On Wednesday I had one of those new gel manicures that are supposed to last for three weeks. I had never had one before. It wasn't until the last nail had been painted that it occurred to me to ask how I should get it off once it started to chip. The procedure is fairly complex, apparently. You put a piece of cotton wool soaked in nail varnish remover on each fingernail, then wrap each finger tightly with a double layer of tinfoil and wait for fifteen minutes. 'You might want to get your husband to help you,' explained the manicurist.
Unfortunately my opinions on marriage were formed during the 1970s, and consequently I never had any ambition to become the chattel of a man. But that was before gel manicures were invented.
So anyway I need a husband quite urgently, some time before 7th June. All applications considered, though preference will be given to anyone prepared to remonstrate forcefully if ever I try to drink white wine, and lock me in my office each day until I have written at least five thousand words.
I don't want us to live together, share our assets, promise to obey, have sex, have cuddles, get a pet or go on holiday. We can have dinner parties. A husband is an asset at dinner parties, especially the kind where white wine is served. I don't mind going on outings, so long as I don't have to drive. We can go to the Lake District. Though wouldn't that be counted as a holiday? Oh... don't! I think I'm falling in love already. I don't mind if we fall in love. We can express our tenderest feelings while you're wrapping my fingers in tinfoil, and then when you unwrap them again.
Is there anything you would want from this arrangement, if you're considering applying? Let me know and I'll try to be accommodating. But hurry, my love. Don't forget the deadline is 7th June.