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The sun rose cautiously between the Peckham tower blocks and heralded the day of Sam Smith’s wedding to Jez Whitely. No expense had been spared and the best of everything had been provided for Sam’s special day by her loving parents. "Wake up Sam, it’s time to get up!" said Mrs Smith dressed in her Chinese dressing gown, exposing far too much bare flesh for her advancing years. A pair of pink, fluffy slippers completed her ensemble. "Not now mum," replied Sam buried beneath the security of her duvet in relaxed contemplation. "We’ve got three hours to make you look beautiful. I’m not going to let the Gregsons at No 52 pass snide comments. You’re going to get up, my girl, and be sharp about it!" Sam threw back the duvet and rolled out of bed. She looked at herself in the mirror and realised that a minor miracle would have to happen before she was ready to face the scrutiny of her public. "Oh, God! What a mess!" Sam waddled to the bathroom supporting the lump before her in an attempt to relieve the pressure on her bladder.
One hour later the hairdresser arrived and performed a resurrection special on Sam’s over-dyed hair. Applying three, thick coats of lacquer finished the job and the stylist left feeling rather abused by the torrential comments and advice pouring from the eager mother. "Sam, you look lovely!" purred Mrs Smith. "Now we’ve got to get you dressed, come with me, my girl!" The next half an hour was taken up with cramming Sam into her ivory, high waisted wedding dress. The cut of the garment had been carefully designed to conceal the expectant arrival but a combination of too much nocturnal larger and amniotic fluid prevented the fastening of the uppermost buttons. "Bleedin’ hell, mum! It’s too tight! It’s not gonna fit!" screamed Sam. "Hold still! I’ll apply more pressure! Oh, Stanley, get your arse in ‘ere!" screamed Mrs Smith. The hen pecked husband of nearly 23 years came into the room as requested. He ambled over to his youngest daughter and held the Lycra material together to enable Mrs Smith to fasten the remaining buttons. Their neighbours were listening the other side of the partitioned wall in eager delight. "There you are, all done!" chirped Mrs Smith. "Oh, mum! It’s too bleedin’ tight! Can’t I wear my leggings instead?" "No you can’t and that’s final! I’m not having the neighbours think that we can’t afford the best for our children! You will make do with what you’ve got and stop bleedin’ moaning!" To read the rest of this story send me an email...
Ó 2002 Steven Longman-Marshall – all rights reserved.
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