And my mother has her own private matchmaking agency.
Since her latest vain attempts in matchmaking has fizzled out, she has lately turned her prodigious talents to other pressing matters. Rather than accosting bewildered unsuspecting bank ladies only for my perusal, she has decided to widen her scope to my other bachelor mates. Like every hopeful ( hopeless? ) matchmaker since the infamous and shockingly successful Mrs Bennet, she believes that singlehood is a besetting crime and finds it imperative that every available gentleman gets permanently hitched to the ball and chain before middle-aged insanity sets in.
Believe me, my mother has that archaic phrase etched indelibly in marble someplace. Along with that, I'm sure there's a very odd roster of names somewhere with names of lovelorn bachelors and bachelorettes - possibly with imaginary red dotted lines linking them. And since my unfortunate friend, Big Bicep Barry, turned out to be the oldest single gent on my buddy list...
Paul : She wants you to come by for dinner sometime.
Barry : If I'm free, sure. Why the sudden invite?
Paul : You're next on my mother's list.
Barry : What list?
Paul : Her matchmaking list.
Barry : Uhh. Did you tell her about my severe debilitating commitment phobia?
Paul : She says you just haven't met the right woman.
Barry : Woman?
Paul : She has already prepared a whole list of eligible ladies for your perusal. Around your age. There's a certain Fanny Flake, merchandising extraodinaire, that she wants you to meet.
Barry : Fanny Flake? My age?! Can't you tell her I'm still heartbroken from a previous love that died tragically from leukaemia?
The last of the free bachelors...
Guess this prospective groom isn't biting the bait. As a sworn friend - and a fellow human being, felt it my duty after all to warn poor oblivious Barry about his impending nuptials. At least I have given him some time to start dreaming up some plausible excuse.
Maybe he should pretend to be gay :P