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Okay, Claudia achieved the pinnacle of self-realisation, or as my autodidact boyfriend would say, the Absolute Penultimate: her own personal Prkmrose though the metaphor is misplaced — the text of that evensong being the hymn of the Virgin. I mean, having a movie made about your life is Virtual Reincarnation.
It gives you a chance to set everything right, the way it should have been, in front of hundreds of people sitting in the dark and weeping into their hankies and at the end everyone applauds. A snotty little bird called Publicity Assistant who rang me the next day to find out why I got up and left early. The truth is I thought the film was over. I told her I had to get home before my babysitter found the key to the stash and turned into a pumpkin. Which is what Claudia did.
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And the main character she assassinated is Woman. Well, maybe not for His sake, because it was about that time they discovered He might be Her, or most likely was Dead anyway. When people wearing long, frilly gear and long scarves and silly hats on top of their long, frilly Pre-Raphaelite hair primross both men and i — stormed the universities, the courts and the media, ripped the shibboleths from the flagstaffs of the Establishment and stripped Little England of its pretensions.
And invented sex. It was a time when the world was intoxicated with hope: everyone was young and everything was up for grabs. And what did Claudia do? She became a member of the Resistance. Because he was fifteen years younger. I ask you. What about Sonny and Cher? When her career ran into the sand she whined and moped and then sold herself to a man she loathed like someone from the s of a Jane Austen novel. Okay, she had a disabled kiddy but there are special schools.
A hero of the Counter-cultural Revolution? She was a pathetic wimp, a professional Victim. You, Sweet Reader, may be more charitable and say she was hard done by. Maybe next week. Not everyone was young and foolish in the sixties.
Some of us were middle-aged and foolish. Particularly if he was wearing short trousers. Get another job? Claudia and myself. Unless you could type and make tea.
We blazed your trail, Dee Dee. You would have had to change your sex as well as your frivolous name to get a media job then. We called them — and they called themselves — homosexuals. They gathered in a secret, oppressed and oppressive brotherhood, in an underworld atmosphere associated in the public mind with blackmail and treason. Homosexual acts between consenting adults in private were criminal until the passage of the Sexual Offences Act in The handful of state schools for children with special needs was priimrose, woefully underfunded and not yet integrated within the educational system.
Hot pants did not come in until Claudia wore them and jolly fetching she was, too.
Little Bird was right. You should have waited until the end of the movie. Slumbering hills awake. A breeze flits through the valley, rousing green limbs to stretch in the sunshine. Abandoned by the srx, enchanted rivers of mist curl and vanish into the warming air.
In this sweet, sedated land, parcelled long centuries since by low dry-stone walls and deep-rooted hedgerows, disharmony is inconceivable. Sheep graze and cattle munch without troubling to look up at the sky. Yet, revolution is in the air. It crackles through the ether from offshore pirate outposts.
A onlinf damp with discontent rises out in the Channel, pushing north to obscure the sun. Still, no stout yeomen will arise to mount the watch in our south coast towers and sea-girted forts; no sans-culottes will disembark to scale the crumbling cliffs of Durdle Door and tramp across these green, chta pastures. Barricades can be hurled up against invasion by an army, but no wall can withstand an idea.
The scent of incense and hash escapes through the gaps in the boarded-up windows to tickle the noses of passers-by and drifts aloft on the tuneless clamour of the Rolling Stones, an incorporeal haze of intellectual pollution spreading se the wings of a perfect English morning. A leafy lane le to the gravelled drive of a substantial Georgian house.
From the height of the clouds now building over the downs, prjmrose forecourt gleams with the multi-coloured metallic shimmer of an expensive Matchbox set — sedate Rpimrose and snappy Austin Healeys, MGs and Triumphs, crouching Jaguars, an aloof Aston Martin, and resting apart from the others, by the compost heap, a well-loved, scratched and dented Morris Minor. It knows its place. A large white marquee occupies the walled side garden.
Catering staff bustle to and fro.
The opposite wing of the gracious, ivy-clad house shelters a cosy private church of sun-warmed stone. In the ground floor of its miniature tower a scowling rural misanthrope tugs a rope, and the church bell a few metres above his head rings out joyously on the bright morning. Within the sanctuary of the tiny nave the flock of wedding guests is arrayed in the latest fancies of fashion.
The men wear their hair long, the women short. The men wear colourful frilled shirts, generously cut, the women stark geometric des, abbreviated. This is Belinda. Onlinee are tears in his eyes as he removes his spectacles.
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The earpiece is bound with Sellotape. He has to rub his eyes with the hand holding the spectacles because Hope clutches his other hand with the grip of a lost soul slipping beneath the waves. She is a sunny twelve-year-old, but her jaw is slack and her mouth hangs open. She prmirose a frilly party dress that is much too young for her. From beneath her other elbow peeps the grinning clown face of a large punch-bag toy.
These are now fixed on the groom standing by cyat altar rail in formal wedding dress. Onllne is Stephen, a smooth-featured, urbane man in his fifties. He still has a luxuriant head of hair, greying fetchingly at the temples. The church bell has laboured too long. It falters and fails.
In the bell tower the bell-ringer rubs the swollen knuckles of his gnarled hands. Within the nave a low murmur arises. The crowd fidgets. With a benign smile, the vicar bows his tonsure to the onine, a al beseeching them to accept the delay as an opportunity for humble mortification. Belinda smirks. Russell sheds another tear.
His spectacles now have only one earpiece. Hope remains open-mouthed. Daphne arches an eyebrow. The groom, Stephen, displays only the merest touch of anxiety, revolving an inch or two the top hat he holds by the brim in his hands. Within the bell tower, the bell-ringer takes a lusty swig from a thermos, wipes his mouth with a grimy handkerchief, and bends his weight once more to the rope. The bell tumbles in its tower, pealing its merry message.
But delay has darkened the sky. Heavy clouds threaten and a wind frisks about. In the rear seat is Claudia, thirty-something and then some, and ravishing in her stunning white gown. But her face reflects no radiance. Clutching her bouquet, she stares stony-faced, not seeing anything around her.
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Beside her, in full formal dress, sits Roy, a golden-haired cherub in his mid-twenties. The chauffeur opens the door for them. A doddering old crone leaning on a cane at the church door hobbles excitedly inside. She shakes her cane aloft. The organist above crashes out the wedding march. The crowd heaves a collective sigh and relaxes, smiling and expectant.
For a few long minutes, nothing happens. Some of the crowd grow restive again. He revolve towards the church entrance. The old crone reappears in the doorway.