My mother, while watching Charles and Camilla get hitched on Saturday night, text messaged my brother in London.
After the knot was tied, she went off to bed, and awoke in the morning (luckily) to his response:
My mother, who dreams nightly of my brother marrying Ralph Fiennes’ step daughter, thought that all her ships had come in. She called my sister and exclaimed the news down the phone.
“Oh my god!” gasped my sister.
She was at my dad’s, so my mother told him as well.
“He’s out of the will,” said my dad, “Disinherited.”
My mother wafted on a breeze of fame by association, but felt she had to know the juicy details. She called my brother and asked him to spill the beans…
“It was a joke!” he shouted down the phone. “What do you expect when you ask me if I’m at Charles’s second wedding? Hello?”
“But…but,” said my mother, brokenly, “All those famous people that you meet. Ralph Fiennes, Francesca Annis, Franz Ferdinand’s production manager, the chick you met that pashed Jamie Cullen the other day… It seemed like it might be legitmate…”
She didn’t add the words – are you sure you weren’t there? – but she didn’t need to. They hung in the air between Melbourne and Maida Vale, loud and unspoken.
There was no need for me to be privy to the conversation, because I know exactly what happened next. My brothers eyebrows would have been peaking with disbelief at my mothers gullibility, and my mother would have done one of her sighs.