The Heat

It is too hot. I find the heat unquenchable, I say to myself enough of lime Coke and enough never comes. I crave it ferociously to my detriment, I am sure. Tell no one!

Today, Lady Ursula, I too am going to a wedding, and I too must proclaim, in that most familiar of tones,

I have nothing to wear!

It is an outdoor wedding and I have no hat! I go hatless! Yes, deride me if you will.

I go hatless!

I rummage in my wardrobe and compile an outfit of some merit, something new, something old, something red, but nothing bold.

Enough about me, though.

The bride marries a man older, fifteen or so years older, but an American who has already gifted her with a motorbike, a Honda Shadow. She squeals with delight as she vrooms away. And then we will repair to a jazz bar for the reception.

What have I gotten her for her present, you ask?

A gift certificate from La Perla. I could do no less, for this is the time when her blood will run hotter than ever again, and she needs to hoist up the heaving bosom in something a little frivolorisque, no?