So I was saying that we were back in Northumberland for my brother's wedding.
And, oh my gawd, it was wonderful.
Hence the post-holiday comedown. Sob. I find myself in a situation not unlike that bit in Trainspotting where Renton goes cold turkey except with fewer dead babies and more ironing.
And, you know, it was wonderful for all of the obvious reasons. The Irish contingent were over and fully committed to doing what they do best (i.e. having an almighty session) and so 'the craic was mighty' (direct quote from me fatha) on the Friday...and the Saturday...and again on the Sunday when they sojourned to Newcastle to await their flight back to Dublin on the Monday morning (which was then delayed for 6 hours thanks to an oil leak - then the vast majority of them had to wait for a bus to Sligo and eventually ended up getting back something like 12 hours after they were supposed to - but hey let's focus on the positive, eh? It was a great day!)
And, obviously, on the Saturday I watched my little brother (13 months, these things matter) get wed to the lovely Solila. And that isn't just an empty epithet - she really is so very lovely, which makes me feel full of kittens and rainbows and butterflies; I mean, they work so well as a couple i.e. by making each other the very best version of themselves and they're going to have the most beautiful babies imaginable (Irish/Swedish/Vietnamese/Chinese superbabies no less) in the hopefully not too distant future (no pressure) - oh, it's just too much. Gush. Forgive me: I'm a pregnant woman, for heaven's sake, I'm constantly crying at the drop of a hat - or, if you'd prefer a more specific example, a picture of an orphaned baby wombat in the newspaper. The wedding was an emotional marathon and I took GOLD, man.
Anyway, here is a very scientific calculation which explains why last Saturday was indeed a Very Good Day:
FAMILY + PUBLIC OUTPOURINGS OF LOVE = VERY GOOD DAYS.
It isn't rocket science.
But in reality, a big part of it being a Very Good Day was because it was actually a great event. A real occasion. You see, I've come to a profound realisation about weddings: once the novelty wears off (I would say at the age of 24, before which point you're just delighted that someone's having a big party and inviting you to it - I mean, what's not to like? There's booze! Dancing! Painstakingly hand-crafted name cards you'll find sticky with Prosecco at the bottom of your clutch bag the following day!) you come to learn that Not All Weddings Are Created Equal; some are just better than others. And this one was top of the pops.
Behold me evidence:
Exhibit A: James looking like a total hot rod.
Exhibit B: Solila looking like a total babe.
Exhibit C: The nephew charming the ovaries of every woman in the place.
Exhibit D: Mark's best man's speech (you might remember him from TV programmes such as Coach Trip series 7), which opened with with the words, 'Welcome to the wedding of James and Chairman WOW!'
It could have gone two ways. It went the good way. Bit of a bum-clencher, though.
Exhibit E: Mark's filthy dancing with my mum's cousin Sheila during which he made absolutely no concession for the fact that she is indeed a more, ahem, mature lady and mimed a flamboyant arse-slap motion behind her as she shimmied. No photographic evidence available, sadly - I was probably crying.
Exhibit F: The appearance of several hundred glowsticks at approximately 10pm. Everyone got into the glowstick mood, from my 76 year old Aunty Kathy who waved two in each hand as she sat with her feet up on a chair during a dancing Time Out to my cousin Dermot who fashioned some kind of disco crucifixion crown of glowstick thorns which he then wore to bed. Again, no photographic evidence available, alas.
Exhibit G: The reappearance of The Troubleshooters, the rockabilly band from our wedding. They're so retro they still have a MySpace page. My Heart Will Go On! Dueling Banjos! Jokes about Sunderland AFC! Umaze.
Now all I need is for some more people to get married (or some people to get divorced, and then get remarried). Anyone?
And, oh my gawd, it was wonderful.
Hence the post-holiday comedown. Sob. I find myself in a situation not unlike that bit in Trainspotting where Renton goes cold turkey except with fewer dead babies and more ironing.
And, you know, it was wonderful for all of the obvious reasons. The Irish contingent were over and fully committed to doing what they do best (i.e. having an almighty session) and so 'the craic was mighty' (direct quote from me fatha) on the Friday...and the Saturday...and again on the Sunday when they sojourned to Newcastle to await their flight back to Dublin on the Monday morning (which was then delayed for 6 hours thanks to an oil leak - then the vast majority of them had to wait for a bus to Sligo and eventually ended up getting back something like 12 hours after they were supposed to - but hey let's focus on the positive, eh? It was a great day!)
And, obviously, on the Saturday I watched my little brother (13 months, these things matter) get wed to the lovely Solila. And that isn't just an empty epithet - she really is so very lovely, which makes me feel full of kittens and rainbows and butterflies; I mean, they work so well as a couple i.e. by making each other the very best version of themselves and they're going to have the most beautiful babies imaginable (Irish/Swedish/Vietnamese/Chinese superbabies no less) in the hopefully not too distant future (no pressure) - oh, it's just too much. Gush. Forgive me: I'm a pregnant woman, for heaven's sake, I'm constantly crying at the drop of a hat - or, if you'd prefer a more specific example, a picture of an orphaned baby wombat in the newspaper. The wedding was an emotional marathon and I took GOLD, man.
Anyway, here is a very scientific calculation which explains why last Saturday was indeed a Very Good Day:
FAMILY + PUBLIC OUTPOURINGS OF LOVE = VERY GOOD DAYS.
It isn't rocket science.
But in reality, a big part of it being a Very Good Day was because it was actually a great event. A real occasion. You see, I've come to a profound realisation about weddings: once the novelty wears off (I would say at the age of 24, before which point you're just delighted that someone's having a big party and inviting you to it - I mean, what's not to like? There's booze! Dancing! Painstakingly hand-crafted name cards you'll find sticky with Prosecco at the bottom of your clutch bag the following day!) you come to learn that Not All Weddings Are Created Equal; some are just better than others. And this one was top of the pops.
Behold me evidence:
Exhibit A: James looking like a total hot rod.
Exhibit B: Solila looking like a total babe.
Exhibit C: The nephew charming the ovaries of every woman in the place.
Exhibit D: Mark's best man's speech (you might remember him from TV programmes such as Coach Trip series 7), which opened with with the words, 'Welcome to the wedding of James and Chairman WOW!'
It could have gone two ways. It went the good way. Bit of a bum-clencher, though.
Exhibit E: Mark's filthy dancing with my mum's cousin Sheila during which he made absolutely no concession for the fact that she is indeed a more, ahem, mature lady and mimed a flamboyant arse-slap motion behind her as she shimmied. No photographic evidence available, sadly - I was probably crying.
Exhibit F: The appearance of several hundred glowsticks at approximately 10pm. Everyone got into the glowstick mood, from my 76 year old Aunty Kathy who waved two in each hand as she sat with her feet up on a chair during a dancing Time Out to my cousin Dermot who fashioned some kind of disco crucifixion crown of glowstick thorns which he then wore to bed. Again, no photographic evidence available, alas.
Exhibit G: The reappearance of The Troubleshooters, the rockabilly band from our wedding. They're so retro they still have a MySpace page. My Heart Will Go On! Dueling Banjos! Jokes about Sunderland AFC! Umaze.
Now all I need is for some more people to get married (or some people to get divorced, and then get remarried). Anyone?
Solila: 'Do I have a double chin?'
