Hat and Feathers

The invitation on the mantelpiece isn’t to a wedding but a 60th birthday party. The venue is the Hat and Feathers – and so is the theme. I have no idea what to wear but I doubt it will be a hat. I didn’t even wear a hat to the daughter’s wedding.
And speaking of hats and weddings ….

The last book club meeting was hosted by one of the two soon-to-be mothers of a bride. So soon, in fact, that the wedding was taking place a mere three days after we met to pull Dave Boling’s novel Guernica apart.
Those of us whose heads weren’t full of timetables, manicures, providing lunch for the bridesmaids (it’s a late afternoon affair) and so on were astounded that anyone whose head was could still a) entertain and b) think about books.
But the most astounding thing of all – to me, at any rate – was to learn that as the mother of bride was, in a very short space of time, to fly halfway round the world to become a mother of a groom, she was planning to Fedex her very expensive wedding hat to Australia.

Love Ewe

Loved the story about Louise the sheep breeder who used the wool from one of Lincoln Longwools to make her wedding dress. She also carried a Bo-Peep crook rather than a bouquet and found sheep-shaped chocolate favours for her guests. You can read the full details on the Mail or Telegraph websites.

Rain, rain go away

Back from a week in Wales. Now I remember why those first package holidays were so wonderful. Sunshine. And paella.
In Wales we had a meal in one of the ubiquitous Farmers' Arms pubs that was memorable for all the wrong reasons - the chef had decided to serve the (burnt) crab cakes with a dollop of coleslaw and some very vinegary beetroot, on top of two old large lettuce leaves. Then s/he added a slice of orange and a slice of kiwi fruit. In my head I could hear Gordon Ramsey shouting four letter words.
The new potatoes were fine but I think that was enough staycationing for a while. Did I mention we had five and a half days of rain?

The long haul wedding

If you’re a MOTB – past or present – then you’ll be no stranger to the way in which weddings have changed since the days when your generation tied the knot.
As Imogen Edward-Jones (co-author of a book* I keep meaning to read) observes in the Times today: ‘What used to be a nice glass of champagne and a slice of cake in the village hall, with all the guests getting home at 6pm has morphed into an epic event.’
Or, as psychologist Oliver James puts it: ‘It’s like going on some long-haul flight. It starts at lunch and finishes somewhere after midnight.’
A former uni classmate of mine, Bel Mooney, is also writing about weddings today – this time in the Mail.
Her daughter is getting married and – unlike her mum who toddled off to the register office virtually between lectures with the minimum of fuss and bother – Kitty wants the big white deal.
Looking back I realise we were lucky that while our only daughter wanted a special day, she wanted one that was special for reasons that had nothing to do with extravagance or showiness. And we were probably lucky, too, that she didn’t have months and months to plan and dream and read all those wedding magazines.
So why do so many young women get carried away with planning their marathon weddings?
Edward-Jomes suggests it’s because a generation of women has grown up with the I’m Worth It syndrome, in a society that celebrates the cult of celebrity where we all want our five minutes of stardom.
James says its because ‘little girls have been infected with a pink princess culture’.
Either way, I can’t help feeling it’s all got out of hand.

*Wedding Babylon

Four weddings and a catfight (with thanks to the Daily Mail sub who wrote this headline)

There’s a new show on tv tonight all about weddings. But I don’t think I’ll be tuning in. It appears to be to be based on the worst side of human nature – whereas I prefer to think of weddings as happy, joyous occasions that can bring out the best in us. (I know, sentimental old fool).

Anyway, the format is that four brides go to each other’s ‘perfect day’ – and afterwards are encouraged to tell us what they thought, no holds barred.

No weddings for us at present (although my thoughts are with other MOTBs who are in the final countdown) but we did see a painting of a wedding on Saturday when we went to the Futurist exhibition at Tate Modern.



It’s by Leger and I probably wouldn’t have realised it was a wedding unless I’d read the info (incidentally, why can’t galleries use larger print when they do those captions they stick on the wall – it’s not just my generation that has to get really close to read them).

Interestingly, the acerbic exchange of opinions between Futurists, Cubists, Surrealists and all the other – ists of the art world leaves most of today’s reality tv backstabbers in the shade.

Too busy to blog

We’ve been to Java, Bali and Lombok via the giant mall that is Singapore.
We played pass the babies at Luton airport so their parents could go to a wedding one weekend.
We visited friends who have moved to East Sussex and spotted a partridge, a green woodpecker and signs of badgers.
And now I’m on jury service (so far one not guilty – although we would have liked to be able to say not proven – and two changed pleas to guilty at last minute).
Why is it that people I know have never been called for jury service, while I’ve done it twice and husband has done it three times, despite being self employed and having to work in the evenings to catch up? Surely they can’t all have form or be too apolitical to put themselves on the electoral register?
And shouldn’t there be some rough and ready English language comprehension tests for jurors?
But this pic cheered me up.

Feel the Force

The wedding season appears to be in full swing. After reading about the Shrek nuptials I spotted pictures of a Star Wars wedding that took place between a Hans Solo and a Princess Leia on the Isle of Wight.

This time the teenage lad who was involved in the proceedings was the groom’s 18-year-old son and best man.
Keiran deserves special recognition in the Wedding Day Hall of Fame. He supported his Dad all the way - dressed up as Chewbacca.

And now, in other news:
The front of the house is being painted – so I am working on the dining room table instead of my study.
Baby Bea can now roll over.
Big Brother now speaks.
We enjoyed the film State of Play (which is surprising since we’re normally very critical of films featuring journalists).
My ankle still pains me five weeks after I fell on the stairs at the Hawley Arms (the Amy Winehouse effect).
We are making exciting holiday plans. I’m not telling what or where, except to say it won’t be Skiathos even if they are experiencing a boom in weddings there this year.
That’s the Mama Mia effect.