A bigamist and a boy (Rousse)

I checked in to the Novotel St Pancras and geared myself up for a 48-hour marriage marathon, of which I wholeheartedly disapproved.

My sister J was still dithering over who to choose as her groom, having conveniently forgotten that she was already married to M. She had undergone a complete body transformation in preparation for the ceremony and was now barely recognisable as a size 8 bottle blonde. Most frightening of all were her eyes, now enhanced to a vivid bright blue. I wanted to question her over what she had done to herself, but her menacing azure stare frightened me too much.

Meanwhile, and despite opposition from all sides (including his distraught grandmother), J’s 17 year old son P was determined to drag LA down the aisle as soon as his mother had finished her own business there.

No amount of persuasion would encourage mother or son to change their minds. I raged at P “If you do this, you’ll never play for England, you’ll throw away any chance of ever winning a grand prix, and while everyone else is away enjoying a gap year, you’ll be stuck at home”. He looked back at me blankly in reply. His expression simply read “So what?”

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