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Well, I’ve been thinking lately that it’s about time I got cracking and got married. I mean, a man can’t spend his entire life spreading his sex appeal around all and sundry, can he? There’s got to be a time to settle down and the time is now. I’ve got a lot to offer a woman. There’s me, for a start. I’m not a bad looking guy. Well, once I get this skin condition cleared up I’ll be even better but the doc says it’s going to take a while. Old Jake told me the best thing for getting rid of this affliction is a liberal pasting with cow manure so I’ve been doing this for a while. Can’t say it’s made much difference and cow pooh isn’t everyone’s favourite scent. Some girls really go for “Poison” I’ve been told so I added a splash of 1080 - only on my clothes of course. I mean, I’m not stupid enough to put in on me. Another thing I’ve done is get Mum to give me a decent haircut so I can look sofis, sophus, soophis - smart! She did the best job ever. Lucky for me she had a pudding bowl just the right size.

Then I got togged out in my best gear - Levi jeans from the general store, brand new and only a bit short in the legs. I let the top down a bit round my hips to make up the difference. Mum says they look real smart round my hips - real modern. Dad’s pants come up to his armpits and that’s a lot more comfortable but for the sake of fashion I’m wearing my hipsters. Pity my long johns show, though. Top and bottom. Pink flannel.

So I got cunning and bought a pink shirt to match. Looks OK but it’s still a funny sort of shirt. The buttons are on the wrong side and I get all cackhanded trying to do up the little pearl buttons.

So here I am, all togged out and raring to go. There’s a dance tonight and I’ll be there ready to pick out a good, lively lass to be my soulmate for life. I’ve got a photo of the new cowshed. Reckon that’ll swing it even if she’s bit slow on taking me up on my offer of honourable marriage. I’ll let you know tomorrow how it went and when the wedding’s going to be.

Me again. Well, the dance went well and there were a lot of girls there but not many that actually took my fancy. I realised quickly, now that the moment of truth had arrived, that what I’m really looking for is someone just like Mum. Younger and prettier, of course. Some of these sheilas were just no good at all. Skinny hips, nothing much up top. I don’t mean no brains, I mean nothing much in the old milkshake department.

Most of them had so much paint on their faces that a man would have to give them a damn good scrubbing in the horse trough before he could see what he was getting. They sort of yell and shriek a lot too and boy, can they giggle. Mum wouldn’t have approved of those ones.

So, I bided my time and had a good hard look. I mean, you don’t go to a cattle auction and grab the first one you see, do you? You stand back, walk around, have a good look, assess the situation. You don’t buy a horse first off either. You look at its teeth, run your hands over its flanks, examine its feet. So, when it come to picking out a bride you don’t exactly rush in either. Marriage to a woman lasts a lot longer than your relationship with a horse or a cow. Well, hopefully. Then you’ve got to think about a family. Does she have the hips for breeding? Pedigree is important too. She’s got to be a reasonably good looker though that’s not the most important thing. Mum says with my good looks I’m sure to pass good points on to my progeny.

So there I am, walking around, sizing up the candidates and rejecting most of them, when one likely lass caught my eye. She was sitting quietly in the corner, nobody around her so I had the chance for a good long eyeful. Not bad, I says to myself. Not bad at all. So I circled for a while then moved in for a closer examination. Good skin, good rosy cheeks, freckles, so I guessed she was a fresh air girl. A bit of a shine on her slightly red nose. No makeup either so I could see what I was getting. Her hair was sort of mouse-coloured which I like (Mum’s hair is the same colour) and she wore a pink ribbon in it. I liked that touch of femininity. Her dress was pink too, just about the same colour as my shirts with the buttons on the wrong side. In fact, it was exactly the same. Good omen, I thought. It was what was in the dress that interested me. She was breeding stock if ever I saw it. Good hips, broad and soft, a nice pair of udders (what do y’ call ‘em in women?) Oh, yes! Knockers. Good sturdy legs and strong thick ankles and a set of arm muscles that could whack an errant bull to Kingdom Come. I’m not one to rush things so I watched a bit longer. She never spoke to a soul. I like that in a woman. Can’t abide females who chatter, chatter all day.

Well, to cut a long story short, I asked her to dance and she accepted. I told her, not straight off of course, but after a bit of general conversation, that I was looking for a wife and would she be interested. “Yes, please,” says she and I’m going to bring her home this afternoon for Mum and Dad to have a good look at. I told them about her and they said “Sounds like you chose well, son. Bring her home and we’ll pass judgement.”

So Mum’s making scones and Dad’s clearing their stuff out of the best bedroom because that’s where me and Milly (that’s her name, by the way) will be sleeping after the nuptuals. Dad and Mum are going to sleep in the spare room. I’ve got to shift the pet rabbit and the hens out of the parlour before she gets here because that’s where we’re having our afternoon tea. I’d better open the windows up. It stinks a bit in there. Hope she likes our house. Mum and Dad say if she doesn’t then I’m to forget about her and find someone who isn’t so picky. She was taken with the photo of the new cowshed.

Anyway, it’s nearly time to leave and pick up my intended. Just to show that us country bumpkins have got poetry in our souls, I’ve written a bit of verse for her. Here’s how it goes:-

I’m in love with a girl called Milly,
Which rhymes with me, my name is Willy.
I hope you don’t think that I’m just silly
If I compare thee to a lily.
You’ve got brown eyes like Fly, my filly
Who gallops where the land is hilly.

I thought this was quite clever, and I hope she likes it. I’m just adding a line.

Milly, you’re a bloody beaut.
Let’s get married, eh?

That should do it. I’m off now. Wish me luck.

Signed.
Will Marris, bridegroom to be.

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