1558 c/o David Smith

Dix Petits Regrets D'un Garcon Devenant un Homme

I’m getting married tomorrow (un).


Saying it out loud makes it seem more and less real. I am becoming more and less real (deux).

I’m n-n-not nervous, as such. When we met it was as if we’d never been a day apart from each other. I’m well prepared. Yes, I’ve been preparing all my life for this (trois).

However, Mary’s… hot. She’s not a conventional beauty, no. Buxom, a heaving bosom, moist- and pink-lipped, auburn in her hair that sh-sh-shouldn’t by rights make my stomach swill with the unsolicited chill waters of love. I’m a short-arsed virgin who can’t speak Scots yet (quatre). I asked my friend Jacques how best to finger someone. He said that you can use your thumb at the top and your middle finger inside for maximum effect. I’ve been practising on a silk coussin every day for the last two weeks (cinq).

You haven’t seen my outfit yet, but you will, maybe in pictures. I’ll be in more froufrou than Mary (six). I know Jacques will laugh so I’ve asked him not to come. He’s probably my best friend; I’ll miss him when I move to Scotland. I don’t think the climate will suit me, sickly wee thing that I am. Too late to do anything about it now (sept).

My ear’s playing up again. I hope it’ll be ok tomorrow. Mother will be tearful. It means so much more to her that the day goes well (huit).

Y’know, Notre Dame is pretty in April, and I like the small boats on the Seine that appear for weddings, each carrying a hill of wild flowers whose loose petals overflow into the water.

Jacques and I are out tonight for my stag. We’ll probably get trashed on cider, as usual (neuf).

Technically I will become a man tomorrow (dix). I hope my balls drop during my last sleep in single-ville.

Et vu tant de regrets desquels je me lamente,
Tu t'ébahis souvent comment chanter je puis.

I sing despite all my deplorable regrets. Isn’t that amazing? I knew you’d think so.

I’m getting married tomorrow.