A wild, wet Waterford wedding
So this weekend, then, saw our lovely mates JD and his beautiful girlfriend E, finally tie the knot. We left early fearing the floods and were right to worry as roads were closed, diversions in place where roads had flooded, or worse, collapsed due to the heavy rain.
No matter, we made it in time to the hotel, only to find out that check-in wasn’t until 2pm. Oops. The wedding was at 2pm and we’d tumbled out of bed straight into the car that morning. A small amount of panic set in as I imagined us, still in our joggy bottoms and sticky-up hair, sitting red-faced in the front pew. Still, I’m a firm believer in a bit of charm (I’m a lover not a fighter), and a large amount of sweet talking and general sucking up saw us happily installed in our monster room with a good hour to spare (they knew the Englishes were in town – they gave us the biggest room, furthest away from everyone else).
Scrubbed (#2 took full advantage of the complimentary shower cap: ‘look, I’m a dinner lady!’), anointed and dressed in our finest, then, we made our way to the bar where the groom was already putting in some serious elbow action. We all managed to get to the church in plenty of time though. And what a beauty it was – perched high on the hill above a grey and brooding sea.
Ten minutes before the service, though, the rain went away and the sun came out. Surely a good omen, whatever your beliefs. The wedding was amazing. You know that bit where everyone cranes to get a glimse of the bride as she walks down the aisle? Well, she was just breathtakingly beautiful. I snuck a peak at JD’s face and he was absolutely entranced. JD has a musical family and his sister G’s boyfriend played the flute and the guitar as well as singing during the service. My goose bumps had goose bumps, dear reader, it was gorgeous. A happy crowd, we wandered blinking into the sun for photos and the like, before heading back to the hotel for Rosé Champagne aplenty. Now as you know, I struggle with the issue of trying to respect people’s privacy whilst being desperate to give you a glimpse of the action, so I’ll just give you a teeny view of the bride (well, you have to, don’t you). Isn’t she just beautiful?:
The new Mr and Mrs D’s beautiful little daughter toddled around looking utterly divine:
and some very sweet speeches followed: ‘everyone told me I should make it clear right from the beginning who’s the boss in our relationship’, JD said, bringing himself up to his full height in a very manly fashion, ‘so I’d just like to say, darling….. you’re the boss’.
Later, Team English strutted our funky stuff on the dance floor, waiting for the new Mr and Mrs D to get the sloppy stuff over and done with first, naturally. The music (again, JD’s sister’s boyfriend – this time with his entire band) was absolutely amazing – a great mix of ‘fiddly diddly’ music, as Hubby calls it, and contemporary stuff too. The groom’s three lovely sisters soon had everyone up on their feet:
and we danced until our feet were sore (the smalls gettin’ down with the happily sozzled groom was a highlight for me). Actually, the smalls made Hubby and I very happy, chatting politely with people, joining in the banter and generally behaving very well. At one stage I caught a glimse of #1 in the buffet room, deep in conversation with D, one of JD’s lovely sisters. They were laughing and chatting and I felt suddenly terribly proud of my little man. Ah, we had fun… we chatted with old friends, made some new ones, and collapsed exhausted into bed just after midnight. . Apparently they were still hard at it long into the early hours, too. Ah, there’s nothing like a good Irish wedding.
So here’s to the new Mr and Mrs D, and the beautiful little E. May they lead long and happy lives together. Cheers!
EM’s Book(ish) Club: Our July Book
CAUTION: SPOILERS!
Right, so. Bit late here, but our July book was The Resurrectionist by James Bradley. Admittedly I got this late and had to force myself to read it over one weekend but ‘force’ is definitely the right word. I found that the old fashioned language, although no doubt authentic, quite awkward:
‘It is three months since I came here, apprenticed to my master’s side so I might learn his trade.’
I really, really enjoyed the descriptions of London in the early 1800s – he went into great detail about how they lived, what they ate, the people, the places – this was by far the most enjoyable part of the book for me. However I didn’t really think there was much of a plot: orphaned chap comes to London, works for anatomist, gets in a fight (why did he just not tell his boss what happened for God’s sake? He’d already had the fight with the bloke so knew he could handle him), gets with an actress/prostitute, is devastated when her friend dies (why?), loses his job, descends into opium addiction (I hated this – aren’t you supposed to like your hero? I didn’t like him at all – I have no sympathy for drug addicts, either in the early 19th century or today), gets in with a bad crowd, robs graves, murders people, then whoosh, he’s off to Australia (bit confusing, that, as he’s not convicted for the murders but for being a ‘vagabond’), falls in love with this girl, doesn’t get together with her and that’s it.
Am I missing something? Did you get through it? And if so, what did you think? And what’s for our next book? Something perky, please!
The Friday Photo: squeezing in
Two today, then. First, for Jennifer (Bert’s #1 fan) is a little example of how, if you make yourself small enough, there’s always room for a little’un. This is Bert, teetering precariously, demonstrating the art of squeezing a 90lb greyhound onto a footstool. He’s a music lover, see?:
And next up are the smalls, along with Little C and Lou, and the two oldest Lovelies – proving that just because it says ‘Two Player’ on the box, that doesn’t mean that you can’t lever a few extras in. And check out Lou kicking ass at Ghost Recon Advanced Warfighter 2. Who says only a boy can kill people in imaginitively bloody and creative ways, eh? What’ll I do when they all go back to school?
Me in one sentence
So me Ma’s here. The house has descended into giggly chaos (just how we like it). We have one of those silly conversations, trying to describe ourselves in five words, which turns into little five word sentences:
#1: ‘Absolutely perfect in every way’
Collective groan.
#2: ‘Short, annoying, young and beautiful’
We all nod.
Me: ‘that means “and” is one of your five words’
Hubby (interrupting): ‘He should be: “chocolate eating waste of space”‘
Collective snorts.
Ma: ‘Ooh! Mine should be “children spoilt while you wait”‘
Hubby: ‘past my sell by date’
We all crack up
Ma: ‘ooh, I could be: “just the one Mrs Wembley”‘
Hubby: ‘#1 could be: “I talk a good game”‘
#1: ‘Mum, you can be: “I’ll settle for the cash”‘
I aim a slap at #1′s head.
#2: ‘What’s Bert?: “all I do is sleep”‘
We like that one. Bert yawns.
Me: ‘I was thinking more like five separate words. I’d be: “blonde, affectionate, happy, kitchen goddess”. How’s that?’
#1: ‘Inaccurate’
Second slap.
Go on, then. Yourself in five words.
EM’s Book(ish) Club: Our July Book
Yeh, sorry about that – I had it delivered over to me Ma’s and she only brought it over yesterday so I’m a bit behind. I’ll get reading straight away.
#1′s home made breaded chicken baguettes
Unlike in England, where you’re lucky to find an out-of-date Twix and maybe a curly-edged sandwich, the petrol stations in Ireland are a haven for the half starved motorist. Practically every one will have a deli selling not only the ubiquitous ‘breakfast roll’, an artery-busting ensemble of sausage, bacon, fried egg and maybe even some black pudding, all levered into an enormous half of a french stick, but that most beloved of items in my children’s eyes: the hot chicken baguette.
Every time we get petrol, there emanates from the back seat of the jeep the most pathetic begging and pleading, and no matter how much I quote Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, and give empassioned speeches about the miserable fate of intensively farmed chickens, it all falls on deaf ears. They don’t give a toss if the chicken was free range, nor even if it was miserable, or even a tad depressed - what they want is a chicken baguette – and when they want it is now.
So faced with this irritating chirruping today, I decided that what my children needed was action and not words, and set about teaching them to make a kinder, healthier alternative to the crap they crave. It just so happens that the fridge at English Towers generally contains the odd bit of cold chicken, either left over from the Sunday roast or from when I get a large pack of chicken breasts, poach them and use half for chicken noodles. So when we got home, I cattle prodded them into the kitchen and set them to work:
1 egg
Splosh of milk
Leftover cooked chicken
2 slices bread
Salt, pepper
Olive oil
Butter
So first, crack the egg into the bowl, whisk in a big splosh of milk and then slice each chicken breast into three and dunk in the eggy mixture.
Meanwhile, set a small child to work with the food processor button (safety first here people, children with stubs for fingers will never make Booker prize winners) reducing the slices of bread to fine breadcrumbs. Season the breadcrumbs well.
Next, whip the chicken out of the egg mixture and into the breadcrumbs. Toss until both chicken and child are liberally coated with breadcrumbs.
Finally, heat your oil along with a knob of butter until nice and hot, add your breadcrumbed chicken and fry until golden.
Stuff into a baguette and serve with coleslaw and baked beans. Yum scrum pig’s bum and a bloody sight kinder than anything Spar can offer. Hugh would be proud *sigh*.
If you do one thing today…
So some of you guys would be compelled to read this load of old waffle because you’re friends or family (and you’re secretly obsessed with checking to make sure I don’t mention you in a bad light. Heh), others are regular commenters and have become, well, cyber-friends, shall we say? Others still are regular readers and never comment, and yet more happen here by chance via Google for recipes (or, worse, after searching for ‘Mum’s boobs’ or ‘greyhound tips’ [not here, pal!]).
We bloggers web diarists write for many reasons – to keep in touch with home, because we’re frustrated novelists or photo-journalists (or chefs!)… Actually, I have no idea why I write this. I just do. It just is. I love reading other people’s writing. I got to the stage of having about 40 blogs in my feeder – there were food blogs and photo blogs and personal blogs, funny blogs, day-to-day diary blogs, whatever, I’ve cut down now before my eyes imploded, but the point is, they’re a little snippet of someone’s life: a sneaky peak into the diary kept under someone’s mattress, if you would.
Occasionally, one piece of writing so far outstrips any other that it twangs the heartstrings, draws out the emotions and makes you take a little breath. So if you do nothing else today, pop over to K8 the GR8′s blog and read The Secret Fire (just click on the words). It is by far and away the most stunning, emotive and beautiful piece of writing I’ve read for a long time. K8 is the offspring of no other than The Hairy One, and blimey I bet he’s proud. One of K8′s commenters said that ‘God gives special kids to special Mums’ and, although I’m not part of the God squad as you know, I’ll second that emotion.
Oh and while you’re at it, I think it deserves a nomination for Irish Blog Post of the Month. Don’t you?
In which Bert re-enacts the Texas Chainsaw Massacre
Sunday, then. The village smalls: a gang that forms ever larger (it’s kind of like one of those balls of Bert-fluff on my kitchen floor: as it rolls along the skirting board it attracts more all the time) decide to chip in two quid each and hire the astro-turf down by the pub undertakers pundertakers for an hour to play footie.
On returning, we find an alarming sight: blood. Lots and lots of blood. Bert rushes to greet me and he’s covered in it. It drips down both front legs, is splodged across his back, smeared all over his face and runs the whole length of his tail, splattering the walls liberally as he wags. We panic. Checking him over, there’s no obvious signs of injury so I despatch the still-sweaty kids to check the house.
More horror awaits us upstairs. In my bedroom, #2 reports that there is blood all over the carpet and the bed. Worse, the lounge looks like Sweeney Todd’s barbers – blood is splattered across Bert’s bed, the hearth, the floor and – gulp – my lovely sofa. #2, turning all detective, appears with evidence. It seems that in our absence, and feeling a bit bored, Bert has decided to investigate Hubby’s overnight bag – still only half unpacked from the night before. He’s found the wash-bag, tipped it out, eaten the toothbrush (you know he’s got a bit of a thing for toothbrushes), discarded the toothpaste after an exploratory squeeze, and extracted two disposable razors, which he obviously either sniffed or licked. Next he has taken the trainers and arranged them on the bed, all the while bleeding profusely.
With these clues, we go back to our prime suspect, who is sulking in the kitchen so he can’t bleed on anything else, and concentrate on inspecting his mouth. Ah, and there it is – he’s sliced the bottom of his nose with the razor and that’s dripping onto everything else. I make a quick exploratory of the mouth – there’s a couple of nicks, but frankly, unless he’s bleeding to death, I’d rather avoid being in there for too long. I can just picture the scene earlier as he licks his paw and finds it covered in blood, so he licks again and there’s more blood! Turning around, he sniffs his tail to see if it’s bleeding and – yes! It is! How strange – wherever I sniff seems to be bleeding…. This obviously continued until practically his whole body – and the entire house - were liberally sprinkled.
Drastic measures are called for. We wallop a bit of cotton wool on the offending cut, then whack a great big bit of plaster across his nose to keep it from dripping on anything else. Sweeney Todd is not impressed. I phone Jen and ask for her refund department. Apparently it’s closed on Sundays.
In which English Towers is nearly razed to the ground
So the smalls have stuffed their face with chilli tuna noodles (okay, so #2′s was without the tuna and hold the chilli) and gone up to the Lovelies to play footie. Hubby has been away overnight, he’s been working very hard recently. I decide to treat him to a grown up dinner ‘a deux’. I have a bath, dab on the lip gloss, slip on a little something, bother to find my silver flip flops (one in Bert’s upstairs bed and one downstairs) put some champagne on ice (well okay then, in the freezer), spritz a little Sarah Jessica Parker behind the ears and waft into the kitchen to check on my tandoori chicken and curried rice pilaff.
Cue scritch of needle across record.
In a spectacular blonde moment (even in the light of my past blonde moments this measures 5.9 on the Richter Scale) I have left a tea towel on the bloody hob. Yep, actually on the hob – thrown lazily so it lands against not one, but two gas burners. It now nestles upon my oven gently ablaze, flames licking lazily up my curried rice pilaff towards the extractor. OHHHH SHIIIIITTTTTTTTT…..
Lots of screaming, more cursing than is heard at Stamford Bridge on any given Saturday, lots of wet tea towels and a good deal of flapping later and the fire is out. My white skirt is smudged with soot, my carefully selected top is flicked with blackened water, my newly-streaked hair (ooh, I got a bit of copper in it this time – oops, sorry, not the time or the place) is sticking up in sweaty clumps and don’t even get me started on my mascara.
We have to face it. I’m just not built for seduction scenes. In fact, I’m the Alf Garnett Frank Spencer of seduction. The Bernard Manning of foreplay, if you would. Lucky we’re married with kids really, he’s kind of stuck with me.
The Friday photo (s): story of my life…
So seeing as I’ve bombarded you with pictures this week, I’m cheating slightly with the Friday photo. Both Kates: Kate and K8 the GR8 set me a little challenge. And you know how I love a challenge – it’s just got to be done. Here we are, then:
Here’s my question to you, if you had to select celebrities/actors to play the parts in the story of your life today (including yourself!), who would it be and why – this can be based on looks or personality!
I’m loving this. I actually laid awake thinking about it (and that was after a 1am Cabernet Sauvignon bender with The Lovelies, complete with sleepover so I spent half the night listening to #2 and Little Lovely #1 giggling too). So far my thinking is:
Me: I’m thinking Reese Witherspoon (think Legally Blonde and Just Like Heaven rather than Walk the Line, though). I know this is probably me trying to flatter myself, but I just thought: a bit blonde/quite smiley/fond of the pink and sparkly, but not as silly as one would assume. The smalls and Hubby thought Jennifer Aniston, but oh, I don’t know. Reese’ll do nicely. I was going to go for Nigella, but no, it’s wrong. And on so many different levels.
Hubby: There’s only one person who could possibly fit into Hubby’s shoes and that’s José Mourinho. He’s very similar looks wise, and I’d hazard a guess their personalities are pretty darned separated-at-birth, too. Hubby doesn’t take any crap, y’know.
#1: Well it’s got to be Reid off Criminal Minds, hasn’t it. Costs me a fortune in books as he reads them faster than the speed of light, steers every conversation off at some madly alarming tangent, and has an IQ higher than the Empire State. Nuff said.
#2: Hmmm, tough one, this. I think I’d probably go for a cross between Captain Caveman and Bart Simpson. Although he favours ‘either of Zac and Cody’
Now to the parents:
The Disreputable One: Ooh, toughie. David Jason, maybe? Although it would be more Frost than Del Trotter. Oh no, hang on, I know: Denny Crane in Boston Legal! (“100 women there, and you didn’t invite me. That’s 200 breasts! And you kept them all to yourself?”). A bit naughty, a bit cheeky, very clever but slightly bonkers. Perfect.
Grandma: We were very tempted to go with Grandma Georgina from Willy Wonka, but she’s not quite as doolally as that (give her time). The best bit was when the Great Glass Elevator came crashing through the roof and Grandma Georgina said ‘ooh, I think there’s someone at the door’. We eventually settled on Mrs Wembley, from that very underrated 90s sitcom ‘On the Up’, played by the wonderful Joan Sims (Carry On films wouldn’t have been the same without her). ‘Just the one, Mrs Wembley?’ Oh, and before I get beaten to death, can I just say that this is based on personality and not looks? Ta.
Bert: Hmmm, Scooby Do? Nah, too energetic. I know, Santa’s Little Helper from The Simpsons!!
Various other characters we mulled upon were:
Mad Uncle A: well he’d have to be Russell Brand, or maybe Steve Tyler from Aerosmith (both with shorter hair, natch).
Nanny: She’d have to be Aunt May in the Spiderman trilogy.
Over to you, then. What’s your cast list?
