DonegalWoman.ie is delighted to launch a new series celebrating the creative minds of local women.
Donegal Woman’s Words will showcase works of literature on Sundays for readers to enjoy.
It’s a chance to take a quiet moment out and enjoy a story, poem or another piece that is penned by female authors.
We are beginning the series with a feature slot by writer Sharon Thompson, who lives in Moville in Inishowen.
Sharon Thompson is represented by the Trace Literary Agency and writes short stories, crime and commercial fiction. Her short stories have been published in literary magazines and her non-fiction piece is on the international Dangerous Women’s Project. Three of her manuscripts are being submitted to publishers.
She’s a member of an online writing group, under the mentorship of HarperCollins author Carmel Harrington.
Sharon co-founded #WritersWise a trending, writers tweet-chat (www.writerswise1.wordpress.com).
In Sharon’s first contribution, she uncovers the inner thoughts of a Donegal woman getting dressed for a wedding.
A Wee Donegal Weddin’
by Sharon Thompson
A man sticks on a tie and he’s ready to go. BUT we all know how long it takes us to get ready for a wedding? The weeks of trekking through Foyleside (and further afield), trying on every conceivable weddin’ outfit.
‘I HAVE to find a dress – that’s dressy.’
‘It’ll do me for lots of weddings,’ we lie while sucking in, as we get zipped up. ‘A proper bra would make it look a whole lot better.’
We match the expensive ‘investment piece’ with stilettos from Primark. (Narrow ones that we’ll never walk far in or for a full day or EVER again). Squish our feet into them because they’re roughly the right shade.
Royalty we are, in the swish of the ludicrously big hat we’ve borrowed. The millenary creation just flattens the hair-do which took hours and a gallon of hairspray and clips. The almost-right-coloured-clutch-bag (if kept far enough from the hat and the shoes), ‘will do rightly.’
The tan was traumatic. Twirling in a g-string while a stranger sprayed us. We go blotchy because we don’t follow instructions and turn orange cause the beautician didn’t follow ours. The Brillo pad does wonders but we’re kinda raw and losing the battle with the fake eyelashes we were sure we could apply ourselves.
No one will see the dirty tan marks in the cracks in our heels cause the shoes will be kept on.
‘Course they will.’
The hold-all-in knickers hold nuthin’. They’ve rolled down. It’s hot as bejesus as the sun did blink out for the photos. Our make-up’s grand, even if himself thinks we look like we’ve got two black eyes.
‘…And these are High-definition eyebrows. They’re meant to make me look like this.’
The thick make-up we followed being applied on-line, wasn’t built for the sweating we’re doin’. It’s small-talk, the drink and standing around on crushed toes which makes the trips to the toilet more frequent. The flip-flops are all gone from the basket in the loo! We rub and blow on our mangled toes but to no avail and although we know we should never ever do it – we slip the shoes off under the table for the entire meal!!
‘They won’t go back on,’ we slur.
While tipsy everything seems easier and funnier. The holdall-in-knickers are in the sanitary bin or stuffed in the clutch-bag, which won’t close. We pray we don’t slip and fall over, or are forced to do rock the boat, in front of the video camera.
Himself has taken off his tie and it’s in his shirt pocket or around his head. He’s quite happy that he looks the same as every man there. But we’ve put in the effort and … oh Lord – we look like an old, sweaty version of the sexy female DJ, who has come in the same dress; (but in a fecking size eight!)