This post consists of four things: 1. A random Call the Midwife The New Christmas Special picture. 2. A story snippet of some random thing I started to work on last week which involves a proposal and a refusal. 3. A random picture of Trixie Franklin looking glamorous as usual, and 4. Very deep life advice.
THE CALL THE MIDWIFE THE NEW CHRISTMAS SPECIAL PICTURE:
THE STORY SNIPPET OF SOME RANDOM THING I STARTED TO WORK ON LAST WEEK WHICH INVOLVES A PROPOSAL AND A REFUSAL:
One autumn day – in fact, last week – when he had greeted me with his usual “Hello, Holly Mae Webster” after I had visited the post office, I turned to him and told him, “Excuse me, sir, but there is no need to repeat my full name every time you greet me. I am fully aware my last name is Webster.”
I should not have spoken of last names. He took it as a resounding hint and an unambiguous begging for a proposal.
“You are fully aware?” he asked.
“Of course! Who is not, pray, fully aware of their own name?”
“I bet you must be,” he smiled nicely, “As a young girl. I bet young girls are always extra aware of their last names.”
The inward groan I made at that point could have risen dead from their graves, but before I could properly process what was going on, he had grabbed my hand and said, “I could change your last name for you!”
And this is where I finally addressed matters.
What I said to him then I cannot fully remember, but I shall write down what I remember I (and he) said, rely on my imagination and then elaborate somewhat. I do fully remember that it was on the public road and that we happened to be wearing matching outfits which, he pointed out innocently, was another sign – sent from heaven!
“Mr Smith,” I said, “I am eighteen years old – why would I be interested in you?”
“Why – why – we’re both writers! We’re of the same sort! We’re the same kind! We understand each other!”
Very much offended by this jaunty remark I proceeded to say that no, I did not understand him.
“But we’re both writers!”
“Napoleon and Wellington both led an army but they managed to be each other’s biggest enemies.” (I admit I was proud of this slick response.)
“You should be thankful,” Ben Smith said.
“What? Thankful? Yes, I am thankful for many things but that does not include your proposal to me, Mr Smith.”
At this point, he started to get angry. “I am RICH! I am a famous, PUBLISHED author! You’re just a little magazine writer!”
“Oh and? That will make me jump off my feet for joy, will it?”
“Yes! If you marry me –” (in which I shudder inwardly) “– I could, why I could make you a famous author! Your books would be in the shops.”
“Excuse me, Mr Smith, but becoming a famous author is not –”
“You’ve seen my house! I have footmen waiting on me, chandeliers dangling from my ceiling, and bedrooms by the dozen! I host the towns’ biggest parties; I own dozens of farms; I employ tenants and I could offer you wardrobes bigger than the Titanic.”
“I don’t want –”
“Why, I have seen your house! That little bucky old thing. You have a small attic room. Your father is a mere – pardon the blunt talk – a mere merchant.”
“I’m afraid I am not convinced or attracted in the least,” I dryly said, secretly outraged by his comments on my house. My house, dear readers, is a beautiful little brick thing with charming turquoise windows and a turquoise front door. It is home and I cannot imagine life without it.
“Also, I want to marry you because I love you.” He didn’t sound sincere at all, but for a fleeting second, I felt bad for him.
“Well the attraction is not mutual, Mr Smith.” I eyed him angrily. “That is all.”
Then I marched home.
THE PICTURE OF TRIXIE FRANKLIN LOOKING GLAMOROUS AS USUAL:
THE VERY DEEP LIFE ADVICE:
Make week resolutions rather than year resolutions (better still - daily ones; hour-ly ones... because those are actually keepable), get excited for Call the Midwife Season six, email random emails to people, read Chasing Jupiter by Rachel Coker and try not to cry when Frank stammers his love and when Cliff is no longer Cliff (WHYYYYY), eat healthy, and listen to the following two soundtracks because I just(ish) discovered them and I love them: La La Land Soundtrack and Top Hat Soundtrack. The former is an exquisite ice-cream on a blossoming spring evening and the latter is chique thirties with rythms and waltzies to make you pine for better dancing shoes. Highly recommend both. Although they might make you wish your life was a musical. Maybe.
(Bonus life tip: Read Psalm 19. It's beautiful.)