Why age 42 and Three-Quarters?
Because 42 is the perfect age. Young enough to dangle off the side of a barge in the Seine but old enough to know better. Young enough to fall in love, but supposedly old enough not to fall for a stranger over the internet.
Excerpt from Alice's Secret Diary:
9:00 a.m. A bell rang and
Leslie moved to his seat. The bailiff called the Court to order and the judge
entered. We all stood.
The judge was female, about fifty-five, with a stubby body.
She wore a long white wig like the judge in Alice
in Wonderland. Bum luck pulling a lady-judge. I’ve learned that women are
usually less compassionate with other women. She wasn’t going to be sympathetic
to my flights of fancy. The worst part was she was probably in Leslie’s pocket.
As I slipped into
position at our table my straight skirt rose up my legs. I tugged at the hem
catching my bracelet on my pantyhose at mid-thigh. I struggled to free the gold
links from the tougher than steel fibers of my run-resistant hose. My every
movement succeeded in tangling me with myself. My right wrist felt permanently
attached to my right thigh eight inches short of being obscene.
As the true horror of my
situation sank into my brain, I watched the lawyers take turns going up to the
podium to announce their names and whom they represented. Dallas Little was
attorney for Leslie Archer. Glick waddled up to the stand, “George Blackstone
Glick for the plaintiff, Algernon Green” he said in a big, booming voice.
“And for the Defense?”
the judge asked.
I was sweating. I
couldn’t stay in my seat. You had to walk up and announce yourself. I edged out
of the chair bent over, hobbling, wrist on thigh, and skirt way up where it
shouldn’t have been. I tried to act as professional as I could under the
circumstances. I flashed the judge a self-deprecating smile.
“Alice Harte. I am
here today in my own defense, Your Honor. I am pro se.” I couldn’t reach the
microphone on the podium, so I spoke as loudly as I could considering my face
was on my stomach.
The courtroom was silent; you could have heard a lawyer
drop.
The judge looked flabbergasted. “Are you mocking me?” she
snapped.
“Your Honor I have a problem. May I go behind the bench?”
“The correct terminology is ‘May I approach the bench?’”
I hunched forward, pigeon stepping toward her. There were twitters
of laughter in the courtroom. The judge banged her gavel. “Silence. Ms. Harte if you are attempting to make a
mockery of this court, I will not take it lightly. Now straighten up.”
The judge’s bench was a good three feet taller than my
head. I waddled as close as I could and mouthed the words ‘Panty hose are
stuck.’ She didn’t get it.
I figured if I could get behind the judicial platform I
could take off my panty hose and roll them up with the bracelet and be done
with it. The bailiff was one step behind me as I slipped around the bench and
under the judge’s chair. I guessed he’d never seen anyone act that way in court
before because he stood there dumbstruck and then broke into gales of laughter.
The spectators joined him. The noise was so loud the judge’s gavel-banging
couldn’t be heard. It was twenty minutes before they all got quiet and I felt
secure enough to walk out from under the judge’s chair. I did so with all the
dignity I could muster. I pretended I was Joan of Arc going to the stake.
