There's no getting married if you haven't first been embarrassed by someone else's nudity, Lisa Scott observes.
Gosh, that Seasonal Affective Disorder thing makes people grumpy. Especially the elderly, who seem to be filled with an impotent rage. Too many remotes, perhaps? That always makes me cross, madly pushing the volume button on the heatpump doohicky. Or is it the damned millennials? So irritating, with their digital competence and smart-everything. I'm sure old people were happier when I was younger, but maybe they were on better meds - or just not pissed off at me.
Tell you who's not unhappy (and call her old at your peril): my mum, who got married on Saturday at the Chinese Garden. Hooray! Not even a tiny bit scandalised, the hussy, by the fact that her offspring will be attending the wedding, something undreamt of the first time round in 1967 when she was a child bride. It's a triumph of love over annoyance, as, despite being called upon to fix things nigh constantly, our stepfather Alan hasn't wearied of us and plans to sign up for life. Although he has started making loony statements like, "Once we're married she'd better do as she's told.'' Must be the stress talking.
This week that's been, my sister Veronica and I were tasked with organising a hens' night, which I've never had to do before. Baby showers galore; hens' nights, not so much. Says it all really: everyone knocked up, not a lot of matrimony. We had a planning meeting. "You have to have a stripper,'' Veronica told Mum, who paused mid-scone-buttering and did that face she always does when she's not sure if you're joking. "Don't worry,'' I told her, "he doesn't have to go all the way; we can put a sock on it if you like. It'll be very tasteful.''
We didn't think Mum was the type to toddle around the Octagon in six-inch heels wearing a "kiss me, I'm getting married'' T-shirt and nothing else, so we flagged tying her to a lamppost and decided to have the party at my house instead. Veronica did decorations and party favours, I was in charge of entertainment.
Do you know how hard it is to find a male stripper in Dunedin? Very. And doesn't that seem deeply ironic in a town where you can see a naked student for free pretty much every Saturday; twice during rugby season.
The economist wouldn't do it. "I'd love to, but I've got the sniffles. Nobody wants a stripper with the flu.'' He then launched into a long story about a bucks' night featuring a woman called Angel Fantasy Dancer, covered in large yellow bruises and snogging an extremely uncomfortable groom that's too sad to share here and says a lot about the '90s.
Anyway, not my mother's daughter for nowt, I persevered. While Veronica was off buying two-ply pecker napkins and plastic willy straws, I went on Facebook. Good old Facebook. Ten minutes after posting "where can I find a male stripper in Dunedin?'' I'd messaged him.
As an aside (come over here by the arras for a moment), don't you think it's interesting that hens' night paraphernalia is so phallic? Bucks' nights don't feature lady-part novelty hats, or fanny banners. (The economist has a theory it's because women aren't really thinking about penises that much, or, if we are, we think they're hilarious, while men are definitely thinking about the other, all the time, and it's no laughing matter). Also, why do the women have to be chickens while the men are stags? Something weird and zoologically incompatible going on there.
The bubbles poured, fluffy balls of white paper strung about the house (see what I mean?), at 7pm the hens appeared. Some made jokes about the neighbourhood's dodgy reputation - "Don't worry, I locked the car'' - and even though there were only 14, the noise of their clucking was out of this world. We played pin the penis and pass the cucumber. Things got louder until there was a knock at the door. It was a young man in a policeman's uniform. "These handcuffs are so realistic!'' screamed one of the hens, before they all descended, dragging him down the hallway by the trousers to cries of, "Take it off! Take it off!''
"You didn't get a stripper, did you?'' said Veronica.
"He never got back to me,'' I admitted.
"So he's a real policeman?''
"There must have been a crime.''
"About to be another.''
"Drink?''
Note: This is not a true story. You can't handle the truth.
