Read Online Fat Girls and Fairy Cakes by Sue Watson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sue Watson
Tags: Humor, Literature & Fiction, Contemporary Fiction, Contemporary Women, Women's Fiction, General Humor, Humor & Satire
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verger’s weakness for whips.
“Hello Denise. As the First Lady of this parish, what’s life like in this lovely village?”
Everyone in the garden and in the OB truck held their breath.
Denise stepped forward, wobbly on high heels. She was sporting a full-length, tangerine frock which strangely complemented the purple hard-landscaping, albeit in a hallucinogenic-hippie-on-acid kind of way.
“We love this village and its people, there’s such a sense of community here that you don’t always find these days,” was her opening line, which sounded surprisingly sane for Denise. “We also love the rugged landscape round these parts. We like our garden to reflect this with no pretentions, using local stone and native planting, as God intended. The television company have certainly added something different with the vibrant colours – but it works.”
She went on to talk about the seasons in the garden and some of the produce from the vegetable patch; I held my breath throughout. To my amazement and relief, it went brilliantly. Debbie guided Denise expertly through about ten minutes of planting, preening and plucking interspersed with charming (and non-sexual) anecdotes about village life. Then the show cut to some previously filmed footage and my air exploded out of my mouth in relief.
“We roll VT footage for six minutes thirty seconds,” I said to Debbie over the talkback. “So you’re OK for five, then stand by.” On the monitor I could see her relay this to Bernard and Denise and they visibly relaxed. I watched the footage. It was some nice shots of Bernard visiting sick and elderly parishioners, which would hopefully compensate for his stage fright. As the nation watched Bernard dispensing comfort and kindness, Sam and I exchanged a smile. Against all odds, everything was on cue and the end was suddenly in sight. It was all going brilliantly, in fact – right up until the point it went horribly wrong.
Just as we were about to broadcast live again I suddenly spotted our garden designer making his musical entrance and dancing right up to Debbie, holding out the watering can needed for the next shot and humming Britney to himself. “What the hell is Gerard doing? He’s in the wrong place! Get him off the set now!” I hissed over the talkback.
But it appeared that Debbie had become busy with Denise who had just ‘adjusted’ her dress and managed to drop the clip-on mic down her cleavage. “Can I have some help here please?” Debbie yelled, as she plunged her hand between Denise’s voluptuous breasts. “I can’t find it!”
Some of the production crew ran over and Gerard stopped humming long enough to offer some advice. “It’s all right love,” he said to Denise, “just jump up and down and it will fall right out.” Denise began jogging up and down and shaking her breasts left and right to free the mic, with no notable success.
“Live in ten seconds, Stella,” the PA called urgently.
“Debbie!” I yelled. “ We are on air in ten seconds! ” But Debbie clearly couldn’t hear me. She was shouting at Denise to stand still, all the while wrist deep in cleavage and her earpiece must have got dislodged in the scuffle. Gerard’s humming turned into full on singing as three of the crew plus Debbie tried desperately to extract the mic. “Oh dear,” Denise beamed at one of the very red faced male runners, “It does seem rather stuck, doesn’t it?”
“Five seconds, Stella!” The PA screamed.
“Debbie!!! Just clear the set!” I yelled. But it was no good – I could see her earpiece dangling uselessly over her shoulder. “Somebody get on set, now!” I shouted, jumping out of my seat.
“Two seconds!”
I lurched uselessly towards the door. But it was too late.
“And we’re live!” said the PA.
Everything went silent in my head. On screen, everyone carried on, unaware that we were broadcasting live to the nation. I could see Debbie thrusting her hand further down Denise’s
“Hello Denise. As the First Lady of this parish, what’s life like in this lovely village?”
Everyone in the garden and in the OB truck held their breath.
Denise stepped forward, wobbly on high heels. She was sporting a full-length, tangerine frock which strangely complemented the purple hard-landscaping, albeit in a hallucinogenic-hippie-on-acid kind of way.
“We love this village and its people, there’s such a sense of community here that you don’t always find these days,” was her opening line, which sounded surprisingly sane for Denise. “We also love the rugged landscape round these parts. We like our garden to reflect this with no pretentions, using local stone and native planting, as God intended. The television company have certainly added something different with the vibrant colours – but it works.”
She went on to talk about the seasons in the garden and some of the produce from the vegetable patch; I held my breath throughout. To my amazement and relief, it went brilliantly. Debbie guided Denise expertly through about ten minutes of planting, preening and plucking interspersed with charming (and non-sexual) anecdotes about village life. Then the show cut to some previously filmed footage and my air exploded out of my mouth in relief.
“We roll VT footage for six minutes thirty seconds,” I said to Debbie over the talkback. “So you’re OK for five, then stand by.” On the monitor I could see her relay this to Bernard and Denise and they visibly relaxed. I watched the footage. It was some nice shots of Bernard visiting sick and elderly parishioners, which would hopefully compensate for his stage fright. As the nation watched Bernard dispensing comfort and kindness, Sam and I exchanged a smile. Against all odds, everything was on cue and the end was suddenly in sight. It was all going brilliantly, in fact – right up until the point it went horribly wrong.
Just as we were about to broadcast live again I suddenly spotted our garden designer making his musical entrance and dancing right up to Debbie, holding out the watering can needed for the next shot and humming Britney to himself. “What the hell is Gerard doing? He’s in the wrong place! Get him off the set now!” I hissed over the talkback.
But it appeared that Debbie had become busy with Denise who had just ‘adjusted’ her dress and managed to drop the clip-on mic down her cleavage. “Can I have some help here please?” Debbie yelled, as she plunged her hand between Denise’s voluptuous breasts. “I can’t find it!”
Some of the production crew ran over and Gerard stopped humming long enough to offer some advice. “It’s all right love,” he said to Denise, “just jump up and down and it will fall right out.” Denise began jogging up and down and shaking her breasts left and right to free the mic, with no notable success.
“Live in ten seconds, Stella,” the PA called urgently.
“Debbie!” I yelled. “ We are on air in ten seconds! ” But Debbie clearly couldn’t hear me. She was shouting at Denise to stand still, all the while wrist deep in cleavage and her earpiece must have got dislodged in the scuffle. Gerard’s humming turned into full on singing as three of the crew plus Debbie tried desperately to extract the mic. “Oh dear,” Denise beamed at one of the very red faced male runners, “It does seem rather stuck, doesn’t it?”
“Five seconds, Stella!” The PA screamed.
“Debbie!!! Just clear the set!” I yelled. But it was no good – I could see her earpiece dangling uselessly over her shoulder. “Somebody get on set, now!” I shouted, jumping out of my seat.
“Two seconds!”
I lurched uselessly towards the door. But it was too late.
“And we’re live!” said the PA.
Everything went silent in my head. On screen, everyone carried on, unaware that we were broadcasting live to the nation. I could see Debbie thrusting her hand further down Denise’s
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