9.30 AM

Oh joy, look who's come to pay their respects now - it's Jim and Dimitri the gay cavaliers from the adult education fiasco, (currently on hold due to the untimely and, unless science has meteorically advanced, permanent sickie being pulled by our most esteemed member of staff). Some people have no sense of timing. Bad enough that he should pull such a corker just as the wedding season kicks in, but to leave me at the mercy of the Home Counties homosexual 'have I got greater woes than you' fraternity verges on the vindictive.

What is it with gay men? Suddenly they all want to be my newest best friend. I don't need a newest best friend! I am surrounded by a Palladium pantomime cast of oldest best friends as it is; all vying for leading roles in the unfolding 'A funny thing happened on the way to the crematorium' sit com that is the current village soap.

'Head them off Baleesha. If I have to go down the leaking face route one more time today, I shall end up being re-hydrated in casualty'.

She needs no second bidding. The leash is off, the Rotweiller moves in for the kill - sorry boys.

Dear God now here's Angela with yet another calorie-laden platter. Didn't she overdose on honing kitchen skills during her French chateau jaunt? Wasn't cooking for portly shipping magnates whose waistlines bear testimony to their appreciation of her culinary expertise enough? (Rumour has it that the accompanying stick insect playmates gorged at the gourmet trough with equal relish and proceeded to amuse all with splendid impressions of rather expensive paté making.)

No, evidently not. Her current enthusiastic mission is to ensure that I remain a Weight Watchers' devotee of the paying variety for my foreseeable future.

'I am not hungry.'

'Oh but you must eat and it's got hardly any points.'

'Angela, home made chips and tuna mayo sandwiches are definitely not on the recommended list of any diet, let alone Weight Watchers! Are you trying to give me a heart attack? Don't you like me?'

'Oh but it's very nice and the mayo is low calorie and look, a teeny weenie Greek salad! Your favourite!'

'A teeny weenie bit of tomato you mean. Half a b****y pound of Feta and there is no way those olives ever saw brine!'

'But you're so thin.'

'No I am not thin. I am the weight I should be. I have my sparkling gold card to prove it. I also have a wedding to prepare and unless you are God's gift to bridesmaid's circlets, I do not need you here this morning. Whoever heard of eating chip butties and Greek salad for breakfast?'

'Haven't you had breakfast? It's half past nine! You've been here since seven, you must have had breakfast! This is your mid morning snack. You have to eat!'

It's not going to work. She won't leave until I've eaten something.'

'All right, put it there. I'll eat it when I've finished the circlets.'

Why is everyone looking at me?

'Surely you all have work to do? Clarissa couldn't you do a quick soft shoe shuffle over to the wedding boxes and put some b****y tissue in them.'

What is this... some kind of floral mutiny? I am the solitary sheep surrounded by the pack of sheep dogs; four Tweedles, two florists, one sixth of the adult education class and at least ten customers - all with nothing to do but watch me... I give in.

'OK look I'm eating. Satisfied? Now can we please get on?'

Thank God, a bit of normality. No Clarissa, I didn't really mean a soft-shoe shuffle. I can tell you never went to dance classes. Perhaps I should do a quick demonstration for her? On second thoughts, maybe not. Jim and Dimitri would want to join in and then we'd never get this wedding out on time.

It's no good I can't hack the circlets. Perhaps I could beg Baleesha; she's so much better than I am at wired work. My buttonholes look like club sandwiches quite similar to Angela's mid morning snack in fact.

I could ask Cynthia - no she's too slow, she's having enough difficulty with the table centres. All right, maybe fourteen in three hours is a tad ambitious, but she is supposed to be a florist for heaven's sake. Executive decision time.

'Baleesha could you take over the circlets and I'll do the bouquets?'

Look at those shoulders heave! Don't scowl at me - I'll cry! I promise you I'll cry. Then you will feel really guilty. Perhaps I should just squeeze a quick tear out so she knows I mean business. No I can't. Well I could - but I shouldn't. Flattery! That's the answer.

'Oh please. You are so much better than I am and sooo much faster and neater, and the bouquets are really easy and you can check on them when I've finished.'

That was good. She's hooked. She's not going to pass up a chance to have a pot at my work - shoulders subsiding - smile - I've got her!

1 PM

Where is Patrick? He promised to help me deliver the flowers. If I don't get to the wedding venue in the next half hour the poor b****y bride won't even have table centres on the tables let alone the two pedestals I still have to do. What is that noise? Oh no! It's the carnival. Why did nobody tell me it was carnival day today? I am going to be sick. I swear I am going to throw up all over the bride's bouquet and, with a bit of luck, I might hit a passing Tweedle as well.

OK, perhaps the balloons festooning the high street should have given me a clue and yes, we did do the carnival window on Monday. So I'm suffering from short-term memory deficiency but does that mean everyone has to join in the game with me?

'Bonjour mes Amies.'

Patrick you so can't do french.

'Where the b****y hell have you been? You promised to be here at twelve.'

' 'Scuse me, you said one o'clock you Div - oh-oh who's sandwich?'

Helping himself to the remains of the gourmet chip buttie.

'I said twelve. I am not a Div and it's my sandwich!'

'Actually you said one. Actually! You can't eat this anyway, it's got trillions of points, and you'll get fat again. Then you'll be fat and old and a wailing widow. Has the old witch been like this all morning? I'm not surprised he died, he needed a rest poor b****r.'

Clarissa nods her head in what can only be described as 'not sure that I should but he's so funny' delight. He is not funny Clarissa, he's foul. She looks like one of those dogs you see in the back of cars. Perhaps I should just stick her in the back of the van and pay her to nod all day or, better still, put her outside with the bedding plants - 'free nodding dog for every twenty pounds spent'.

'Come on we're all loaded up, we've got to go Patrick.'

'We can't go anywhere stupid! The procession has started.'

'We have to go! I've got two pedestals to do and the wedding is at four!'

'We'll never get out of the village - the scout band is at the top of the high street already - listen.'

He's right. I can't bear it, now I am going to cry.

'Did you know that the Angels are guarding the procession this year?'

What is he wittering on about now?

'How cool is that? They had such a good time at the 'save our sheltered housing' rally they volunteered to help. Can you believe the old farts on the committee actually agreed?'

'What did you say?'

'You're not going deaf as well are you? I said the old farts agreed.'

'No before that - The bit about the Angels guarding the procession?'

'Well if you heard me why did you ask me what I said? You really are a Div.'

'What are they supposed to do exactly?'

'Now you're just being stupid! Control the traffic of course and make sure no one gets run over.'

'Patrick I love you! Get in the van!'

'We can't go anywhere.'

'If the Angels can stop the traffic coming into the village, they can escort us out of the village too. They owe me one. I persuaded the police not to prosecute them at the protest when they were doing unspeakable, not to mention impossible, sexual acrobatics on the pedestrian crossing, remember? Hurry! He'd kill me if I cocked this wedding up. I'm a wailing widow remember - I can do what I like!'

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