I put the names in a "hat" (or my cupped hands) and drew out...
Which is orsum, but also kind of embarrassing because she's my good mate and there's probably going to be an enquiry into the legality and veracity of this hat drawing. Especially as I used my hands. That's got to be questionable. Plus I used little scraps of post-it, which are in no way the official forms of hat drawing.
So to distract the Board of Hat Drawings, I'm going to a) give out another copy of Waiting In Vain, to the second person drawn from the "hat" b) post an excerpt from the aforementioned novella and c) flash a pic of some mancandy about!
Totally street legal, eh?
And the second person drawn from the hat was...
Who is also kind of a mate of mine. But just shut up, okay, because all three of the entrants are my friends! So what am I supposed to do? Argh, stupid enquiry!
Quick, check out this excerpt:
I always feel awkward at the Hennessey’s annual family Christmas get-togethers—maybe because I’m just the sister of a brother-in-law. I don’t have any family except for him, so I get to be the tag-a-long. But I guess this year my awkwardness isn’t quite so unwarranted, when you consider that the revoltingly handsome eldest son has his hand on my thigh, under the table.
I try to act cool. I’ve never had a hand on my thigh, under the table. Cathy—my brother’s wife—is telling a very funny story about the family’s trips to Bridlington, and her elderly Grandmother is doling out peas, which makes the experience even stranger.
Though it could be that he didn’t intend to put his hand on my thigh. Maybe he has some sort of inner ear problem, and thinks he has his hand on his own thigh. Maybe he thinks he has his hand on the thigh of his brother’s wife—Kelly, the cute little redhead. I mean, it could be that he’s having an affair with her and just didn’t look properly at the person he sat down next to at this heaving dining table.
But when I glance at him surreptitiously to confirm, he’s staring straight ahead at nothing as though everything’s just as it should be. His Gran offers him peas and he says, “Oh, yeah, thanks Gran.”
If only she knew what a devil he is.
I know his name, of course. The youngest is George and he’s Mick. Still not married and with something of a reputation. But if he thinks he’s going to splurge his reputation all over me he’s got another thing coming.
God, that hand is high up on my thigh. How do I get it off without looking like I’m getting it off? I’m in the middle of eating this fabulous Christmas Eve dinner, pork with apple sauce halfway to my mouth. I can’t just suddenly put my hand underneath the table.
They’ll all know if I do. He probably does this sort of stuff all the time. He’s tall and pouty-mouthed and masculine all at the same time, with these limpid, dark blue eyes that could steam off a pair of knickers from twenty paces.
Are you distracted, yet? No? Then quick, have some mancandy:
What did you mean, that's not hot? No wonder you work for the Bureau of Minor Competitions. You're insane.