Readers of this blog may have picked up on the forthcoming nuptials for my son. Two years ago my daughter wed a delightful young man. In the run up to that event I imagined an alternate scenario which led to a series of posts, under the above title. In anticipation of this year’s event and maybe to bring back memories for anyone who has been the parent of a wedding, I’ve reworked the diary, though I’ve retained the fact it is a daughter whose wedding is anticipated. I hope you enjoy…
This is entirely fiction. Completely. Utterly. Except for any true bits
1.05 pm. Council of War. Present (in the chair and maintaining a casting vote even if everyone votes her down): First Of Her Name; First Born (back to chewing her nails); fiancé (taking notes, presumably as contemporaneous evidence that all and every disastrous decisions were not his alone or at all; and me. We are to ‘review all matters pertaining to the Big Day’ and ‘confirm all in hand’ or, I assume, deliver suitable punishment on those chosen as responsible for failures.
1.20 pm. Am worried. All going v. well. That may be because no one had asked me a question so far. Bit of a to do when Fiancé stands up to both First Born and First Of Her Name on the subject of the honeymoon – destination and duration. It seems something called a mini moon is planned. Am about to make a witty aside that in our day a mini moon would be the exposure of an excess of butt-cheek due to the shortness of the wedding dress, but catch First Of Her Name’s warning glance; she knows me far too well, for which I am forever grateful. Mostly.
1.27 pm. Disaster. A recalculation of the number of rooms needed for Fiancé’s family, plus First Of Her Name’s extended clan has been dumped into my lap. This is not helped by First Of Her Name’s assertion that my ‘contacts’ will be sure to help.
2.15 pm. Derrick assures me that he has plenty of rooms which he normally rents by the hour. He emphasises that each room is fully disinfected after each use. When I tell him my needs, he confirms he can ‘sort me out’. Not sure that particular expression is comforting.
10.47 am. Stopped by Colonel. His complexion suggests he has been told to affix bayonets and attack. Am reluctant to engage but he will not be denied. Am both mollified and worried when he offers me a ‘tincture on the veranda’ which sounds like a euphemism for something possibly illegal involving essential oils and the Regimental mascot. Decide this is Surrey and I know for a fact that he wears a back brace. Turns out it’s a ‘cosy chat’. Instantly worry he and Mrs Pease-Grommet have decided to come to Big Day, but it seems he needs my assistance. ‘Thing is, Old Man that that small misunderstanding we talked about is, well, it seems to have been witnessed by Marjory Plumb-Wallop…’ He lets this information dangle; if Hanging Marj saw him move his ball he’s dead. She is the strictest enforcer of golfing etiquette. ‘Thing is, we both know you saw me.’ I nod, not sure where this is going. ‘So you were there.’ Another nod. ‘So,’ he replenishes my tumbler, ‘you can say what you saw.’ His eyebrows do a sort of pirouette. I’m about to express my surprise that he wants me to seal his fate when it dawns on me; he wants me to tell an outrageous porky. What sort of person does he think I am? I hold out my glass. ‘There’s a little something you can do for me.’
11.22 am. Am on way to collect suit (which was slightly frazzled at the same time as the altercation at the traffic lights and has been repaired). First Of Her Name is with me. She’s in good mood; I’m panicking.
11.30 pm. ‘Sir’ has been handed suit – it does look rather fine – and sent to the changing rooms. First Of Her Name remains chipper, which brings to mind those paintings of the Madame Defarge and the Tricoteuses who sat beneath the guillotine during the French revolution, knitting. Now alone one thing is v apparent. My lack of application in the dietary department and my reluctance to engage in anything more athletic than bending to clear up after Spiro Agnew means the chances of me closing the zip, let alone belt clips on trousers is fantasy. The fool clearly misunderstood sirs need for room to expand.
11.41 am. ‘How it’s going, darling?’ She knows.
11.42 am. Am looking a pack of two pairs of these spanx thingummies. I am damned if I will resort to self-sausaging.
11.46 am. Lots of things have happened at once. In my determination to avoid becoming a human condom tester, I remove my underwear and take a deep breath, readying myself to close the zip. At the moment of maximum tension. Tarquin the Toady Tailor deems it a good time to peer round the curtain ‘to offer assistance’. As a result my focus shifts from the mechanics of my dressage, to his sweaty and, frankly constipated phizog. I think he appreciates the extent of my error before I do which given it involves a neat line in puncture holes across my foreskin is quite something.
11.47 pm. I am whimpering (understandable) while trying with one hand to stop Tarquin from reversing what is an excruciating procedure and with the other stop myself collapsing. For his part Tarquin seems more worried about the impact of the consequential bodily fluids on his precious worsted. At this point the man in the next cubicle appears. He seems surprised to find the shop assistant is cradling my penis while I’m grabbing at his hair. He makes a highly unhelpful comment about the accuracy of the emporia’s promise to handle everything and go the extra mile for all customers. I suppose, were I a celebrity he would have photographed this embarrassment. I should be grateful. In fact I’m more than relieved when First Of Her Name breaches all sort of social and cultural codes of behaviour, entering the gents changing rooms like she did it every day. Tarquin is prised loose and dispatched for first aid. I am told to ‘get a grip’ which is what I was trying to do, only Tarquin had stopped me.
11.48 am. In fact First Of Her Name gets the first grip viz she takes hold of the errant zip and rips it back. The pain and relief compete for my attention. The pain wins by three soft goals. Before I can react – beyond a highly understandable scream – she’s dropped the trousers and used my discarded underwear to staunch the flow.
12.17 am. Standing by the front desk, legs more than a little akimbo. My tadger is wrapped in lint and an elastoplast. I am wrapped in that spanx stuff which after the initial distress in putting it on, is working well and reduces movement and therefore pain. The suit, everyone admits, is lucky to have avoid a stain worse than death. Curse everyone as I pay. I’ve a mind to buy a kilt for the Big Day.