Monday, January 23, 2006

Another day, another ramble

The post arrived on Saturday when I was still in bed. From the sound I guessed it was my novel being - very speedily - returned. It wasn't; it was a card catalogue. But before I found that out I was able to perfect the 'Do I look bothered?' face and the 'I was expecting it' shoulder shrug.

There wasn't a chocolate fountain at the party but the wedding cake was shaped like a fairy-tale castle complete with turrets. One of the guests was a member of Showaddywaddy; another had played in a band that once played on the same bill as the Foundations (Build me up, buttercup). Do I know how to name drop or what?

Speaking of name-dropping, last year I was corrected by Dylan Thomas's daughter. At the same event I was asked if I would consider being an after dinner speaker at a rugby club 'do'. I said I would but he never got back to me. Perhaps my drooling at the thought of it - free dinner and rugby players - put him off. Or perhaps it was the fact that I didn't give him my phone number.

Harvey came with us to the party (not actually to the party - yes, I know you would have been good but, as I've already mentioned, people don't like drooling, especially when they're in their best clothes ... oh, you do, Harvs! ... don't sulk, now, you know I'm telling the truth - but to the in-laws) and I think m-in-l was more pleased to see him than she was to see us. There's no need to look so smug, Harvey.

I have drunk my cup of tea so can no longer justify sitting here with the ironing crawling out of its basket. But must first reply to Madman of Pendine.

I just remembered something else I wanted to say. Apparently the smallest language in the world is spoken by about 500 people in South America somewhere. There are no numbers or colours or words for family members. I can't remember how many vowels it has but there are 7 consonants for women and 8 for men. The only gay in the village uses the women's alphabet.

2 comments:

Liz Hinds said...

No, just once!

My novel is about a fifty-year-old divorcee coming to terms with being fifty and divorced. It's sort of a grown-up Bridget Jones type thing.

I'm also trying to get into freelance journalism or anything that will pay me to write!

Anna said...

I think Steve's mother-in-law is also more pleased to see the dog than us, these days. But don't tell her that...