This is entirely fiction. Completely. Utterly. Except for any true bits
July 17th. Weekend for stag and hen does. Dreading whole affair. Why is the FOF invited? Surely this is a young man’s game.
Much excitement over lunch, with passports checked, Euros counted, medical insurance double checked to ensure it includes stomach pumping. Try and fake enthusiasm but spirit wilting.
Ubers arrive with Fiancé’s parents, the ultimate good news/bad news. Good news is she is going on Hen Do so I don’t have to listen to interminable tales of failed gastric bands and the best way to set marmalade; bad news he isn’t going on Hen Do so I will have to listen to his experiments with Viagra alternates and his music which last time included a four album box set of Roger Whitaker whistling Dame Nelly Melba’s lesser known arias.
Panic. No one has arranged for Spiro Agnew to be looked after. Much wailing and gnashing and imminent risk of head belabourings avoided by my immediate offer to drop out of stag party and dog sit.
First Born cries and kisses me; First Of Her Name thanks me and kisses me (and whispers she will open a new tub of coconut cream on her return). Fiancé looks disappointed as no one to occupy his father. Wave them off.
Order pizza and beer deliveries to repeat at four hourly intervals for next two days; list football matches over next two days and pin to Spiro Agnew’s tail. Move fridge into sitting room next to TV. Replace batteries in remote to avoid unnecessary movement. Decide against dragging water butt inside as temporary urinal -standards must be maintained. Pull all curtains. Set dog bed next to sofa.
Before settling down, check all doors locked, wallet handy by front door and hunt out all unopened coconut cream tubs and hide.
Decide there are some compensations to this wedding lark.