... over the fact the BBC have apparently only guaranteed the rugby matches featuring WALES will be given live coverage. Apparently this is in recognition of the fact that Wales, as a nation, are a lot more into their rugby than any other of the home nations.
Cheers BBC... now let's all sit back and laugh as the Twickenham mob start mouthing off about it hehehe....
Friday, 31 July 2009
End of an era
Some of you will know I'm a bit obsessive about history, in particular military history, which is considered a bit of an odd thing for a woman to get into. Do I care?? Not really - it fascinates me and that's that.. since when did subjects for study come with a gender-tag anyway? To be honest it was a toss up when I was considering university whether I'd read music, history or politics - naturally for ME there was no contest (if you are a musician there's just no fighting it) but I remember my history and politics tutors both being a bit sad I wasn't going to take THEIR subjects further. As, unusually again, I kept in touch with both of them when I left school and they could see I didn't just drop either topic (as my groaning bookshelves will testify I still read tons of books about both!) I hope they became a bit happier over time that I wasn't just rampaging around on stage and letting what brain I had atrophy in the general atmosphere of musical hedonism. Both of these ladies were superb scholars, wonderful people generally, and I am lucky to have had them in my life - they enriched it immeasurably as only the best teachers really can.
Getting back to the point, people who know me will understand the last couple of weeks have been tinged with a bit of sadness as they have seen the passing of both Henry Allingham and Harry Patch - the last veterans of WWI still living in the UK. It really IS the end of an era, as the only first hand memories we now have of that conflict will be recordings of those involved. In common with a lot of military historians I find the whole period fascinating and, although I am extremely grateful to anybody involved with getting as much on record as possible from both of these veterans it's naturally a sad day when we can no longer refer to the primary source in person. I've been digging out a few books, scanning through the pictures and generally giving myself an excuse to sit with a cup of tea and ignore domestica whilst I answer the siren call from the bookshelves.
The thing which has most struck me about the whole thing really is the motivation for both old soldiers to talk about their experiences. Neither Harry Patch nor Henry Allingham WANTED to remember WWI and their part in it - they felt they HAD A DUTY to talk about what happened to them and try to get people to understand that it should never be allowed to happen again. To my knowledge neither of them gained any benefit from doing so and often it looked as if they put themselves through a lot of mental torture in their attempts to educate us all. Compare that with the 'modern soldier' accounts from the likes of Andy McNab whose sole motivation for talking about his experiences during the first Gulf War, as far as I can see, was purely self-aggrandisement. Oh, and, silly me, the quick buck thereof. What an encapsulation of the change that's happened in our society over the lifetime of Henry Allingham, huh?
Now, for various reasons I am not likely to reach Henry Allingham's tally of 113 years; nor am I sure I'd really WANT to. But it's interesting to see his recipe for doing so is 'cigarettes and whisky and wild, wild women'.... no macrobiotic diets, pilates and clean living there, then. The singing sort of cancels out the cigarettes for me; wild women aren't really my bag even if they were interested in ME so that leaves the whisky...
Henry, God bless you, I'll be raising my glass of Laphroaig to you every time I dip into my collection of WWI books... and if you can see your way to sending some wild, wild MEN my way we'll conduct a little experiment with regard to whether they're an adequate substitute ingredient in your recipe for longevity...
Getting back to the point, people who know me will understand the last couple of weeks have been tinged with a bit of sadness as they have seen the passing of both Henry Allingham and Harry Patch - the last veterans of WWI still living in the UK. It really IS the end of an era, as the only first hand memories we now have of that conflict will be recordings of those involved. In common with a lot of military historians I find the whole period fascinating and, although I am extremely grateful to anybody involved with getting as much on record as possible from both of these veterans it's naturally a sad day when we can no longer refer to the primary source in person. I've been digging out a few books, scanning through the pictures and generally giving myself an excuse to sit with a cup of tea and ignore domestica whilst I answer the siren call from the bookshelves.
The thing which has most struck me about the whole thing really is the motivation for both old soldiers to talk about their experiences. Neither Harry Patch nor Henry Allingham WANTED to remember WWI and their part in it - they felt they HAD A DUTY to talk about what happened to them and try to get people to understand that it should never be allowed to happen again. To my knowledge neither of them gained any benefit from doing so and often it looked as if they put themselves through a lot of mental torture in their attempts to educate us all. Compare that with the 'modern soldier' accounts from the likes of Andy McNab whose sole motivation for talking about his experiences during the first Gulf War, as far as I can see, was purely self-aggrandisement. Oh, and, silly me, the quick buck thereof. What an encapsulation of the change that's happened in our society over the lifetime of Henry Allingham, huh?
Now, for various reasons I am not likely to reach Henry Allingham's tally of 113 years; nor am I sure I'd really WANT to. But it's interesting to see his recipe for doing so is 'cigarettes and whisky and wild, wild women'.... no macrobiotic diets, pilates and clean living there, then. The singing sort of cancels out the cigarettes for me; wild women aren't really my bag even if they were interested in ME so that leaves the whisky...
Henry, God bless you, I'll be raising my glass of Laphroaig to you every time I dip into my collection of WWI books... and if you can see your way to sending some wild, wild MEN my way we'll conduct a little experiment with regard to whether they're an adequate substitute ingredient in your recipe for longevity...
Wednesday, 29 July 2009
Swings and roundabouts...
...or more accurately today, roller-coaster. Because today has been splendidly good on some fronts and woefully bad on others.
I suppose it all really began last night, when, without going into details, I found out somebody I consider one of my best friends has done something which I find quite sneaky and underhand. On the face of it, it's relatively insignificant, and my head is saying 'just leave it'; my heart, however, is quite wounded by the issue, not because it's a 'big thing' - as I said, it's not especially important - but because I can't help but feel my trust has been stamped on a bit, and it's going to take a while for my absolute confidence in that person to be regained, if it ever will be. I started off being angry about it all, but now I'm just sad. More to the point I'm rather confused because I don't really know how best to address the problem without it escalating - which is my principal worry. I have a lot of acquaintances but, being quite choosy about my friends, I don't make good ones lightly and it pains me when anything like this happens: not just for my sake but because I feel the person concerned has let themself down too and seeing anybody I care about do that is neither pleasant or the stuff joy is made from. Anyway, until I can get some perspective on this whole thing and feel confident about which path to tread with regard to sorting it out satisfactorily, I'm keeping my head down and my gob shut... neither of which activities comes naturally...
On a happier note, today was also the time for my six-weekly appointment with Robert, my hairdresser. I always look forward to these days, even though they mean at least two hours driving to get to him and two hours back again; just occasionally it's great to get away from my local patch and have a good gawp at what's going on in London. Perhaps I should do it more often! Anyway, aside from being a true artist in the hairdressing department, Robert is one of my pals and we always have a good laugh putting the world to rights as he snips away. He's not had an easy time of it lately, so it was good to see him laughing and joking again and almost back to his normal self - I walked out of there feeling life was good (and it has to be said the mane was looking fab too, she says vainly). The sight of Robert clutching two jars of my homemade jam to his bosom was a picture I'm not likely to forget in a hurry either - the old boy LOVES jam and gets in quite a strop if I forget to take him some (as I did on my last visit.. oops). It's nice to be appreciated, even if it is for something as pokey as my ability to make good jam!
Another good thing was that on my return I found out the cheque I'd received for doing some cooking for a friend had finally cleared which meant I could at last order the quilting fabric I've had my eye on for what seems like years (but which in truth is probably only a few weeks) without running the risk of having to encounter The Wrath of Troll When Faced With Quilting Expenses. Whey hey... I shall be checking the mail box EVERY DAY now (even though I know my fabric can't reasonably arrive from the States for at least a week). Child in a Toy Shop? Moi??
The range, in case anybody is interested is 'Neptune' by Tula Pink for Moda (quelle surprise!) - I've ordered the whole range in fat quarters and got some yardage too so I should be able to get at least two quilts and probably some smaller projects out of it too... can't wait!
Unfortunately, the nice things didn't last the day out and I was extremely upset this evening when I found out that Mr Fox had visited in my absence and eaten both Mr Bantam (my lovely dark brahma bantam cockerel) and Samuel (my gorgeous and extremely large gold brahma cock). Apart from the financial angle - both these boys were worth a substantial amount of shekels - I AM attached to my birds and naturally it upsets me to think of the distress they must have endured before the blasted fox actually put an end to them. Just don't any animal rights people come anywhere near me for a day or two otherwise I might just have to throttle them... ANYBODY who has seen just how nasty foxes can be to poultry can have absolutely no objection to exterminating the flipping things. Anyway, James the Chicken Boy - who is equally upset about today's events - is arranging for somebody (either himself or a pal) to patrol the place with a shotgun over the next couple of days so hopefully it's curtains for the four-legged pests. It won't come soon enough to save Mr Bantam or Samuel, but at least it might ensure some of my other babies won't be fox-supper.
I suppose it all really began last night, when, without going into details, I found out somebody I consider one of my best friends has done something which I find quite sneaky and underhand. On the face of it, it's relatively insignificant, and my head is saying 'just leave it'; my heart, however, is quite wounded by the issue, not because it's a 'big thing' - as I said, it's not especially important - but because I can't help but feel my trust has been stamped on a bit, and it's going to take a while for my absolute confidence in that person to be regained, if it ever will be. I started off being angry about it all, but now I'm just sad. More to the point I'm rather confused because I don't really know how best to address the problem without it escalating - which is my principal worry. I have a lot of acquaintances but, being quite choosy about my friends, I don't make good ones lightly and it pains me when anything like this happens: not just for my sake but because I feel the person concerned has let themself down too and seeing anybody I care about do that is neither pleasant or the stuff joy is made from. Anyway, until I can get some perspective on this whole thing and feel confident about which path to tread with regard to sorting it out satisfactorily, I'm keeping my head down and my gob shut... neither of which activities comes naturally...
On a happier note, today was also the time for my six-weekly appointment with Robert, my hairdresser. I always look forward to these days, even though they mean at least two hours driving to get to him and two hours back again; just occasionally it's great to get away from my local patch and have a good gawp at what's going on in London. Perhaps I should do it more often! Anyway, aside from being a true artist in the hairdressing department, Robert is one of my pals and we always have a good laugh putting the world to rights as he snips away. He's not had an easy time of it lately, so it was good to see him laughing and joking again and almost back to his normal self - I walked out of there feeling life was good (and it has to be said the mane was looking fab too, she says vainly). The sight of Robert clutching two jars of my homemade jam to his bosom was a picture I'm not likely to forget in a hurry either - the old boy LOVES jam and gets in quite a strop if I forget to take him some (as I did on my last visit.. oops). It's nice to be appreciated, even if it is for something as pokey as my ability to make good jam!
Another good thing was that on my return I found out the cheque I'd received for doing some cooking for a friend had finally cleared which meant I could at last order the quilting fabric I've had my eye on for what seems like years (but which in truth is probably only a few weeks) without running the risk of having to encounter The Wrath of Troll When Faced With Quilting Expenses. Whey hey... I shall be checking the mail box EVERY DAY now (even though I know my fabric can't reasonably arrive from the States for at least a week). Child in a Toy Shop? Moi??
The range, in case anybody is interested is 'Neptune' by Tula Pink for Moda (quelle surprise!) - I've ordered the whole range in fat quarters and got some yardage too so I should be able to get at least two quilts and probably some smaller projects out of it too... can't wait!
Unfortunately, the nice things didn't last the day out and I was extremely upset this evening when I found out that Mr Fox had visited in my absence and eaten both Mr Bantam (my lovely dark brahma bantam cockerel) and Samuel (my gorgeous and extremely large gold brahma cock). Apart from the financial angle - both these boys were worth a substantial amount of shekels - I AM attached to my birds and naturally it upsets me to think of the distress they must have endured before the blasted fox actually put an end to them. Just don't any animal rights people come anywhere near me for a day or two otherwise I might just have to throttle them... ANYBODY who has seen just how nasty foxes can be to poultry can have absolutely no objection to exterminating the flipping things. Anyway, James the Chicken Boy - who is equally upset about today's events - is arranging for somebody (either himself or a pal) to patrol the place with a shotgun over the next couple of days so hopefully it's curtains for the four-legged pests. It won't come soon enough to save Mr Bantam or Samuel, but at least it might ensure some of my other babies won't be fox-supper.
Tuesday, 28 July 2009
More Faffery...
... although this borders on the nightmarish it has to be said.
Does anybody else have days when they wonder why they get up? I knew I was in for trouble this morning when I got out of bed without realising my foot was more tangled in the bedclothes than usual and thus went sprawling when said foot failed to disengage as normal. In light of what was to come I should really have got back in, pulled up the duvet and forgotten about everything THEN ...
We will not talk about the chick crumb going everywhere (including INSIDE my wellies) when I opened a new bag to feed my chirping babies and it tipped over. We will not talk about the coffee granules going all over the kitchen when I decided I couldn't be bothered making a pot of filter coffee and decided to open a new, and therefore almost impregnable, jar of instant instead. We WILL, however, talk about the latest mess The Kittens have got themselves into, the Mess Which Has Taken Me An Hour To Clean Up. And I am not finished yet... sigh.
The Kittens have got to the stage now where they are playing virtually every minute they are awake. Cute in daylight hours - not so cute at 3am when they jump all over my face trying to get me, Surrogate Kitten Mum, to join in. I've tried shutting the doors to my room... all this means is I am woken by the sound of kittens doing a demolition job on the carpet outside the room as they try to dig their way in. So, because it won't do them any harm, and because I am Not A Nice Person when I've had a disturbed night's sleep, I have been putting them in the utility room with a massive tray of food, their bed and litter tray. They seem perfectly content with this and I get some quality snooze time: everybody happy.
Unfortunately for me, the Ray Mears Nuclear Survival Larder is an integral part of the utility room. Most things are shut away in cupboards, but there are some open shelves on which bulky items such as catering jars of various products, jumbo size cans of tomatoes etc and 5 litre cans of olive oil are stored. Not something three small kittens would be interested in, or capable of doing any damage to, you would think.
Dream on, gentle readers... these are The Kittens and it seems they were having an exceptionally active time of it last night, because on opening up the utility room this morning a sight which can only be decribed as carnage met my eyes. At some point the little darlings had knocked over the aforementioned 5 litre can of olive oil, which had obviously not been done up quite tightly enough, because most of it was lying on the floor. Then obviously they'd decided this was not quite good enough, so a plastic jar of tomato puree had somehow been induced to fall off a shelf, whereupon the lid had come off and the contents gradually induced to leak from the plastic casing. Not content with this, the three little darlings had decided an olive oil and tomato puree bath was precisely what was needed for their general health and wellbeing, and, judging by the smears all over the floor, walls and shelves, they'd had a high old time of it first rolling in the goo on the floor and then chasing each other over the entire room.
As if this wasn't bad enough, I'd stupidly not put away my clean-washing basket, which was full of stuff waiting to be ironed today. Putting this away is something I normally do as a matter of extreme importance when The Kittens are incarcerated for the night; unfortunately I was interrupted by a phone call last night and forgot all about it. Something tells me no ironing's going to get done today, because The Kittens had patently decided this object made a far more desireable and comfy bed than their shop-bought one and, indeed, that is where I found the three of them curled up asleep, once I'd waded, slipped and sworn my way past the mess to get to them. Suffice it to say I was NOT in my most sympathetic mood at this juncture, and the three gloopy, red little bodies have been put firmly in the front garden where they will stay until they have licked every vestige of Utility Room Mess off themselves.
If anybody feels like calling round with a magnum of Gevrey Chambertin, a large slab of bitter chocolate and a team of Fillipino cleaners I will marry you and have your babies.
Does anybody else have days when they wonder why they get up? I knew I was in for trouble this morning when I got out of bed without realising my foot was more tangled in the bedclothes than usual and thus went sprawling when said foot failed to disengage as normal. In light of what was to come I should really have got back in, pulled up the duvet and forgotten about everything THEN ...
We will not talk about the chick crumb going everywhere (including INSIDE my wellies) when I opened a new bag to feed my chirping babies and it tipped over. We will not talk about the coffee granules going all over the kitchen when I decided I couldn't be bothered making a pot of filter coffee and decided to open a new, and therefore almost impregnable, jar of instant instead. We WILL, however, talk about the latest mess The Kittens have got themselves into, the Mess Which Has Taken Me An Hour To Clean Up. And I am not finished yet... sigh.
The Kittens have got to the stage now where they are playing virtually every minute they are awake. Cute in daylight hours - not so cute at 3am when they jump all over my face trying to get me, Surrogate Kitten Mum, to join in. I've tried shutting the doors to my room... all this means is I am woken by the sound of kittens doing a demolition job on the carpet outside the room as they try to dig their way in. So, because it won't do them any harm, and because I am Not A Nice Person when I've had a disturbed night's sleep, I have been putting them in the utility room with a massive tray of food, their bed and litter tray. They seem perfectly content with this and I get some quality snooze time: everybody happy.
Unfortunately for me, the Ray Mears Nuclear Survival Larder is an integral part of the utility room. Most things are shut away in cupboards, but there are some open shelves on which bulky items such as catering jars of various products, jumbo size cans of tomatoes etc and 5 litre cans of olive oil are stored. Not something three small kittens would be interested in, or capable of doing any damage to, you would think.
Dream on, gentle readers... these are The Kittens and it seems they were having an exceptionally active time of it last night, because on opening up the utility room this morning a sight which can only be decribed as carnage met my eyes. At some point the little darlings had knocked over the aforementioned 5 litre can of olive oil, which had obviously not been done up quite tightly enough, because most of it was lying on the floor. Then obviously they'd decided this was not quite good enough, so a plastic jar of tomato puree had somehow been induced to fall off a shelf, whereupon the lid had come off and the contents gradually induced to leak from the plastic casing. Not content with this, the three little darlings had decided an olive oil and tomato puree bath was precisely what was needed for their general health and wellbeing, and, judging by the smears all over the floor, walls and shelves, they'd had a high old time of it first rolling in the goo on the floor and then chasing each other over the entire room.
As if this wasn't bad enough, I'd stupidly not put away my clean-washing basket, which was full of stuff waiting to be ironed today. Putting this away is something I normally do as a matter of extreme importance when The Kittens are incarcerated for the night; unfortunately I was interrupted by a phone call last night and forgot all about it. Something tells me no ironing's going to get done today, because The Kittens had patently decided this object made a far more desireable and comfy bed than their shop-bought one and, indeed, that is where I found the three of them curled up asleep, once I'd waded, slipped and sworn my way past the mess to get to them. Suffice it to say I was NOT in my most sympathetic mood at this juncture, and the three gloopy, red little bodies have been put firmly in the front garden where they will stay until they have licked every vestige of Utility Room Mess off themselves.
If anybody feels like calling round with a magnum of Gevrey Chambertin, a large slab of bitter chocolate and a team of Fillipino cleaners I will marry you and have your babies.
Monday, 27 July 2009
Faffery...
Does anybody else have days where they wake up with the best of intentions of Getting Things Done only to be overtaken by the faffery virus? Such has been my day today - looking up at the clock I was horrified to discover it was half past two and I haven't done anything of particular use so far...
... which beggars the question why, instead of Getting On With Things, I am sitting here pondering the problem....
... which beggars the question why, instead of Getting On With Things, I am sitting here pondering the problem....
Sunday, 26 July 2009
It's the summer so the choir must be...
... doing weddings.
Yes, gentle readers, I regret to have to shock you and admit that we aren't above sullying our artistic integrity and singing endless versions of I vow to Thee, my country, Love Divine, All Loves Excelling and Jerusalem in the interests of dipping our mitts in the bottomless till of wedding funding, thereby replenishing our perilously-empty choir coffers. As a Welshwoman I'll leave it to your imaginations to guess how fulfilling it is for me to chirp away about building Jerusalem in England's green and pleasant land (sic), but suffice it to say I have contemplated doing considerably more uncomfortable things to keep the choral financial ship afloat.
Anyway, the sun dawned bright yesterday, and late morning saw Fleur and I heading off down the M4 to Castle Combe to participate in the latest display of conspicious consumption. And conspicious it was... down to the white-horse drawn carriage shipping bridesmaids and protagonists the whole 300yds from the manor to the church (I've never been able to fathom why putting on a wedding dress renders women incapable of walking more than the 20 yards or so up the aisle, thereby meaning their hapless families have to shell out for the cost of hiring whichever bizarre mode of transport takes their fancy/is the fashionable option; but there you go, perhaps I'm just unromantic).
Now, call me old fashioned (and you probably WILL) but to me, a wedding is a religious ceremony - a sacrament - not a college ball, and therefore it goes without saying you should dress appropriately, respectfully, and not as if you are about to take part in a Danny la Rue floorshow. (Unless, of course, it's a civil ceremony in which case as far as I am concerned you can turn up looking like Fifi the Wonder Dog). Certainly I can remember when I was a little chorister Father Snell insisting (to the great distress of the bride) any suggestion of a bare shoulder or plunging neckline be covered up with one of his housekeeper's lacy hankies. So you can imagine my horror when yesterday's bride (who otherwise looked and sounded like a nice enough person) turned up not only in a strapless number, but also one so tight as to make me fear for her respiratory capabilities. The bridesmaids too were revealing acres of fake-tanned flesh which I felt was a bit of a low blow for the one amongst them who had a figure which might politely be termed rather too ample for the amount of fabric allocated to comfortably contain. We will not mention the tattoo-ed arms.
Now I've probably got you all writhing in distress now, saying it's the bride's Big Day and she should be allowed to wear what she wants. Sorry guys, but I'm completely unrepentant - I repeat, my attitude is very much that this ceremony is taking place in the House of God and at least a nod should be made towards a bit of respect. I've nothing against strapless gowns (at least three of my performance gowns are strapless) but if you absolutely have to wear one for your wedding I would suggest it wouldn't kill anybody to make, say, a bolero jacket to be worn during the ceremony which could be taken off for the reception? I've seen absolutely beautiful versions of this sort of garment, with all manner of beading, lacework and general embellishment which would not detract from 'the Look' in the slightest (and in the case of tattoos would considerably enhance it). So feel free to disagree with me, but I'm with Father Snell on this one... just be grateful I don't have any suitable hankies, lacy or otherwise...
Whilst on the subject of weddings, WHY OH WHY do women fondly imagine fascinators are a good alternative to hats? Never in a million years will you catch me wearing one of those things off the stage... if I want to walk around looking like a giant bug has landed on my head I'll go to the Amazon thank you very much. There were some fab hats there yesterday... my hands were itching to make off with at least one particularly gorgeous large black feathered number... but an equal number of quite bizarre fascinators. Thank goodness I didn't have my fly swat on me or in my church-induced state of absentmindedness I would not have been able to help myself taking a swipe at the bleddy things. Another thing to add to the List Of Things I Will Ban When I'm Made Dictator methinks.
Apart from the above, it was a generally good wedding, not least because the female vicar bore a startling vocal resemblance to Dawn French in her Vicar of Dibley mode; even down to the truly awful jokes she was cracking throughout. Fleur held my hands down as I passed the horses and carriage - having overheard my stated wish to give one of the nags a slap on the rump, leap on board the resulting runaway carriage and start my legendary rendition of 'Oh the Deadwood Stage is a-coming on over the plain...'; the pub close by served an acceptable Chablis and the biker-rally had thankfully sorted itself out and had stopped blocking the traffic through Calne by the time we were travelling back. Tim is also a smiling bunny as he has the happy couple's cheque for our services in his hot little hand. Everybody happy then...
Yes, gentle readers, I regret to have to shock you and admit that we aren't above sullying our artistic integrity and singing endless versions of I vow to Thee, my country, Love Divine, All Loves Excelling and Jerusalem in the interests of dipping our mitts in the bottomless till of wedding funding, thereby replenishing our perilously-empty choir coffers. As a Welshwoman I'll leave it to your imaginations to guess how fulfilling it is for me to chirp away about building Jerusalem in England's green and pleasant land (sic), but suffice it to say I have contemplated doing considerably more uncomfortable things to keep the choral financial ship afloat.
Anyway, the sun dawned bright yesterday, and late morning saw Fleur and I heading off down the M4 to Castle Combe to participate in the latest display of conspicious consumption. And conspicious it was... down to the white-horse drawn carriage shipping bridesmaids and protagonists the whole 300yds from the manor to the church (I've never been able to fathom why putting on a wedding dress renders women incapable of walking more than the 20 yards or so up the aisle, thereby meaning their hapless families have to shell out for the cost of hiring whichever bizarre mode of transport takes their fancy/is the fashionable option; but there you go, perhaps I'm just unromantic).
Now, call me old fashioned (and you probably WILL) but to me, a wedding is a religious ceremony - a sacrament - not a college ball, and therefore it goes without saying you should dress appropriately, respectfully, and not as if you are about to take part in a Danny la Rue floorshow. (Unless, of course, it's a civil ceremony in which case as far as I am concerned you can turn up looking like Fifi the Wonder Dog). Certainly I can remember when I was a little chorister Father Snell insisting (to the great distress of the bride) any suggestion of a bare shoulder or plunging neckline be covered up with one of his housekeeper's lacy hankies. So you can imagine my horror when yesterday's bride (who otherwise looked and sounded like a nice enough person) turned up not only in a strapless number, but also one so tight as to make me fear for her respiratory capabilities. The bridesmaids too were revealing acres of fake-tanned flesh which I felt was a bit of a low blow for the one amongst them who had a figure which might politely be termed rather too ample for the amount of fabric allocated to comfortably contain. We will not mention the tattoo-ed arms.
Now I've probably got you all writhing in distress now, saying it's the bride's Big Day and she should be allowed to wear what she wants. Sorry guys, but I'm completely unrepentant - I repeat, my attitude is very much that this ceremony is taking place in the House of God and at least a nod should be made towards a bit of respect. I've nothing against strapless gowns (at least three of my performance gowns are strapless) but if you absolutely have to wear one for your wedding I would suggest it wouldn't kill anybody to make, say, a bolero jacket to be worn during the ceremony which could be taken off for the reception? I've seen absolutely beautiful versions of this sort of garment, with all manner of beading, lacework and general embellishment which would not detract from 'the Look' in the slightest (and in the case of tattoos would considerably enhance it). So feel free to disagree with me, but I'm with Father Snell on this one... just be grateful I don't have any suitable hankies, lacy or otherwise...
Whilst on the subject of weddings, WHY OH WHY do women fondly imagine fascinators are a good alternative to hats? Never in a million years will you catch me wearing one of those things off the stage... if I want to walk around looking like a giant bug has landed on my head I'll go to the Amazon thank you very much. There were some fab hats there yesterday... my hands were itching to make off with at least one particularly gorgeous large black feathered number... but an equal number of quite bizarre fascinators. Thank goodness I didn't have my fly swat on me or in my church-induced state of absentmindedness I would not have been able to help myself taking a swipe at the bleddy things. Another thing to add to the List Of Things I Will Ban When I'm Made Dictator methinks.
Apart from the above, it was a generally good wedding, not least because the female vicar bore a startling vocal resemblance to Dawn French in her Vicar of Dibley mode; even down to the truly awful jokes she was cracking throughout. Fleur held my hands down as I passed the horses and carriage - having overheard my stated wish to give one of the nags a slap on the rump, leap on board the resulting runaway carriage and start my legendary rendition of 'Oh the Deadwood Stage is a-coming on over the plain...'; the pub close by served an acceptable Chablis and the biker-rally had thankfully sorted itself out and had stopped blocking the traffic through Calne by the time we were travelling back. Tim is also a smiling bunny as he has the happy couple's cheque for our services in his hot little hand. Everybody happy then...
Tuesday, 21 July 2009
Yes, Yes, I know, I know
... I haven't been around much over the last month. This is not because I haven't WANTED to blog - and goodness knows, there's been enough evidence of stupidity around to raise my blood pressure to blogging speed = it's just a fair amount has been going on at Chateau Angevin to mitigate against me having the TIME to blog.
So normal service is now resumed... and as a quick update for everybody concerned, The Kittens are all still with us and unrecognisable from the mewling scraps who turned up here. Doubtless I shall update everybody a bit more fully in subsequent episodes of La Vie Angevin...
In the meantime, love to all and let me know what you are all doing in this lovely (sic) summer we're having!
So normal service is now resumed... and as a quick update for everybody concerned, The Kittens are all still with us and unrecognisable from the mewling scraps who turned up here. Doubtless I shall update everybody a bit more fully in subsequent episodes of La Vie Angevin...
In the meantime, love to all and let me know what you are all doing in this lovely (sic) summer we're having!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
