be personal / real weddings / {plan be}

{Plan Be} The days of wedding. Part one.

Oh the days of wedding.  It’s time to tell the tale of Sunday the fifth of May and all that came with it.  It was a weekend of chaos and loveliness and fun and rain.

anchor It’s a long one {and I’m long-winded.  Just to warn you…..}

Friday morning.  3rd of May.  4am.  We’re up.  Big jumpers.  Bad hair.  A jaunt to Gtown with ye olde Granda, for a walk around some flower markets.
I’ll be honest, with the risk of florists all around saying words such as humph and pffft at my ignorance, I really thought there would be more flowers…. And with The Granda’s need to be at least half an hour early for EVERYTHING {and the fact that we were standing outside in the dark of the early morning waiting for the shutters to open…. There’s no chance any big flower-shoppers were there before us.  We were definitely the keenest {?} in town.  Why are there no ranunculas!!!!!! Am I saying that right?  Ra-nun-cula?  And fecking yuk, I hate gerberas.  And I’m hungry.  So this is fast becoming a shit time we’re having.   Bugger is this a shoddy flower market? One for the kind of florist we turn our snobby wedding nose up at?  Bugger bugger.
Oh but hold the phone, what are they, over there.  Nice desert-y looking things.  {I later learned the oh so fancy name for them to be, King Protea. Well well.}
Mr Ds impressed.  Cool fleurs, he says.  Get them, I say.  Then go and get sausage rolls.

Friday morning. 3rd of May.  11am.  Bags are packed {and under oor eyes}.  Ready to go and get married and stuff, and then…
A phonecall:
“Eh, we don’t want you to worry but the exhaust has just fallen off and we’re going to be late picking you up….”
This, was the voice of Mr McLean, co-driver to Mr Darley, the lads who are supposed to be driving the Jurassic Park-a-like landrover-bus, containing us and our wedding, up to Aberfeldy.  In time to meet the wedding registrar.  In two hours.

****Cue the Benny Hill Show theme tune and a silent-movie-style panic****

WHAAAAAAT.  Oh my shit.  We need another vehicle.  The size of a safari jeep.  With room for 4 and a wedding in bits.  PHONE SOMEONE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOODNESS,  PHONE SOMEONE!   They don’t exist, says almost-husband.  He, Jurassic-Park-alike-jeep, is the only one.
“No” The one later described as ‘the clever wedding helper’ states. “Do not get another lift.  We’ll be there.  With or without the car-chimney”  They promise.
And so we sit.  In the driveway.  Surrounded by boxes, pompoms and whisky.  Bags under our eyes and big jumpers on.  We wait.
1 hour and 20 smokes later, our chauffeur arrives.  With a Tetris-like packing technique, a very tight squeeze, a fight over the front {spacious} seat, ending with Mr D’s first {I say FIRST} use of the phrase “It’s mine, I’m the Groom”, and a sudden downpour of torrential rain.. we’re on the road.

And we’re trundling along, drinking cans of Tennents to ease the stress, sounding like a boy-racers Corsa, looking like we’re going on an African Safari.
This is our wedding weekend.

Friday afternoon.  3rd of May.  2pm ish.  We made it to the valley.  Poor wee Jurassic Park bus, bursting at the rusty metal doors with wedding outfits and wooden signs.  Sodden to ripped tartan-knit seats.  But we’re getting excited.  It’s feeling a bit like Christmas Eve up in here!
We meet the lovely marriage registrar, sign oor single lives away, pick up supplies from Aberfeldy town and sing oor way up the could-be-rally-track road to the farm…
After all of this, I’d love to say things ran smoothly.
But no.  It was not to be…

The rain was like.. jungle rain.  But cold.  And even worse up that hill.  You know, yon heavy, pounding, windy, fat drop, rain.  The stuff that makes staying in, watching cruddy telly and not getting out of your pjs, feel like a justifiable way to spend an entire Tuesday.
Except it was Friday.  It was the weekend of wedding.  And we had the entire thing to make.  In a day and a half.
How the feck do you make a wedding, when you can’t even get in the marquee door without a bucket-sized volume of rain coming off the roof, onto your noggin?

Cue the hilarity.  Then, pretty quickly, the stress.
As Stewie would say…
Oh, we definitely got some weather.
With troops due to arrive an hour or so after us, we had to wait it out.  It would ease off.  Surely.  And then we could all start making a wday.

Friday evening.  3rd of May.  6pm.  3 hours after us, only one car load of helpers and boot-full of stuff has arrived, the rain has got heavier, the field muddier, the pitch of my voice higher, and the sky darker.  {In fact, screw darker, it’s just dark.  Night time, if you will.}  And it’s ONLY SIX O CLOCK.
With phone calls to say the roads are getting worse, Iphone saying the weather report is worse and the rest of the troops now arriving until 9, maybe 10 {!!}, I took to the Gin.
There was nothing that could be done.
So with John clutching a beer for dear life, and me rocking back and forth with a Bombay Sapphire, a clever wedding helper made a suggestion.  Something we will never forget, and will always be grateful for…  He said…
Jenga???

Friday night.  3rd of May.  I don’t know..10pm?  The others arrived to find, a beyond sodden wedding venue {undecorated, unfurnished, unlit} on a water-clogged bog of a field, on a frightfully black and windy hill, next to a cosy looking Bunkhouse filled with a very random, mismatched group, of drunken wedding guests {who did not know each other until that fateful day and all of whom were wearing fancy dress hats}, an extremely frazzled-looking, pie-eyed couple of wedding-havers with a Bob Marley attitude and Indian Jones style attire, proudly sitting amongst a pile of pizza boxes, empty bottles…. and the highest Jenga tower you ever did see.

Oh feck, that was not the plan.
But, eh, we were having fun?
It’s all about the fun and the love? No?
The sun will come out tomorrow, tomorrow?

Aaaacht it’ll all be grand, we said.  Rehbuild de Jjjjjenja.

to be continued…
x

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