My daughter married the most delightful man over the Bank Holiday weekend in August. We had the most splendid time. The following is nothing like what happened. Really… We had a registry office ceremony the day before the Big Event in front of family and friends – these images are from the first ceremony
Am dispatched to collect the MIL’s dress. Apparently the old dragon is more dirigible than assumed and an emergency zip has had to be inserted. Arrive to find exasperated seamstress – emphasis on the stress it seems – and tearful MIL. ‘I must be pregnant’ she wails. I suggest this is an unlikely explanation for her expanding circumference given she shared with us her journey through the menopause ten years ago. She retorts that patently she has recovered her fertility to which the seamstress – a competent if unsubtle Geordie – responds that the fact it is called menopause does not mean she can press play and resume her fecundity. My mind is a whirl. Does this mean that she and Norvid her ancient Swedish beau have consummated their relationship? She must read my thoughts. ‘It’s not Norvid.’ She tells me. She confides that someone has interfered with her server and done inappropriate things with their hard drive, thus rendering her with child, presumably of the artificially stupid kind. Leave them to their discussions and head for the pub. There are certain images that only strong drink can help you unimagine.