But back to S, and his efforts at distraction. I must admit, they seem to have worked somewhat. This story of a 107-year-old Malaysian woman who wants to get married again, for the 23rd time, serves to remind me that there may yet be hope. I figure, if she can rack up 23 marital prospects (and actually marry them to boot) then I may be able to line up 1 or 2 by the time I'm a centenarian. Don't you think? S, certainly seems to think so. He also subtly suggests - yes darling, I can read between the lines, that failing all else I could skedaddle over to Nigeria where I have as-good-a-chance-as-anyone at being this man's 87th wife. He wouldn't recommend eighty-six wives for anyone else, and he may just hesitate against taking another one (just-my-luck), but S seems to think that the option should be-parked-at-the-back-of-the-head. I concede. I must confess however that I don't appreciate the sly reference to my advanced age that S makes when he sends me this story of the romance between a 112 year old man and his 17 year old bride. Or perhaps the message was actually meant to reinforce the fact that true love (and arranged marriages) should not be concerned with trivialities such as age.
Oh well. That all be as it may, but the fact remains that life, today, is more than just a little bit morbid my loves. And in that morbidity, I just managed to find the 'twist' in my proposed play. It occurs to me that the only sensible conclusion is that the as-yet missing perfect-prince-charming was - in fact - a suicide bomber who blew himself up. *boom* Watch out for the play darlings, I can promise you it's going to be a 'mindblowing' production.