Peter-Bowman sadly regarded his lack of an aardvark suit for formal occasions. Perhaps it would have been better to humour the fashion designer for a little while longer instead of bringing up the topic so abruptly. Surely it would have been possible for the fashion designer to design him an aardvark suit if one was not already in existence. It seemed only logical. It would hardly need to be a very complicated suit even. Aardvarks were not nearly as complicated as octopuses for example. Or even octopi. Peter-Bowman could have told the fashion designer exactly what he needed the suit to look like, where the wings should go and so on. It would not of course have worked.

Fashion designers are at heart selfish and vain beings. They can't bear for somebody else to get any credit for something they did. This is why they put their name on the label of everything they make. Imagine if car manufacturers did this! You'd have cars named after their makers. Such as Ford. Or Holden. Hmm. Fashion designers, much like car manufacturers, are at heart selfish and vain beings. This the reason that it would have been impossible for Peter-Bowman's suggestion of an aardvark suit to ever make it into a fashion design. In fact, simply by making the suggestion, Peter-Bowman has virtually guaranteed that there will never be an aardvark suit put out by the fashion industry. It'll still be a home made job with the whiskers drawn on with a black texta. Fashion designers just hate to act on ideas brought to them by somebody else. It makes them feel less creative. The fact that trousers have to have two legs and dresses only one burns them up inside. If only people had more interesting bodies so that are creative talents could be properly utilised, is what fashion designers are thinking most of the time. It's a good idea to run if you see a fashion designer eyeing you up with a chain saw or axe in the near vicinity as they're liable to make a few alterations to get you to fit your clothes better.

Many fashion designers scoff at the idea of two legged trousers and one legged dresses. What is this human body that tries to dictate such restrictions to us? We are the fashion industry, and you will be assimilated. These highly powered fashion designers are fuelled by grapefruit juice and wool, and can not be prevented from designing five legged dresses and no legged trousers. They are not discouraged by the lack of early adaptors wearing these new clothes. Instead they chant their mantra 'If you design it, they will come'. It's likely that they are correct in this. After all, before the fashion industry got really going, it was considered quite sexy to be a bit plump. With the current trends, it appears that most fashion designers get all hot and bothered over stick insects and shiny things. Or possibly just sticks. With the current advances in genetic technology it can only be a matter of time before there are five legged women for those five legged dresses. Most of them will be called Cynthia.

Peter-Bowman did not know about the forces in the fashion industry that prevented him from getting a nicely designed aardvark suit. He had made a bit of an effort with some long brown stockings and brown skivvy, but wasn't sure that it was really appropriate. The Peter-Bowman label was probably not well enough known to count for formal wear. Have to go with the penguin suit as usual. It did make him look fat. At least he had a cummerbund to conceal the worst. He wrapped it around the beak and drew it tight.

By the time he got to the church, quite a crowd had gathered to greet him. With a jolt of pleasure, he realised that all his friends had come along. There was the dentist, the real estate agent, the fashion designer, the scientist, the restaurant entrepreneur. Even the exploded hippo had turned out. Inside out in fact. He entered the church and discovered with joy that the music was being provided by the massed turnip and lizard choir who had temporarily been writing into this the waking world of this novel by means of the guinea pig press. Everything was just perfect. The choir began to sing Pachabel's canon in D, and the guests looked expectantly towards the rear of the church for their first glimpse of the bride.

And who do you think it was but the Girl! (Peter-Bowman nagged me and nagged me. Eventually I had to agree to track her down again and let him marry her to get him off my back). Rapturous applause broke out and the music swelled to a delicious climax that cascaded down the aisle and swept the Girl into Peter-Bowman's arms. Then he had to find out her name so that the ceremony could continue.

'Hello!' Peter-Bowman was delighted to find out that he was marrying the Girl. I'd kept it as a pleasant surprise for him you see. When he asked her to marry him, she was in disguise as a politician instead of as a telephone company representative, and so Peter-Bowman did not recognise her. Luckily she had chosen to wear her telephone company representative uniform for her wedding. She had to really, as she had just come from work and did not have time to change.

'Hello Peter-Bowman,' said the Girl. She already knew his name of course, because she worked for the telephone company. The names and location of all telephone box dwelling screamers was something that was engraved into her brain when she first started to work for the telephone company with a rubber mallet. The names and locations were engraved with a rubber mallet that that is. As far as I know the Girl has never used a rubber mallet when engaged in official telephone company business. As to how you go about engraving names and locations in a brain using a rubber mallet, I'm really not sure. The Girl has told me that it's a highly technical operation, and a closely guarded trade secret of the telephone industry. She offered to demonstrate, but I'm really not comfortable with the idea of rubber mallets in conjunction with brains. She did ensure me that it was entirely painless and did in fact cure her slightly common cold that she had been nursing at the time she applied for the job. It is possible that the engraving process involves some sort of memory training exercise and that the rubber mallet is just for killing cold germs, but I really didn't want to find out. Actually, the Girl did seem to have a bit of a cold when I discussed this with her. She may have said rubber mallard, which of course makes much more sense from an engraving point of view. The beak would probably work as an engraving tool.

The sea captain who had agreed to perform the ceremony (he had in fact become rather fond of Peter-Bowman after rescuing him from the desert island, though he hid it well behind a gruff manner and a habit of stealing Peter-Bowman's toast in the mornings), said 'Hello Peter-Bowman and the Girl. Are you ready to get married then?'

The Girl was rather taken aback at this. 'You don't know my name?' she demanded of Peter-Bowman.

'Well, you see, I was told that I'd never see you again and so, having fallen desperately in love with you, I didn't want a name to hang my sighs on and make me even more miserable than a drowned flea.' You have to admit that Peter-Bowman makes a good point here. Should you ever fall desperately in love with somebody that you are hence told that you will never see again, it is a terrible thing for you to remember their name. It will only lead to tears after bedtime, and that is something that will give you a cold due to sleeping on a wet pillow. Take my advice, and make sure that you never learn name at all, unless you are actually in the process of marrying them. You will save yourself a tremendous lot of grief if you can achieve this. When at a party you will be introduced to people. Counter this vicious attempt to cause you heart break by sticking your fingers in your ears and loudly humming some Wagner. It may also be useful to keep your eyes closed throughout the party, so that you do not inadvertently catch sight of somebody who you fall in love with and then have to spend the rest of your days with your terribly unrequited belove d's image burnt into your eyeballs with a hot piece of wire. This is something that you most definitely should avoid.

The Girl, being an understanding sort of person, immediately recognised Peter-Bowman's plight. 'I understand,' she told him gently. 'I must say that if it wasn't for the fact that I already knew your name and location, having had it engraved into my brain with a rubber mallet when I joined the telephone company, I would most certainly have stuck my fingers in my ears and closed my eyes before I told you to stop screaming in your phone box. But now that we are about to be married, and there is no fear of your love being unrequited, wouldn't you like to know my name?' There is of course here an illustration of the romantic problems that employees of the telephone company, postal service, and pizza delivery industry have to face. They already know your name before the come into contact with you in any way. Imagine the stress that the average pizza delivery worker goes through in the moments before he or she knocks on your door. 'I've got a name already. What if this is the one? And I'm rejected? I'll have to go through life with a name that's always on my lips and in my heart but never in my arms.' This is why so many pizzas are cold or mangled by the time they arrive. Where ever you live, it is certain that a pizza could reach you in ten minutes. Pizza shops have reached such a critical density that in some cases they could just reach out and knock on your door without leaving the premises. The oft quoted thirty to forty five minute delivery time is due to the terror induced in a pizza delivery person who has to meet somebody new and has no chance of avoiding knowing their name. The pizza delivery person has arrived at your house within ten minutes of you placing your order. But then he or she has stood on your door step for twenty minutes attempting to find the courage to risk falling in love with you. You can check this the next time you order a pizza to be delivered. Put the phone down, and wait ten minutes. Then look out the front. You will see a terrified pizza delivery person pacing up and down in front of your house, gulping down whisky and chain smoking as they build up their fragile sense of self esteem enough to approach the catastrophe they know lurks within the moment of seeing your face and matching it to a name. It is unfortunate that pizza delivery people can't deliver pizza blind folded. This only really works if you order pizza from Zorro's All Night Pizza Emporium.

Peter-Bowman thought hard and long about whether he wanted to know the Girl's name or not. Given the above, I'm sure you can understand why. Peter-Bowman had once had a job delivering pizzas. Though he was very careful to carry a thick black texta to cross out the name of the deliveree before he could read it, there had been some near misses. A couple of close misters, for that matter, but Peter-Bowman had never been one to experiment in that manner. On the other hand, what the hell. 'Yes. Yes I would like to know your name, thank you.'

'Melissa,' she said, with a smile so sweet it could rot your teeth. Luckily Peter-Bowman was very conscientious about dental hygiene, and the sea captain wore dentures, so no harm was done. Except, and it always happens when the Girl smiles at you in that way, Peter-Bowman's heart suddenly seemed to be trying to out flip the real estate agent in the triple back flip department. Peter-Bowman blinked.

And so it was that Melissa and Peter-Bowman were made one. After the requisite marriage vows and ring transferral of course. And the moment when the sea captain lost his dentures in a fit of salty emotion and everybody had to get down on hands and knees and search them out. They were finally discovered lurking beneath the front pew. And the father of the bride not showing up to give her away because he hadn't been told his daughter was getting married, and besides which hadn't been written until halfway through the ceremony. It was a beautiful wedding, as these things go.