Mr MacCool

I know I’ve been quiet for a while – it’s because of a metamorphosis. No longer Mother of the Bride, not even Mother-in-law, we are (as Mrs Thatcher once famously said) a grandmother.

The young man on whose account the wedding was fast-forwarded a year is called Finn. And here he is.

In sickness or health

I was thinking about wedding vows the other day. My conclusion was that sticking to the ‘for richer or poorer’ bit - or it’s modern equivalent – is actually a lot easier than keeping the promise about ‘in sickness or health’.

Years ago, when my husband found himself unexpectedly unemployed it was a challenge to do a week’s supermarket shop for a fraction of what we were used to spending – but one that I rose to without complaint. In fact I quite enjoyed it.

But I have never been good at playing Florence Nightingale. If I’m ill I like to go to bed, dose myself up with OTC remedies, watch daytime television and hibernate until I’m feeling better. However long that takes.

I don’t appreciate being told I should go for a walk in the fresh air to blow the germs away, or being brought plates of food that I have no appetite for, however lovingly prepared.

Of course that’s ungrateful – I know, I know. And I know, too, that I should be happy to look after my husband when he catches the horrible cold I’m recovering from. Only he won’t go to bed. He is in the kitchen, opening cupboard doors, leaving his germs everywhere.

I’ve just asked him what he would like for supper and instead of saying that anything would be wonderful, he’s come up with a proposed menu that involves peeling and slicing and grilling and will make several pans dirty. And he doesn’t want it now - which is when I want to cook it – he wants it in an hour’s time.

Why? Because he’s just found a pot of hummus in the fridge and has helped himself to a snack.

The good, the bad and the ugly

It’s been a romantic year, what with the daughter’s engagement and then the wedding. The husband decided it was our turn – so he whisked me off last weekend to Paris by Eurostar. (You may not realise how romantic a gesture this was on his part unless you happen to know that on Saturday he was missing England playing cricket, the rugby world cup and something else, probably football)

The good:
*Going by train – so much more civilised than queuing at airports – and I could take all my make-up and moisturisers instead of doling out tiny portions and sticking them in a see-through plastic bag.
*Being turned away by a snooty greeter at a restaurant we’d booked after seeing it recommended in the Observer – it looked like an overlit, overblown tourist trap so thank goodness they had muddled up the reservation. We found a much more interesting place to eat nearby.
*Getting upgraded to a junior suite at the hotel – but only because our room wasn’t ready for us to check-in until tea time.

The bad:
*Housekeeping at the St James & Albany – which was 4-star, not cheapo fleapit and therefore inexcusable.

The ugly:
*Having our Visa card refused on the Metro and again when it came to checking out of the hotel. Then, back home - on finally getting to talk to someone at Lloyds bank to see why this was - being told the card appeared to have been cloned and used illegally in the UK.

Now Lloyds say the whole matter will have to go through some kind of dispute procedure and we will have to prove that we couldn’t have used the card in Norfolk or wherever on Saturday because we were in Paris! Good thing I kept that restaurant receipt.

The Dress Dilemma

I didn’t wear a conventional wedding dress on the day I got married, so the question of what to do with it afterwards never arose. And I have no idea what my daughter plans for the ivory and gold number she wore on her wedding day.

It wouldn’t surprise me if she shortened it or dyed it black to get more wear out of it –she’s not usually sentimental about possessions. But I suppose she might wrap it in tissue paper and store it at the back of the wardrobe.

So what should you do with your wedding dress once the wedding is over? Give it to a charity shop? Sell it on ebay? Dig it out to raise money for charity on National Wedding Dress Day like the readers of Take a Break, some of whom are pictured above?

This week I read a news story about a wedding dress that had been passed down through four generations and worn by six different brides. That’s what I call recycling.

My mother was a war bride. I have no idea where she managed to lay her hands on a wedding dress or what happened to it afterwards. Sadly, she’s no longer here to ask. But she was so slim in the 1940s that, forty years later, I would never been able to squeeze into her gown even if she had mothballed it for me.

An atom of meaning?

I’ve done jury service once. My husband was recently called for the third time. That makes once for the coroner’s court and now twice for crown court – although it’s a different London crown court this time.

We discussed his deferring it, but in the end decided he might as well get it over and done with. (It appears to be much harder to duck out of altogether than it used to be.)

So he duly pitched up a week ago yesterday – and he hasn’t had a day in court yet. At first he was sent away in the early afternoon. Now he simply rings up between 3 and 4 and asks if he will needed the next day.

My fear is that on Friday he’ll be chosen for some complicated case that will go on for weeks. Surely that won’t happen, will it?

Ye Olde Fleet Street Tour

Today it is 10 years since the death of the ‘people’s princess’ – a fact which will have escaped no-one who watches tv, listens to the radio, reads a paper or gets their daily fix of news and gossip online.

On the day Diana married her prince I was a young hack working in Fleet Street and by leaning out of one of the windows it was possible to see, far down below, the guests and the main players as they passed by on their way to St Paul’s. At the time I was pregnant with the daughter who has just had her own wedding, so hanging out of windows was rather uncomfortable. But last night I found myself pointing out the building to a mother from South Africa, here to visit her son.

The son’s partner is a journalist and we were all there because of an invitation we’d had from our boss: We are proud to announce that Ye Olde Fleet St Tour has been modernised, updated and refurbished at VAST expense and is to be relaunched next Thursday 30 August as the Incredible Fleet St Holistic Experience 2008 and Beyond, sponsored by Sol, the touchy-feely Mexican Lager.

In other words, the annual Fleet Street pub crawl (with a bit of history thrown in for newbie journos who have no idea what life used to be like on the Street of Shame).

Last night, we started the Fleet Street experience at the Blackfriars pub (terrible service, stunning interior, named after the monks who lived there in medieval times); moved on to the Old Bell (which backs on to St Bride’s church - burnt down when the Great Fire crossed the River Fleet, rebuilt by Wren, bombed in the Blitz); and from there to Gough Square (Dr Johnson and his dictionary) to the Cheshire Cheese (full of tourists – including a couple with a child in a buggy).

It was as we crossed Fleet Street on the way to the Cheese that I found myself pointing out that window. The South African lady looked suitably impressed. But not half as impressed as I was when she told me later that her daughter got married in the summer – and she had made all the dresses for the bride and the bridesmaids herself!

PS: St Bride’s is the journalists’ church. It’s where some of us get married or go to sing carols at Christmas and it’s where we hold memorials for friends and colleagues, before decamping to El Vino’s to swap memories. If you’ve ever wondered why Fleet Street became the centre for printing and newspapers, their website has a good explanation
http://www.stbrides.com/history/press/index.htm

Two's company

Togetherness is tricky. It’s an odd thing to find yourself saying to a newly wed, but it’s true. As I told my daughter, however much you love someone, the day always comes when you wish they were somewhere else. Just so that you can do your own thing, in your own way, in your own time. On your own.

Take shopping, for instance. Most women complain that their men hate shopping. That they have to drag them to malls and supermarkets. My question is – why bother?

I’m married to someone who likes shopping. Only he shops in a different way to me. He plans each trip with military precision. Operation Brent Cross usually involves a series of missions (buy new socks, check out laptops in Apple Store, get birthday present for grandson in Early Learning Centre) carried out at maximum speed in order to return to base by the time the football kicks off on tv.

My way of shopping couldn’t be more different. I may have a vague objective (present for friend’s birthday next month) but I’m quite happy to go into a number of stores seeking inspiration while simultaneously keeping an eye out for: a) an outfit to wear to the birthday party that would be nicer than anything I currently own, b) a pair of shoes to replace the ones I wear when it rains, only I can’t any more because one of the soles has split and c) a bean-bag because my daughter wants one and I’d like to know how much they cost.

It’s quite possible I’ll come back hours later empty-handed. But it's a sure bet that I won't be greeted with ‘Hallo darling,’ but ‘What took you so long?’