We awoke to brilliant sunshine on the morning of the wedding day but it quickly changed to torrential downpours. As I was on a tight schedule I got dressed quickly and headed ‘round to Jen’s house where the hairdresser was already waiting to work her magic. When I got there Jen and her mother were less than serene on account of one of the small bridesmaids looking remarkably like she had the onset of chicken pox. Jen was near to hysterical as she had never contracted the virus either and her mother was trying to calm her nerves by getting her to drink a glass of brandy
“I can’t get sick, I can’t! We’ve dreamed about going to Thailand for so long and worked all the overtime we could to pay for this honeymoon” Jen wailed “We’re supposed to be catching a flight tomorrow!”
The hairdresser was doing her best to carry on as normal but no amount of sympathy could console Jen. I, for my part, did what Maids of Honour do best by ensuring everyone had a large refill. Whilst it was still breakfast time, I was comforted by the thought that somewhere in the world the sun was over the yardarm making it perfectly acceptable to be drinking alcohol at such an ungodly hour.
Sometime later when Jen had cried it all out, we both sat on her Mum’s patio in our heated rollers sipping champagne where I tendered my viewpoint on the chicken pox dilemma.
“Well as I see it cupcake, you have two choices; you can either fly off on honeymoon and start your married life as you intend to, by continuing to enjoy every precious second that you’re given or you can stay at home stocking up on shedloads of calamine lotion to apply to your itchy bits. So suck it up buttercup!”
After another glass of champagne and somehow, the world seemed a brighter happier place where chicken pox didn’t seem to be the worst fate in the world.
“Little Pizza Face”, the small bridesmaid plagued with chicken pox was despatched to the comfort of her own home with the promise of Ben & Jerry’s Cookie Dough ice-cream whilst Jen and I surrendered to the ministrations of the hairdresser.
Finally we were ready and the cars arrived to take us to the church, me with the younger bridesmaids and Jen in a cloud of organza with her teary-eyed and very proud father. I have to admit that I did feel a tad wistful as I watched them arm in arm and wondered if I would ever share a moment like this with my own Dad.
We all jumped into the cars for the short trip to the church during which time I had to referee a couple of spats amongst the young bridesmaids and page-boy. We were late arriving so the photographer was waiting at the kerb as we pulled up and didn’t waste any time in hurrying us away to pose for the obligatory pictures whilst the rain had paused briefly to allow the sun to shine.
Fortunately, just as my face was beginning to ache I was saved from further photographic torture when Jen and her Dad arrived.
As I stood watching the photographer’s assistant re-arrange Jen’s dress for the photographs, Sid, one of my Dad’s allotment buddies and whom my Grandma has always referred to as a “few fries short of a Happy Meal”, uncomfortably attired in top hat & tails as one of the ushers hissed at me “They’ve not come”.
“Who’s not come”?
“Groom and Best man”.
“This is a joke, right?”.
“’fraid not. Heard they’d had a few shandies in the Rose & Crown last night”.
If I had a pound for every time Serial Shagger had in some small way managed to ruin my day, I’d have enough cash to buy bullets and it looked suspiciously like today was going to be no exception.
Will he or won’t he? To see whether he does read A Bit Of A Do (Part Three)