Dreadful Nonsense

I was reading the latest wonderful Dave Eggers short short story in the Guardian magazine yesterday. I only got around to reading it yesterday, because Saturday was spent doing the following:
1. Bringing god daughter to cinema to see latest Harry Potter film.
2. Dissecting film and meaning of film with said god daughter after film.
3. Traveling in to town to see JC and Mrs D.
4. Watching JC on stage, at one point locking the entire audience in to the small sweaty room and suggestion we all have a massive wank. (Nobody seemed to go for the idea. That said, no one seemed to protest against it much either.)
5. Standing in strange bar being chatted up by a man called David who said he wanted to "upgrade" my "happiness". David also said I was the most "natural and beautiful" woman in the bar. I later asked Mrs D what this meant. She said she thinks he meant I had the least make up on.
6. Trying to catch a taxi on Camden Street. For about 4 hours.

So, I was reading the Dave Eggers short short story on Sunday morning while Mrs D chirped down the phone at JC. Mrs D was trying to sound like she wasn't hungover, just to taunt JC who quite obviously was. For the record, I most definitely wasn't, but valium can help to overcome any symptom of any illness ever, so maybe I was but didn't notice. As I read my lovely short short story, I realised that for the first time, Dave had used my name in print, and this must therefore be both his way of acknowledging the special love between us, and also a proposal for my hand in marriage.

I immediately grabbed the phone off of Mrs D and asked JC if he thought this was so - I would have asked Mrs D, but I was looking for a male perspective, and Mrs D has a habit of laughing at the more ridiculous of my questions, whereas JC tends to humour me to the point of encouraging the darker recesses of my madness. Instead of answering the question, though, JC just wondered if every man I was going to marry was called Dave.

And he had a point. Although I hadn't agreed to marry the David in the bar, I have to admit that any man who can find the time to compliment me on my lack of makeup deserves some kind of acknowledgement. The best and most fanciable Dr Who in the world, Peter Davison, had the good grace to at least have the "Dave" sound as part of his name. And even just yesterday morning, my current fiance Dave texted me to apologise for abusive text messages that he had presumed he had sent the night before while drunk. I received no such text messages. Therefore, this Dave was willing to apologise for things that he hadn't even done. Imagine what kind of groveling would take place when actual, real, tangible aberrations had occurred? I could get DVDs and diamonds bought for me on an almost daily basis!

As I was saying to Mrs D the night before she was to go out on a big date, we are neither of us getting any younger - she herself is aging particularly badly, although I'd never say it to her well-worn, lived-in face - and we really should already be married ladies at this stage, able to let ourselves go.

So, this is a public acceptance to Dave Eggers' secret proposal of marriage to me. Mr Eggers, if you could email me to let me know you've received this acceptance, and will be winging your way over to Dublin to begin sharing your wealth with me (for that is what happens when two people are married - the rich one gives the poor one all the money), that'd be great. If I don't hear from Mr Eggers within the next week, my engagement shall continue with the current owner of my heart, Mr Dave from niCe mUm. If I do hear from Mr Eggers, Mr Dave from niCe mUm shall be promoted to be my secret bit on the side, and I shall have everything I need.

This entry was posted on 07 June 2004 at 4:42 pm. 0 comments

Dreadful Nonsense

0 Comments:

Recommended Reading

Archives