Free Dear Fatty by Dawn French Page B

gritted teeth I explained to my mum that there was indeed to be a full complement of fluffy bridesmaids but that I was not to be one of them. Never mind, eh? Mum saw through my pretence instantly and knew I would nurse the resentment into a snarling, snapping, biting dangerous thing unless she took decisive displacement action. A week later we drove to Manchester and we spent too much money on an outfit for me that was fit for one purpose only – to upstage those fecking chosen ones, the bridesmaids. I ended up at that wedding in an eye-catching, extraordinary and (like all revenge buys) ill-advised get-up. It took the form of a bright pink trouser suit. The trousers were flared, the top was a cape with gold braided buttons at the Nehru neck. The hat was jockey-inspired, also pink. The blouse was frilly-fronted, also pink. The shoes were black patent leather with a T-bar. The socks were school (mistake). Certainly I was noticeable. If only for all the wrong reasons. I looked like an Austin Powers reject. Thank heavens that, a short while later, my very cool, jazzy, clever Uncle Mike and his equally groovy fiancée Trish finally granted my wish and asked me to be bridesmaid at their wedding. It was a real sixties wedding and Trish’s lovely sister Heather had to play your part, Sarah, because we had moved by then, and also mainly because she was Trish’s sister. Anyway, I got to do it and it was utterly dreamy and included gloves and a fancy hairdo and a small heel. Praise be.
    I had to laugh years later when Len and I were married and his nieces Donna and Babette were my bridesmaids. Jackie, a different niece who I knew less well obviously felt a degree of this bridesmaid envy I speak of, and decided to turn up in a canary-yellow bridesmaid outfit of her own devising. She went a step further than me and for that I applaud her. Bring on the bridesmaids! Let all women and girls invited to weddings come in their own bridesmaid outfits if they so choose!
    I never found out if you managed to be one. Hope you did. Otherwise you might still be as dangerously murderous as I was.
    Any time you want to do synchronised slow walking, with fabulous hairdos and matching accessories, let me know!

Dear Dad,
    I AM TRYING to book a holiday. It has to be one week long and in the UK somewhere. We haven’t got enough time to go abroad, and besides, I don’t really want to do that – I’m feeling a bit carbon-footprint guilty, plus I hate flying. Flying, for me, is utterly exhausting, for the simple reason that it is my duty (on behalf of all the passengers, I hasten to add) to keep the plane in the air by sheer force of my mind … If I lose concentration for even a minute, the massive metal crate will surely plummet earthwards and hundreds of tragic deaths would be on my conscience. Well, if we could find my conscience, which will definitely have been ripped backwards through my arsebum on impact. Woe betide I should have a little kip – chaos would certainly ensue if I did. I’m not sure how all the many planes I’m not on stay up. There must be some cosmic system whereby a mind/plane controller like me is placed on each and every flight. I don’t know what the process is, but it is obviously working. On the whole. All of this means that any trip abroad involving a flight equals major stress so I have to balance that out with how relaxing the holiday is going to be. Since we only have a week, two flights don’t add up to funsville for me. No, I want to find a British-based holiday. Quite difficult considering the different needs, likes and dislikes of all three of us. I like sea, art, food, naps, telly and dog. Len likes books, heat, pictures, tunes, wine, comics and walks. Billie likes bed, phone, PlayStation, Facebook, iPod, boys and dark rooms. Usually we try to do a bit of all of the above, but that often results in no one being satisfied.
    We have had some splendid holidays, the like of which we could never have imagined as