Valley of the Trolley Dollies

Off back to Winford for Toby’s 7th birthday, then off to Coventry for D’s cousin’s wedding, then finally back to work next Tuesday. I’ll be glad to go back for the rest

Offical Pics are available for collection tomorrow, and the disposables will be back later next week, so will have something to upload for you all sometime next week.

Have a great weekend, tell someone you love them, and play nice, y’all…

 

 

 

 

Waiting outside the room, Toby and Hannah beside us, an open door before us, a few faces smiling at us through it.

It wasn’t meant to be like this; we weren’t supposed to see the audience before the curtain went up.

My heart’s pounding, and my heads swimming, and my legs are turning to jelly, and I need to pee (although I’ve gone 20 times in the past hour), and Oh, Dear God, I don’t know if I can actually walk, I’m so scared.

And I can hear the registrar introducing us.

A silence, then ‘Lights? Cameras? Guest-list? Just do your best, sweetie’. The room erupts in laughter, and his hand reaches for mine, finds it, squeezes.

I look into his face, smile.

We can do this. We can.

We step through the door, and into the light and into the joy…

VB here. No, not the skeletal ex-Spice Girl; the other one. Look, I can’t avoid it: Uncle Bob is bigger, better, and cuter than me (even with the dreaded summer lurgie!); and, as he sails away in a large metal box full of sea men towards the hot and steamy med, where the beauty of man naked was first noticed and immortalised in marble, poetry and filthy grafitti on the wall of the privy in ancient Neapolis,  my presence here is only to remind y’all that the wedding stories, the wedding pics, the full sobbing soaking romance of the day will eventually be described in these hallowed pages:

The crazed Barmaid we hired from an AA placement scheme for Friday night.

The Bingo Game that Everyone Won (my personal theme of the weekend).

The cabaret performance by Ms WC the Countess of Calling, the Baroness of Bingo. 

The frenzied wedding-morning rewriting, in blazing mediterranean sun, of speeches to reference the Gaza Strip, the ongoing concern over interest Rates in Europe and the fact that my thumbs had gone funny.

The superb efforts of M. Phillip S, the Count of the Cabin, the Doyenne of the Dollies, to keep both of the bride/grooms (Grides? Brooms?) from tearing each other to pieces in their eagerness to be wed

The Queen of Interpretive dancing, and my brother’s wife, who, as always, poked fudge wherever it could be poked.

Cap’n J and his bride. We couldn’t afford the Scottish Castle, but we hope we captured some of the love and fraternity that your wedding had. (And who knew we’d use fraternty on this site. Look it up; it’s not at all kinky. Well, not if you do it right…)

The, quite frankly, sob inducing arrival of Captain Canuck (sans, sadly, tights) in our midst: A fact I had half expected to be consigned to the realm of ‘I woulda if I coulda’. His subsequent deterioration into a Saline Deleon lipsynkah double (If Ms D used an empty bottle of Merlot as a Mike.)

Yours Truly strolling desperately through the town of Midhurst, in a hopeless effort to calm the approaching hysteria; the intervention by a couple of Saudi’s (one in a mini-burka: Tres fetching, but not sure if blue matches your eyes Gav). Their normality ‘Buy a Lotto, drink a cup of cafffffe lottie’ reconstituing a bubbling pot of hysterical queeniness into Y.T.

The Mary+Charlie team reducing me to tears again and again and again by their sheer sweetness, beauty and humanity.

The Germans; one of the inspirations for the whole thing. The sight of them mingling, meeting, making contact: The unspeakably beautiful sight of our friends and families talking, laughing, crying, singing, dancing, doing the whole ‘Oh you’re the Germans/New York/Saudi/Sheppy/Financial/Fulham contingent’, making me cry so much I was glad I didn’t invest in the limited edition Dusty S Eyelash tint at Nickel.

My parents. My fear. The supidity of being afraid. Their love. My Mother’s beautiful smile, fantastic happiness with the whole day; her supremely stylish outfit. My Father’s love; his attention and care, his tears, his happiness; his award as Dancing Dad of the Year.

The Fulham Force in Full effect: A joy to behold and a treasure to collect.

V. The Grand Duchesse of West Fourteen. My Other Mother, who helped make it all possible.

Toby. Hannah. HannahB. Jack. Connor. Mollie. Kane. Erin B. Erin G. Jenna. Michael. Jade, and, of course, my first godson Jordan. A whole new generation. At a gay wedding. And totally not bothered. I’m crying again…

Lee and Casey. My favourite people from the sort-of-half-generation. Beautiful people, with a world before them.

The speeches: Moving, marvellous, and magnifique. and who knew that Anne-Marie could rewrite faster than her husband could talk ?   :)

Mr Cross. Present. And dancing. Like a Dervish. That’s all that need be said. And His Wife. My sister-in-law. A star. And a true privelege in my live. Thanks for being there Mrs C; and thanks for making everything so wonderful. Even though you once threw darts at my husband…

The Betty - Doll Axis; resplendent in their grand presence, and beautiful, as always.

The Watford/Rotherham Posse. Watching every dance move, and having the audacity to remark on my river dancing 8)  (OK, so nowadays, it’s more riviera dancing, still…)

Mrs Venezuela D’Uruguay, and Lord Huffy-Puffington of East Croyden, with their respective spouses. Not only there, but resplendant in, contra-respectively, vanilla-bleached-olive-linen-Armani fabuliqueness and  cerise jewel encrusted bondage mimicing bollywood glamouresse. With at least one costume change mid evening…

The gentlemen representatives from El Sociedad de Temperenca de Barcelona SA (none of whom came dragged up as a Gaudi Creature per strict instructions; still…), who braved heat, highways, and (Sir Sonni of the House of Excel) the vaguearies of the British Railway System to be there, who (Lady Lottie of the Double Entendre) smelled good enough to fork senseless (it’s a family site), and who (Warren, Duke du Sage) made me cry before I’d even said a word…

Liz. Patricia. Karen. Mary. Maggie. The ladies of the Privvy Council, who’ve been in so many privvies and are always down the council 8) . Dazzling in diaphonous White, Gorgeous in Green, Floating in a forest of mother-of-pearl colours ,and Subtly Sumptuous in the classic Li’l Black Number. ‘Everything she wants’ ,’From Paris to Berlin’, champagne, happy tears, mysterious Orbs and Silver toenails, stories til 4 am, a constant threat of ‘oops upside yo head’, and a never-ending glory of fabulousness…

(Yes, glory is now a collecive noun; so sue me.)

The day. Too too much for words (and y’all know I can do words). I’ll try, but I don’t think I’ll ever come close. Still, you’ll get it all, eventually. The Vows. The speeches. The meal. The disco. The freaking Dalek. The scary pig. The saved Hedge Hog (one hog saved as another burns). The trips, post-wedding to Winford, Bath, and Haye-On-Wye.

The Berlin  mini-honeymoon, with the ‘Only In Berlin’ experience of all sorts of debauchery and decadence.

The heat.

The sweating.

The bugs.

The voluminous clouds of carcinogenic anti-perspirants and wax-like makeup.

It’s all coming.

But for now, let’s close our eyes, smile, and, collectively, say yay for us.

All of us.

You did great, and We’re privileged and proud to have each and every one of you in our lives.

The day, with D and I alone, would have been nice. With you all, it was something magical. Like all the best moments of life, it was  something beyond words. Thank you. Thank you all.

Oh, and unca Bawbee, Bon Voyage…