The bride wore a bizarre blue patterned lawn cotton gown, as did her chief bridesmaid daughter. Two of her three sons, dressed in black suits, vied for the role of best man.
This all seemed pretty pointless to me since CW and MW had been married since 2002. Why bother with this strangely-costumed second wedding?
Even more puzzling was that TPR was carrying what he believed to be a dead fox to the ceremony. It was, in fact, a very large ginger stoat – and very much alive.
I was panicking. The judges were on their way and I was still smearing green-coloured sponge cake onto my legs and I hadn’t even got my webbed feet ready. I was a fool to enter this competition.
As the guests arrived for my sister J’s wedding, I chatted to my young cousins in the kitchen. This was more interesting than making small talk with middle-aged men in dark suits. I also wanted to avoid getting into arguments with my family over the upkeep of the house. I’d already witnessed my niece ruin an antique mahogany table when she used it as a cheeseboard.
A few minutes before the ceremony I left the kitchen and went upstairs to help my sister climb into her jewel-encrusted bridal gown. It looked rather large to me – as did my long lilac linen shift dress (size 14).
Rather than attend the ceremony, TPR and I took a long walk across town to photograph the birds that guarded their eggs on the pavement next to the cricket pitch. Provided that you were quiet kept a reasonable distance of about a metre from each egg and bird, it was relatively easy to capture some amazing shots of a wide variety of species.
I hadn’t expected to bump into London-based SW in the Outer Hebrides. Yet here she was, as large as life, all aglow in a bright orange, and very clingy, T shirt dress, lounging lazily on the seat of a bus that was heading back to the mainland.
I recognised SW immediately, but what had become of her breasts? She looked so flat-chested that I soon concluded that she had arranged for the surgical removal of her formerly magnificent bosoms. Then I saw them almost hidden, laid flat across her knees.
I knew that I should take this opportunity to ask SW about the research project that we had planned together but never realised. However, I was too distracted by the sorry state of her corsage to do so.
From the way that he addressed me, the young man who now worked at CodeBase was obviously a former student of mine. I did recognise him (sort of), but had no idea how long ago he had attended my classes, nor his name.
Then he told me the shocking news that JA’s marriage had broken up. She had abandoned her husband in Edinburgh with the new baby in favour of moving to Ireland so that she could care for her dying mother.
I enjoyed my dark morning walk through the Edinburgh Old Town with KW. He told me of the antics of his teenage children and his son’s interest in a TV documentary about tailoring. I suggested that a career in watchmaking would keep the older boy out of trouble.
At the same time I reminisced fondly (and silently) about my near-miss kiss with KW of many moons ago.
From photographs I always knew that N was a special little boy. It was only when I met him in person, however, that I understood the reason why.
N was nothing but a head topped with blond hair. At night he was lifted into a tiny cot made from stickle bricks.
I remembered that I had not been able to find a large enough space to leave my white Rolls Royce in the car park next to the river. Now I had also forgotten where I had eventually left it.
Nevertheless, I offered EH a lift back to Stockton as we sneaked out of an under-attended Friday afternoon meeting of the professoriate on campus. (We reckoned that if the person who called the meeting was away house-hunting in Cornwall, we had every right to bunk off too.)
Out in the dark street in the drizzle, EH and I considered our options for tracking down the car. The strategy that worked was to point the television remote control skywards. The Rolls Royce came spinning through the heavens to earth just like Dr Who’s Tardis. Unfortunately a battalion of angry Daleks was following closely behind.
Dreamaticus 