I’ve recently been asked by quite a few people what the hell happened to ‘Farmer Wants A Wife’ – which is a TV show I applied for quite a while back. Well, the answer is, absolutely NOTHING. Not a peep. I can only assume, therefore, that I’m not the sort of wife the farmer wanted.
It’s a shame really; I spent about three hours on the application form, trying to make a sheep farmer called Charles fall in love with me over several sheets of paper. My efforts were futile, but I suppose I shouldn’t be too upset. I spent a week on a farm about a month ago and aside from an inventive series of make-believe games involving unicorns and pixies with a hyperactive six-year-old child, I did nothing but bite my once beautiful nails, search in fear for white-tipped spiders in every darkened corner, and pretend I wasn’t terrified of horses.
I think I’ve been in love with the IDEA of being in love with the farm life, you know? In reality, I’m not in love with farms at all. They’re filthy, dirty, terrifying places, full of open spaces, which in turn make you focus on yourself, withdraw deeper into your own twisted imaginings and therefore, render you friendless and ALONE… talking to pixies. I would have hated it. Pah. I’m GLAD he didn’t pick me.
This is all a lie of course. Rejection sucks. And Charles, if you do turn round and welcome me into your welly-booted world, I’ll delete this post immediately and deny I ever wrote it.
I love you. (WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME?!!?!!??)
Oh, and thanks to my friend Farzana, who sent me this consolatory video, which I think proves to all the naysayers out there that farmers are very sexy people.