Fiction · Flash Fiction · How to be British · Language

Poncy

Friday, July 21, 2017. Daily Brit Wit.

Poncy:

Adjective, informal (Also: poncey)

Pretentious or affected.

"She catches the quarter after nine train out of London Euston to Birmingham's New Street station. She ought to have gone up the night previous, but a week's separation from her fiancé is pushing it. She wanted to spend all the last minute time with Liam before spending it with her parents and soon-to-be parents-in-law as she could. No matter now, she broods as she settles in for the roughly ninety minutes journey back to her hometown.

Florence spends the majority of the trip reorganising her wedding portfolio. A nervous tick she's never grown out of: she's a rotten traveller and if she stays busy (read: keeps hands and mind occupied), she'll avert being riddled with motion sickness. Why she has to travel up to Birmingham to shop for a wedding dress, she'll never comprehend. It certainly isn't as if London couldn't cater to her whims and fancies just as well (if not the smidgen's bit better) than Birmingham. Okay, she's partial to the larger city now; oh well.

She exits the train station less than two hours later, mingling and merging with the other passengers through the gates as she heads outside. Florence has a willowy figure that allows her to amble gracefully. Once she's strolling down New Street, she pulls out a mobile to dial her mother. She's arrived earlier than anticipated, and wants to eat before meeting up with everyone. Because as soon as she steps foot into any poncy dress shop her mum and Liam's mum, Kate, drags her into, she's not eating. Or participating in anything besides yearning to yank out her hair. She loathes playing dress up.

'Hello my darling!' Her mum chirps in greeting, causing Florence to grin in response.

'Hi, Mum, I'm in Birmingham,' she relays her wish for lunch. 'Where do you want to meet?'

'Well,' the woman on the other end breathes. 'We're meeting everyone in forty minutes. You're best to meet me at a cafe nearby.'

They parry off names until agreeing to meet at their chosen destination in several minutes.

Bless my mum, Florence thinks upon entering the quaint cafe a few minutes later to see her exiting the queue with food. She swears she'd have hugged the woman whether she bore food or not. Her mum doesn't think so.

'It's not like this is the first time I've fed you, you know,' she cracks once she's set down the tray and embraces her daughter again properly.

Florence beams, busses her cheek, and plops down heavily in a seat. 'I'm starving,' she moans, reaching out to steal three grapes. 'I only had jam and toast before I left. Liam refused to clean up a fry-up, so I didn't make him breakfast before leaving.'

Her mother chortles. 'Your dad declined coming out with me.'

Florence's brows raise at this statement. 'Why? Dad never turns down food; that's where I get it from, you know.'

'I do. Says he needs to be saving money since he's paying for your dress.'

Florence groans and rolls her eyes. 'I told Daddy I wanted to elope. It would have saved us all this hassle, dragging me round greater Great Britain for a bleeding dress I'm going to wear once for a few hours.'

'Such a romantic, my daughter.'

Florence blows a kiss."

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