Sunday, 3 March 2013

Curiosity may kill this Cat

Some people never tire of prying into your private life. I refer to them as 'nosy b@stards'. Not a blindingly original title, but fit-for-purpose. Don't get me wrong. I am fairly liberal with relatively intimate details with those close to me (sometimes a little too liberal after a refreshing beverage or two) but this particular brand of individual generally has no business making your business their business, if you get my drift. The Aunt you see once a year and don’t particularly like; that individual at work with too much time on their hands (who often inspires the question 'what do they actually do…?’); the friend of a friend, of a friend, of a friend whose name you've forgotten. Them.
When you're single they're obsessed with you 'meeting someone special', and specialise in patronising pseudo-excited grins and reassurances you neither need nor want. I think we should start issuing medals / small trophies to honour unattached comrades who refrain from punching these types in the tit (stereotyping, I know, but this behaviour does tend towards the female of the species). No, violence is not the answer, but 'Feck off you interfering old <insert expletive of choice>' is a possibility. Best to nip them in the bud because I have bad news for you single people; It does not stop when you meet someone you're willing to share the remote, deserts and your naked self with. They are never satisfied.
They simply move on, scarcely pausing to draw breath, to 'when are you getting engaged…?' (I was going out with my now husband three months when the questions started. Three months!) And if you do decide to enter the circus-world of insanity that is The Wedding, you open yourself up to some of the dullest conversations known to man. Flautists, flowers and favours my arse. These snoopy types are, of course, in their element. And will expect an invite. (Stand firm! Do not give in!) Then, before you've even cut the ridiculously overpriced cake*, the next line of questioning begins.
'Any news…?' They ask expectantly, dancing around the subject with all the subtlety of a baby elephant, staring at your belly, trying to decide if it's full of baby or biscuits.
It's biscuits, I assure you. Now feck off.

*Ridiculously overpriced, unless you have a talented mother like mine, who made our cake and my dress. 
She rocks.

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