back and gave a final heave.  The last thing I heard was something snapping.

When I woke up, Anise had re-emerged from her dressing room. (She'd gotten stuck in a hoop skirt and couldn't get out of the cubicle.) 
She was mainlining peanut M&Ms and patting my head.

"What happened?" I said. Anise ate another handful and spoke through a cheekful of chocolate.  "Siobhan wants you to go on a diet."

Further investigation is warranted. I shall report back.

(Unless, of course, Siobhan has me killed. If this is the case, I leave all of my possessions to Anise, except for The Doctor, who can go to my parents' house and live out his dreams of growing to the size of a small port keg under my mother's enthusiastic 'Are You Breathing? Here, Have A Snack' feeding program. Wish me luck.)