Number six. What can I tell you about number six?

Okay what can’t I tell you about him. Trust me never marry a man whose taste in style consists of slimy swamp weed.

I mean, how would you feel having to scrub swamp mud and goo off the carpet and floors every day. Just to see him drag it all back in again at night after a hard day scaring the locals. I told him so too. Did he pay attention, did he? Oh no. he’d just growl, shake his soggy arms and do it all over again.

And talk about the halitosis. I swore if he ever ate another raw alligator, I’d…I’d…

Well, darn it, he never once listened to my hints about a new handbag and shoes.