The Trials of Tiffany Trott Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Isabel Wolff
keen to marry again.”
Now I have absolutely no objections to divorced men—as long as the first wife is dead, ha ha!—so I told Lizzie she could give him my number. Then I sat down to write my reply to the Tall, Athletic Academic. I soon got stuck with my pen poised over my best-quality oyster-colored Conqueror paper. How on earth should I go about it? I mean, what the hell do people say? Do they write, “Dear Tall, Athletic, Passionate, Propertied . . . ,” or, “Dear Abundantly Erotic Existentialist . . . ,” or, “Dear Bewitching Brunette, fifty-seven and a half . . .”? What does protocol require? Maybe I should come clean and say, “Hallo there, my incredibly bossy best friend saw your intriguing ad and told me that if I don’t reply she’ll kill me.” Maybe I should say, “Hi! My name’s Tiffany. I think I could be your feminine friend.” Feminine Friend? It sounds like a brand of tampon. Maybe I should start, “Dear Box Number ML2445219X.” Maybe I should simply write, “Dear Sir . . .”
I decided to go shopping instead. There’s nothing like a trip to Oxford Street on the number 73 to clear the brain, and soon I was entertaining positive thoughts about Tall, Athletic, Passionate, Propertied, etc. (think I’ll just call him “Tall” for short). By the time the bus was speeding down Essex Road, we’d been out to dinner twice. As it pulled away from the Angel, he’d shyly held my hand. By the time we turned into Pentonville Road, he’d come up to meet my parents. As we drove p. 27 past Euston station, our engagement announcement was in The Times, and by the time we pulled up outside Selfridges half an hour later, we were married with two children and living in Cambridge, where he is undoubtedly professor of something terribly impressive, such as cytogenetics. Bus journeys do not normally give rise to such pleasant fantasies. Usually they remind me of the appalling problems I have with men. For example, I step happily on board the number 24, confident that I am going, say, to Hampstead. It all seems perfectly straightforward, the destination quite clear. But then, just as I’m relaxing into my book— ding dong ! “Last Stop. All Change!” and there I am, marooned at the grottier end of Camden. And when I gently remonstrate with the bus conductor about my unexpectedly abbreviated journey, he calmly points to the front of the bus where it says, in very large letters, CAMDEN HIGH STREET ONLY. And that’s what it’s been like with men. I have failed to read the signs. So I have allowed them to lead me not just up the garden path, but through the front door, into the house, through the sitting room, up the stairs, and into the bedroom, before being shown out through the back door—usually with instructions to cut the grass before I leave. Unfortunately this whole process takes quite a long time, as I have learned to my great chagrin.
What a fool I am—what a damned, silly little fool. I have let selfish, commitment-shy men tie me up for too long. I have cooked my own goose and stuffed it. Perhaps I could get Tony Blair to introduce legislation, I mused, as I went over to the expensive unguents counter. I’m sure he’d oblige if I asked him to be tough on commitophobia—tough on the causes of commitophobia. Men would not be allowed to monopolize women over the age of thirty-three for more than six months without making their intentions clear. Fines would be incurred, and repeat offenders like Phillip would be sent off for institutional reform in a confetti factory. No longer would men be able to p. 28 shilly-shally around with girls during what Jane Austen called our “years of danger.” This would improve our lives immeasurably, I thought as I sprayed Allure onto my left wrist. One father I know, frustrated by his daughter’s four-year wait for a wedding ring, simply put the engagement announcement in the paper—just like that! The boyfriend was whizzed up the aisle
Now I have absolutely no objections to divorced men—as long as the first wife is dead, ha ha!—so I told Lizzie she could give him my number. Then I sat down to write my reply to the Tall, Athletic Academic. I soon got stuck with my pen poised over my best-quality oyster-colored Conqueror paper. How on earth should I go about it? I mean, what the hell do people say? Do they write, “Dear Tall, Athletic, Passionate, Propertied . . . ,” or, “Dear Abundantly Erotic Existentialist . . . ,” or, “Dear Bewitching Brunette, fifty-seven and a half . . .”? What does protocol require? Maybe I should come clean and say, “Hallo there, my incredibly bossy best friend saw your intriguing ad and told me that if I don’t reply she’ll kill me.” Maybe I should say, “Hi! My name’s Tiffany. I think I could be your feminine friend.” Feminine Friend? It sounds like a brand of tampon. Maybe I should start, “Dear Box Number ML2445219X.” Maybe I should simply write, “Dear Sir . . .”
I decided to go shopping instead. There’s nothing like a trip to Oxford Street on the number 73 to clear the brain, and soon I was entertaining positive thoughts about Tall, Athletic, Passionate, Propertied, etc. (think I’ll just call him “Tall” for short). By the time the bus was speeding down Essex Road, we’d been out to dinner twice. As it pulled away from the Angel, he’d shyly held my hand. By the time we turned into Pentonville Road, he’d come up to meet my parents. As we drove p. 27 past Euston station, our engagement announcement was in The Times, and by the time we pulled up outside Selfridges half an hour later, we were married with two children and living in Cambridge, where he is undoubtedly professor of something terribly impressive, such as cytogenetics. Bus journeys do not normally give rise to such pleasant fantasies. Usually they remind me of the appalling problems I have with men. For example, I step happily on board the number 24, confident that I am going, say, to Hampstead. It all seems perfectly straightforward, the destination quite clear. But then, just as I’m relaxing into my book— ding dong ! “Last Stop. All Change!” and there I am, marooned at the grottier end of Camden. And when I gently remonstrate with the bus conductor about my unexpectedly abbreviated journey, he calmly points to the front of the bus where it says, in very large letters, CAMDEN HIGH STREET ONLY. And that’s what it’s been like with men. I have failed to read the signs. So I have allowed them to lead me not just up the garden path, but through the front door, into the house, through the sitting room, up the stairs, and into the bedroom, before being shown out through the back door—usually with instructions to cut the grass before I leave. Unfortunately this whole process takes quite a long time, as I have learned to my great chagrin.
What a fool I am—what a damned, silly little fool. I have let selfish, commitment-shy men tie me up for too long. I have cooked my own goose and stuffed it. Perhaps I could get Tony Blair to introduce legislation, I mused, as I went over to the expensive unguents counter. I’m sure he’d oblige if I asked him to be tough on commitophobia—tough on the causes of commitophobia. Men would not be allowed to monopolize women over the age of thirty-three for more than six months without making their intentions clear. Fines would be incurred, and repeat offenders like Phillip would be sent off for institutional reform in a confetti factory. No longer would men be able to p. 28 shilly-shally around with girls during what Jane Austen called our “years of danger.” This would improve our lives immeasurably, I thought as I sprayed Allure onto my left wrist. One father I know, frustrated by his daughter’s four-year wait for a wedding ring, simply put the engagement announcement in the paper—just like that! The boyfriend was whizzed up the aisle