Yesterday, with Frank opting for an unexpected early night, I found myself at a bit of a loss.
Looking back I should just have read a book.
Instead I somehow wound up getting emotionally invested in a movie I purposefully never caught the first time round (for any fellow, compulsive channel hoppers you’ve probably got a vague inkling which I’m talking about by now) namely Bridget Jones’s Diary.
On it’s initial release in 2001 I was only eleven, a long term attendee to all girls school and the child of an incredibly vocal feminist – it held all the interest to me of shaving my legs.
Ironically I would still go on to think Renee Zellweger was an utter shit and thus bodyswerve her entire acting back catalogue for the ten years following. This, however, was purely because of her short lived marriage to my teenage crush Jack White rather than her complete inability to do a British accent.
Despite this, five minutes in and I was hooked.
Sixty or so later I began to suspect there were supernatural machinations, possibly even malicious voodoo at work as I half guffawed, half sobbed my way through and by the time the credits rolled I was practically hysterical.
I had seen something in Bridget’s character that hit a little too close to home, nevertheless pinning down exactly what it was would take me through a fitful slumber and well into the better part of today.
The conclusion? We share an all-consuming desire to get married.
It came as no surprise, when I birthed the sprogling, that my biological clock shut up shop and retired to whatever the internal organ equivalent of Devon is, taking with it the majority of my libido.
As physical desires ebbed away into the realms of ‘really funny stories you reminisce over when drunk’, I didn’t expect my emotional needs to step in like a cosmic consolation prize.
They did. Moved right on into that empty building and started knocking down walls, going open plan like some sick fucking episode of Grand Designs and eventually left me with a cavernous ballroom demanding to be filled with two people and expensive cake.
Thing is, I’m not convinced I want to get married to anybody. My infatuation is, I think, with the event itself.
Case in point (when I’m not indulging in awful film choices) my twilight hours are increasingly spent flicking between Lost Girl fanfiction and Offbeat Bride.
I prefer my love interests categorically unattainable (and a bit unhinged) but my matrimony very much IRL. Short of employing a rent-a-groom willing to go all in with the cosplay, I’m stumped.
Perhaps I’ll just have to bite the bullet, put down the butter icing and re-enter society…
Tomorrow. I’ll do it tomorrow.