I’ve had my photo shoot. I’ve been to Stella’s house because she’s the one with the camera, and it was not a pleasant experience. I had to take three changes of clothing to make it look like these are snaps taken at different times, and Stella said I had to put on full makeup to give my face “some definition”. It’s the way she tells ‘em.
According to the Oracle, you need inside and outside shots, plus one glammed up evening dress pic; this apparently indicates a/ you love the great outdoors and are in tune with nature b/ you are just as happy to snuggle up with someone on the sofa (God! The amount of people who put that in their profiles is unbelievable! I’m more of a “You stick to your side, I’ll stick to mine kind of person. Because, after all, when you sit on that bloody sofa you want to be able to watch the programme or read the book in peace. Well, don’t you?) And finally c/ that you scrub up well when the occasion demands.
Have you noticed something about all this? Have you been paying attention? I am lying in every photo! The great outdoors? Yeah, it’s fine, but the sudden urge to begin a life of yomping is not likely to develop at this stage in my romantic career – that is, unless there’s a substantial lunch and a coffee at the end of it. And only if he’s strong enough to give me a piggy back when I’m fed up of the whole thing. I’ve already dealt with the sofa issue. And then there’s the catwalk/red carpet nonsense. Mm hm! You know what that requires, don’t you? High bloody heels. Ugh. I want to stab Jimmy Choo, Manolo Blahnik and all of their creative, arty farty making-money-out-of-stupid-women ilk. Don’t get me wrong – they are beautiful shoes, works of art, and I wouldn’t mind having a couple of pairs to put on the mantelpiece. But on my feet? And while I’m actually supposed to be mobile? Never!
Which brings me onto another matter… On the profiles the men say they like somebody who is comfortable in all types of situations - dressed up and dressed down. What they have failed to comprehend is the bigger picture; namely, that when you get tarted up in those very sexy four inch heels, he will look like one of Snow White’s dwarves. (Sorry to go off on a tangent, but there really should have been one called Droopy – hang on, I feel a short story developing…) I’ve suddenly got an image of Benny Hill and his side kick.
Outside and inside shots done, I had to go and change into my posh frock, which is, shall we say, a tad snug since I pigged out all week on stuff from the new bakery that’s opened up down the road. It took me ten minutes to roll up the thigh to bust corset or spanks or whatever you call them, and the upshot of this was that my boobs seemed to develop independent personas of their very own. When Stella downloaded the photos onto her computer, if you cropped the head off (that’s not meant to be as tasteless as it appears – her pic was merely the one nearest to the truth), I looked just like Jayne Mansfield, or a Huddersfield hooker looking to turn a trick.
So we had to take those shots again – this time with Stella’s son’s black boxers acting as much needed gazonga camouflage - a little more restrained and less likely to remind you of Ermintrude.
So, the photos are on the site and I’m ready for the off.