This was
almost a very different, gardening related blog post - 'My Best Friend's
weeding' - luckily I had noticed the error of my ways in time. This was good
news for all as I know sweet F.A. about gardening. The closest I've ever been
to flowers was an 'I'm sorry you found out I'd cheated on your sorry ass
bouquet' once. We don't even have grass at my up north home because the dogs piss all over it and turn it yellow
(we have the perfect ratio of pebbles to decking apparently). In my southern garden we
have a mattress, some bricks and a video copy of some of Leo's best work -
Titanic. Anyway, I digress...
My
oldest, not-so-nearest and dearest friend has now spent one whole week enjoying
the delights of wedded bliss (those of you who know me well will have
visualised the grimace on my face as I enunciated ‘wedded bliss’). However, you
would have been hasty to do so.
I had
initially woken up and gone through the generic morning routine. Urinate,
stroke some spaniels and eat two boxes of cereal from my variety pack lovingly bought
for me by Mother. I then got down to the good stuff – war paint on and hair
done. Steps’ version of ‘Tragedy’ conveniently humming in the background. White
noise from the usual suspects of music channels. Anyway, I was looking hot to
trot and good to go. Hadn’t thought it through though as I now couldn’t get my
cheap ASOS dress over my massive head complete with sponge attachments – FAIL!
The
packing of the handbag: The etiquette for such events (weddings, not weedings)
dictates a clutch as your base product. However, I opted for GIANT postal
envelope/ potential laptop carrier. I think it worked. Contents-wise I went for
the usual make-up top-ups, phone and keys. It was at this point that I
hesitated. I’m not sure that you’re supposed to want to pack a sick bag for a
wedding, especially not your oldest friend’s, it’s more of a long-haul trip
kind of staple. It’s a good job Mother was on hand to loan me a brand new
packet of tissues! This meant that I could blend in and gently pat the space
where my tear ducts once were at the appropriate moments.
I had intended
to attend this wedding/ weeding with two initial goals:
1. To provide moral support for my old buddy, old pal
AND
2. To pick up the Groom’s single guy friends.
Apparently
weddings are the new couples hang out. I unfortunately was yet to receive this
memo! I thought you were supposed to politely decline the offer of a plus one
in the hope of bagging yourself the Best Man. How times have changed!
I spent four speeches and three courses sandwiched between two couples and their
corresponding little angels. It’s a good job there was a sweet table and a bar
to keep me entertained in the awkward silences punctuating the template of
conversation set out for couples to ask singletons over dinner.
In other news, I’m almost certain
that Bood’s will be relieved to know
that I hadn’t reached such a point of inebriation whereby I thought it would be
acceptable to use her wish tree as a means to an end with the cynical thoughts
crossing my mind as I tucked into my profiteroles. No-one else seemed to be
wishing for a fire and a truck-load of oiled up, half naked rescuers. The
general theme appeared to be well wishes to the happy couple – I decided to
stick with it like the typical sheep that I am in these kinds of social
situations and other unfamiliar territories. So, like a lamb to the slaughter -
using its best joined up writing – I wrote something soppy. The sort of
sentimental mush that I hear newly-weds enjoy. The sort of drivel that the guys at Hallmark get paid for.
The night ended in the usual manner
whenever Boo Doo is concerned – a freaking dance off! I was relieved and back
in my comfort zone. A dance off is always good news for me as I’m related to
Mick Jagger, I therefore have the moves like him. And as I always like to go
out on a high this meant that the perfect execution of
the sprinkler, the lawnmower and
the bricklayer in quick succession was my cue to leave.
On a serious note, I love my Bood’s
to bits and could not be happier with her and hubby being such happy little
marriage bunnies. All the bestest to my bestest. As for me, lonely spaniel lady
lifestyle looms ever closer…
So the moral of this story is yes,
I’m a cynical, emotional cripple but I do love a happy ending (and not in a
Thai massage kind of way).
