I'm back from Darlington - more specifically Albrough - after Lou and Rob, Mr and Mrs Carass's gorgeous wedding... and already I wish I were back there breathing in the fresh air, waking up to the quiet, countryside.
I travelled up to the north east on Friday (the first weekday wedding for me which is great because hello long weekend!) to see my college friend become Mrs Carass. I heard that the bride was surprisingly chilled and relaxed. Such laid back attitude was probably induced from the equally calm surrounding that is Darlington.
On the taxi ride to the B&B, driving through villages, it was indeed a breath of fresh air to get away from city life. I could almost imagine myself living there permanently until I remembered that it would be quite a bitch getting to and from places without a car... memo to self: must pass driving test soon, get a job, afford a car and the other extortionate costs that comes with it and more importantly pick a career that would suit living in such a place!
I checked into the Lucy Cross Hall Farmhouse which was literally in the middle of nowhere. Although The George Hotel, where the wedding took place, was a three minute drive away there was no footpath and no street lights so walking - in heels - was to be a problem. However B&B owner, Sally, to the rescue.
Sally is long past retirement yet somehow continues to run the B&B by herself. (Oh and she's also bought a pub and looking into opening up a village post office.) Previously she offered to pick me up from the train station when I arrived. I politely declined as I did not want to impose but after paying £15 for what felt like a 5 minute journey, OK at most 10, I regretted not taking up on her offer. It did make me wonder though that where else could you get hotel service where the owner would offer to be your personal chauffeur? Sally even insisted on driving me to and from the wedding ("you walk in those heels? It will take you forever.") and did I mention that she drives a two door maroon Mercedes compressor? Despite the exhaust clearing in need of replacing Sally nonetheless stepped on the gas and zoomed down the country lane.
The wedding itself was breathtaking. Lou looked beautiful (she always does with her tall, slim figure and shiny hair) but on that day she was a vision in white. The first time I met Rob was one hour before the ceremony he came over to chat to me, Julie and Rachel (girls from the hen do). From the word go he was smiling and cracking jokes and I knew he was the perfect fit for Lou.
At the ceremony as Lou walked down the aisle, I turned to look at Rob. Oh he welled up. Before she appeared Rob had a nervous expression but that quickly turned into a look of a man completely in love with his bride. Seeing them stand together at the alter, I could tell they're a perfect match.
The ceremony itself was over quickly. They always seem so much longer in films when in reality they last no more than 20 minutes. Afterwards of course came the pictures. Now wedding pics are wonderful in general but with a river, a bridge and gorgeous architecture in the background, these images are guaranteed to be perfect.
Speaking of perfection, so was the dinner reception. On each table were a bag of hand made rocky road pieces crafted by Lou and a box of general knowledge questions. The latter was indeed a clever way to get people talking, especially for those who travelled alone and did not get the chance to meet anyone beforehand. Questions ranged from classic films, guess the song and of course sex - I picked one where the answer was Kama Sutra (try and guess what the question was!)
After dessert came the speeches made by the father of the bride, groom and best man. Is it not traditional at English weddings for the maid of honour to make a speech? Custom or not, I am definitely getting up there at Faye and Chris's do and I am determined to make people laugh and cry happy tears.
After a two hour break where I drank many a G&Ts and Pimms (FYI hotel bar prices do not get cheaper up north) the night do took place. More guests arrived including one lass in a very inappropriate short dress that even prompted one guy to mutter that 'it's something you wear on a night out on the pull, not a wedding.' Everyone on our table agreed. Picture strapless, bodycon, just about covers the ass so that when any form of crouching down or bending is required... you get the rest.
Mr and Mrs Carass's first dance was to Snow Patrol's Chasing Cars. They looked very beautiful moving together and in that moment everyone witnessed just how madly in love they are.
As the rest of the night wore on, I wanted to get up and dance but I just had no energy for it! Rob's mum Karen was gesturing to us all to join her on the dancefloor - I even mentioned it to her much earlier on that we needed to recreate Flares night again - but when the time came to make DJ requests and dance stupidly, I was too tired. Maybe it was the getting up early to catch two trains or the overeating or the many gins. I had on a new Karen Millen dress that was cut specifically so I could move and twirl all night long. As sad as it sounds, by 10.30pm I was done. Rock and Roll. When Sally came to pick me up I was ready to get into my pyjamas and sleep.
By 11pm I was in bed with a hot chocolate and as fate would have it, I turned on the TV to find Grey's Anatomy beginning on Five. I swear I had no idea it was showing. For me it was the perfect way to end the night. Karen mentioned setting me and Nadia (the single ladies) up with a nice single bloke but I got out of there before she turned into Teeside's answer to Cilla Black. Another note to self: ask Nadia if she did get set up. Rather than meet any Teeside (not Geordie) blokes, my night ended with a McDreamy and McChocolate fix which for me is perfection.
Two down, three more to go.
Saturday 31 July 2010
Wednesday 28 July 2010
Single Person Supplement fees...
imposed by airlines are to me outright prejudice against singletons.
I almost became a victim last year when booking my flight to Las Vegas. Faye and Chris’s wedding package included a deal for the guests of flights and hotel £750 per person. Their travel co-ordinator, a lady so cheerful that she made feel like Ebenezer Scrooge-meets-the-Grinch, told me that the price is actually £1,500 for each couple (hence £750 each – Carol V eat your heart out!)
As I am travelling alone (cue sympathetic tone) she says, I would have to pay an extra £290. Cheerful Lady explained that because the hotel rooms are doubles, for couples, owners would essentially lose out. Hence me paying more. On one hand I understand the supplement but I’m not being funny, there is no way that I will gladly fork out £1040 to stay in a hotel that is not even my first choice.
I have since bought a return ticket for £400 and based on the hotel quotes received, I should spend no more than £700 in total during the six days in Sin City. A friend recently told me that she became a victim to this single person supplement having paid an extra £180.
In an era where more people are shouting loud and proud ‘we are single and fabulous’ (tell me it’s not just me?) why do we have to suffer financially because we dare to travel alone? Why the ‘oh shame’ looks when we make no apology in eating alone or having a drink in the bar, wait for it, alone? Why, oh why, do most people find it hard to understand the excitement, self satisfaction and privilege in being able to grab our passport and fly off somewhere far away from everyday life for quality me time?
I love solo travelling. I love the freedom in not having to answer to anyone, or rearrange my schedule for that other person, nor settle for second, third and fourth choice in destination. I travelled to Cape Town by myself and along the way met many wonderful, weird and wacky people. No plans, no rules, no compromise… time of my life.
Yes I understand why most people would prefer to have that special someone beside them, to share those moments, creating lifelong memories and knowing loved ones back home are jealous. That’s not me. Don’t get me wrong though, obviously I’ll go crazy if I didn’t have any human contact at all. Thankfully making friends comes easy to me. Travelling alone is all about befriending new people, different people who I would never get the chance to meet back home or through work.
The first two nights alone in Vegas with the Hoover Dam, Grand Canyon (I will somehow be there at sun rise) and casinos with free alcohol? Can’t go wrong.
I almost became a victim last year when booking my flight to Las Vegas. Faye and Chris’s wedding package included a deal for the guests of flights and hotel £750 per person. Their travel co-ordinator, a lady so cheerful that she made feel like Ebenezer Scrooge-meets-the-Grinch, told me that the price is actually £1,500 for each couple (hence £750 each – Carol V eat your heart out!)
As I am travelling alone (cue sympathetic tone) she says, I would have to pay an extra £290. Cheerful Lady explained that because the hotel rooms are doubles, for couples, owners would essentially lose out. Hence me paying more. On one hand I understand the supplement but I’m not being funny, there is no way that I will gladly fork out £1040 to stay in a hotel that is not even my first choice.
I have since bought a return ticket for £400 and based on the hotel quotes received, I should spend no more than £700 in total during the six days in Sin City. A friend recently told me that she became a victim to this single person supplement having paid an extra £180.
In an era where more people are shouting loud and proud ‘we are single and fabulous’ (tell me it’s not just me?) why do we have to suffer financially because we dare to travel alone? Why the ‘oh shame’ looks when we make no apology in eating alone or having a drink in the bar, wait for it, alone? Why, oh why, do most people find it hard to understand the excitement, self satisfaction and privilege in being able to grab our passport and fly off somewhere far away from everyday life for quality me time?
I love solo travelling. I love the freedom in not having to answer to anyone, or rearrange my schedule for that other person, nor settle for second, third and fourth choice in destination. I travelled to Cape Town by myself and along the way met many wonderful, weird and wacky people. No plans, no rules, no compromise… time of my life.
Yes I understand why most people would prefer to have that special someone beside them, to share those moments, creating lifelong memories and knowing loved ones back home are jealous. That’s not me. Don’t get me wrong though, obviously I’ll go crazy if I didn’t have any human contact at all. Thankfully making friends comes easy to me. Travelling alone is all about befriending new people, different people who I would never get the chance to meet back home or through work.
The first two nights alone in Vegas with the Hoover Dam, Grand Canyon (I will somehow be there at sun rise) and casinos with free alcohol? Can’t go wrong.
Monday 26 July 2010
The gift is all about where the bride registers
Wedding shopping is difficult. Finding the perfect present that suits the happy couple without it being tacky is a task unto itself. When the couple register at a certain shop, thus giving you a much appreciated helping hand in guiding you to what they want, the task unfortunately is anything but helpful.
Natalie has registered at Debenhams and her wish list is based on homely things – kitchen, bathroom and bedroom. Already I am at a loss.
Firstly what is the appropriate amount to spend on a friend I have not seen since graduation three years ago? £20 seems too cheap and anything over £80 is extortionate. In fact what is the going rate on the average wedding present? As I am a singleton, does this mean that I can halve the budget?
Secondly if I buy four red Ben de Lisi mugs (at £5 each), am I obliged to buy the saucers to complete the set, as well as the teapot?
Thirdly is it wrong to mix and match? So far I cannot decide between the candles, bin (looks pretty classy for something that essential holds rubbish), mugs and vase.
The cheapest thing on the list starts with a £1.80 pillar candle, ending with a Meyer silver 5 piece pots and pan set for £100. Already I know to stay in the shallow end with caution!
The gift is hard to get right because make one mistake and the bride will always remember. My cousin Celia who married an Emirates pilot in Norway six years ago will never forget opening a Body Shop bath set along with a sex coupon from her colleague – who was in her early 30s and in a good job. Now I may be young, career-less and broke but I’m not that cheap!
Presents are almost unheard of in Chinese weddings for the elders give red envelopes containing anything from £30 to £100. Basically they are paying for their seat at the banquet/ reception do but almost always the bride and groom make a profit. Wendie pocketed more than £1,000 at hers But is money the meaningless, cop out?
Obviously Nat has made the effort to go to Debenhams and zap away at all the things she would like. Thus a card containing a couple crumpled notes or a Boots voucher seems tasteless.
Looking at the list I sense that Nat is no longer just the loud and fabulous Queen of the Gays I knew back at university. She will become this domesticated, new age Delia Smith. The clue is in the £7.50 Trivet (what on Earth is one of these?!) and the Tefal one egg frying pan.
Random fact, buying a pan for me is not the most appropriate way of wishing newlyweds well. It’s all to do with Chinese superstition where everything invokes either bad or good luck. If I bought a wok then that represents me predicting a future of tainted misery for her and Matt.
So I am no clearer as to what to buy for the happy couple. Maybe I should close my eyes, drag the cursor across the screen and wherever it lands on I’ll go with. Call me a cheapskate but if it lands on the £100 pots or the £85 micro fibre duvet then it will be best out of 3.
(Call me cruel but if I get married I’m registering at Harrods!)
Natalie has registered at Debenhams and her wish list is based on homely things – kitchen, bathroom and bedroom. Already I am at a loss.
Firstly what is the appropriate amount to spend on a friend I have not seen since graduation three years ago? £20 seems too cheap and anything over £80 is extortionate. In fact what is the going rate on the average wedding present? As I am a singleton, does this mean that I can halve the budget?
Secondly if I buy four red Ben de Lisi mugs (at £5 each), am I obliged to buy the saucers to complete the set, as well as the teapot?
Thirdly is it wrong to mix and match? So far I cannot decide between the candles, bin (looks pretty classy for something that essential holds rubbish), mugs and vase.
The cheapest thing on the list starts with a £1.80 pillar candle, ending with a Meyer silver 5 piece pots and pan set for £100. Already I know to stay in the shallow end with caution!
The gift is hard to get right because make one mistake and the bride will always remember. My cousin Celia who married an Emirates pilot in Norway six years ago will never forget opening a Body Shop bath set along with a sex coupon from her colleague – who was in her early 30s and in a good job. Now I may be young, career-less and broke but I’m not that cheap!
Presents are almost unheard of in Chinese weddings for the elders give red envelopes containing anything from £30 to £100. Basically they are paying for their seat at the banquet/ reception do but almost always the bride and groom make a profit. Wendie pocketed more than £1,000 at hers But is money the meaningless, cop out?
Obviously Nat has made the effort to go to Debenhams and zap away at all the things she would like. Thus a card containing a couple crumpled notes or a Boots voucher seems tasteless.
Looking at the list I sense that Nat is no longer just the loud and fabulous Queen of the Gays I knew back at university. She will become this domesticated, new age Delia Smith. The clue is in the £7.50 Trivet (what on Earth is one of these?!) and the Tefal one egg frying pan.
Random fact, buying a pan for me is not the most appropriate way of wishing newlyweds well. It’s all to do with Chinese superstition where everything invokes either bad or good luck. If I bought a wok then that represents me predicting a future of tainted misery for her and Matt.
So I am no clearer as to what to buy for the happy couple. Maybe I should close my eyes, drag the cursor across the screen and wherever it lands on I’ll go with. Call me a cheapskate but if it lands on the £100 pots or the £85 micro fibre duvet then it will be best out of 3.
(Call me cruel but if I get married I’m registering at Harrods!)
1 year on... 5 weddings 0 career
July 30, five days time, will be a year to the day that I had my last shift as a journalist.
A year ago today I was in a profession that I loved, or at least convinced everyone and their grandmother that I did. A career I was born to do, that made my insides ache for a scoop and go all butterfly-y with every byline. A career I happily committed extra hours to without extra pay. A year ago today I was telling myself that redundancy is a good thing - that greater things are coming my way, that the world is gaining something truly wonderful much to the loss of my former employer. I also told myself that despite witnessing the sheer ruthlessness of the industry, journalism is still the best job out there and that if I truly wanted it then I should not give it up.
Hindsight is a wonderful thing and (almost) one year on, I am beginning to accept that journalism is in my past and that my future deserves to be with something more stable and secure.
Join me on a trip down memory lane. January 2008 I accepted a job of trainee reporter for a local rag in Derby. There I worked on five titles, sat beside my partner-in-crime Amy who I was on the same course at uni, met Gok Wan (hi-five to the BBCs!), 'interviewed' Robbie Savage at my first and only football press conference and in general had an awesome time. Four months later the company shut us down. I relocated to Long Eaton where I met my other partner-in-crime Shelley and once again had a pretty awesome time writing all kinds of stories that meant something to someone. Four months later, like clockwork, the company shut us down. I then moved to Loughborough where if it were not for the fantastic news team and editor, I would have seriously quit. There was banter, there was fun, there was camaraderie. Plus there was Amy = REUNION! Four months later, no bad news. I would be lying if I said I was not expecting some announcement. Another two months had passed and still... nothing. Hmm maybe I survived this one. How wrong was I. The news came nine months into the new role - May. This time rather than closure the Echo had to reduce its news team by 50%.
Admittedly looking back when I heard the news I was relieved. It sounds defeatist but after being moved around twice and watching eight titles close, I could not bear yet another relocation. I no longer trusted the company and was more than ready to move onto pastures new. Working extra hours, trying to prove myself against the more talented and experienced writers, facing the wrath of the editor after disappointing him yet again, all the while preparing myself, waiting for the bad news to come certainly took a lot of joy out of the job. I was exhausted trying to convince myself each day that this is still what I wanted to do after telling everyone since I was 15 that journalism is my destiny. So when in early July my editor told me that I was one of the four to be made redundant, I was relieved. No tears, no anger, no disappointment - just sheer relief. Finally I can escape and move on to bigger and better things. Someone told me that when one door closes, a million windows open. One colleague wrote in my leaving card that he predicted wonderful things for me.
Skip forward to today and I am still waiting for the million window openings and the wonderful things to happen. I am living back home, amazingly on less money than I was before and doing a job that does not reflect my potential one bit. On top of that I have received countless job rejections. The only thing keeping me sane are all these weddings. Like I said hindsight is a beautiful thing.
I've realised that if I were still living in Derby, paying rent it would be impossible to afford Las Vegas, Amsterdam, Vancouver, New York, train fare up and down the country plus wedding presents, dresses, hotel costs etc etc etc. Moving back home not paying rent as such has been a blessing in disguise. If my parents knew the exact total I have spent so far, I would be responsible for them going into cardiac arrest. I buy a dress between £80 and £100? I lie and tell them it's £50. With my current job I can just tell my boss that I need certain days off and she will grant me them because I am just a temp. For the sake of witnessing people's I Dos, redundancy has been the blessing in disguise.
But then comes the nights where I can't sleep because it is just too suffocating to admit that journalism may have given up on me (and believe me such nights are becoming more frequent). A lot of people know me as the ambitious, power career driven woman who has boasted to anyone who cared how great her job was. So what if the days were stressful, that I spent 10 minutes eating my lunch at my desk and stayed at council meetings until 8pm? So what if someone at Tescos was on more money than me? I found a job that I truly loved and was prepared to stick with it for the long term. I lasted less than two years.
For me personally, journalism is like a bad boyfriend that I just can't keep away from. (A tad dramatic?) It screwed me over not once, not twice but three times and even then I vowed to remain faithful to it. Despite many people telling/ advising me to get out and look for something else, the sad thing is that despite my relief in having escaped the former company, I know of no other job that will give me the same level of satisfaction, passion and love. I went to Auschwitz, my stories were read by thousands every week, and not forgetting having made some amazing friends. But realistically I could not and still cannot ignore the fear, the lack of trust and just generally waiting to be disappointed yet again. All the makings of a bad relationship.
My friends once said that I was married to my job. That I neglected my personal life because I was chasing Seniority and spent more time with a notepad and laptop than just living my 20s. My cousin today asked me: "Does it not make you feel really sad that five of your friends are getting married and you're still their single guest?" I'm 23. What could I have possibly missed out on so far? Possibly...
Hindsight is indeed a beautiful thing. I have decided to close the door on journalism and look for something else. One year on, I have had no news, not even a small sign. I have absolutely no idea what to do or where to go but I'm going to take it one day at a time. Maybe the answer will come to me as I walk past the Anne Frank museum in Amsterdam, watching the sun rise over the Grand Canyon or breathing in the Manhattan skyline on the Brooklyn Bridge at night (all things guaranteed to happen). Or maybe some editor will contact me this week with a job offer (no guarantee whatsoever).
Maybe my next career should be one that requires less hours from me allowing me to focus on me, my personal life for once. Something tells me I have more luck in getting back into journalism than securing a date with Joe Bloggs. Hold press, maybe that's it. My new career should be me working on how to swallow pride, hide away the (apparent) intimidation and open my eyes to what's in front of me. Now that's one career that guarantees a lifetime tenure.
A year ago today I was in a profession that I loved, or at least convinced everyone and their grandmother that I did. A career I was born to do, that made my insides ache for a scoop and go all butterfly-y with every byline. A career I happily committed extra hours to without extra pay. A year ago today I was telling myself that redundancy is a good thing - that greater things are coming my way, that the world is gaining something truly wonderful much to the loss of my former employer. I also told myself that despite witnessing the sheer ruthlessness of the industry, journalism is still the best job out there and that if I truly wanted it then I should not give it up.
Hindsight is a wonderful thing and (almost) one year on, I am beginning to accept that journalism is in my past and that my future deserves to be with something more stable and secure.
Join me on a trip down memory lane. January 2008 I accepted a job of trainee reporter for a local rag in Derby. There I worked on five titles, sat beside my partner-in-crime Amy who I was on the same course at uni, met Gok Wan (hi-five to the BBCs!), 'interviewed' Robbie Savage at my first and only football press conference and in general had an awesome time. Four months later the company shut us down. I relocated to Long Eaton where I met my other partner-in-crime Shelley and once again had a pretty awesome time writing all kinds of stories that meant something to someone. Four months later, like clockwork, the company shut us down. I then moved to Loughborough where if it were not for the fantastic news team and editor, I would have seriously quit. There was banter, there was fun, there was camaraderie. Plus there was Amy = REUNION! Four months later, no bad news. I would be lying if I said I was not expecting some announcement. Another two months had passed and still... nothing. Hmm maybe I survived this one. How wrong was I. The news came nine months into the new role - May. This time rather than closure the Echo had to reduce its news team by 50%.
Admittedly looking back when I heard the news I was relieved. It sounds defeatist but after being moved around twice and watching eight titles close, I could not bear yet another relocation. I no longer trusted the company and was more than ready to move onto pastures new. Working extra hours, trying to prove myself against the more talented and experienced writers, facing the wrath of the editor after disappointing him yet again, all the while preparing myself, waiting for the bad news to come certainly took a lot of joy out of the job. I was exhausted trying to convince myself each day that this is still what I wanted to do after telling everyone since I was 15 that journalism is my destiny. So when in early July my editor told me that I was one of the four to be made redundant, I was relieved. No tears, no anger, no disappointment - just sheer relief. Finally I can escape and move on to bigger and better things. Someone told me that when one door closes, a million windows open. One colleague wrote in my leaving card that he predicted wonderful things for me.
Skip forward to today and I am still waiting for the million window openings and the wonderful things to happen. I am living back home, amazingly on less money than I was before and doing a job that does not reflect my potential one bit. On top of that I have received countless job rejections. The only thing keeping me sane are all these weddings. Like I said hindsight is a beautiful thing.
I've realised that if I were still living in Derby, paying rent it would be impossible to afford Las Vegas, Amsterdam, Vancouver, New York, train fare up and down the country plus wedding presents, dresses, hotel costs etc etc etc. Moving back home not paying rent as such has been a blessing in disguise. If my parents knew the exact total I have spent so far, I would be responsible for them going into cardiac arrest. I buy a dress between £80 and £100? I lie and tell them it's £50. With my current job I can just tell my boss that I need certain days off and she will grant me them because I am just a temp. For the sake of witnessing people's I Dos, redundancy has been the blessing in disguise.
But then comes the nights where I can't sleep because it is just too suffocating to admit that journalism may have given up on me (and believe me such nights are becoming more frequent). A lot of people know me as the ambitious, power career driven woman who has boasted to anyone who cared how great her job was. So what if the days were stressful, that I spent 10 minutes eating my lunch at my desk and stayed at council meetings until 8pm? So what if someone at Tescos was on more money than me? I found a job that I truly loved and was prepared to stick with it for the long term. I lasted less than two years.
For me personally, journalism is like a bad boyfriend that I just can't keep away from. (A tad dramatic?) It screwed me over not once, not twice but three times and even then I vowed to remain faithful to it. Despite many people telling/ advising me to get out and look for something else, the sad thing is that despite my relief in having escaped the former company, I know of no other job that will give me the same level of satisfaction, passion and love. I went to Auschwitz, my stories were read by thousands every week, and not forgetting having made some amazing friends. But realistically I could not and still cannot ignore the fear, the lack of trust and just generally waiting to be disappointed yet again. All the makings of a bad relationship.
My friends once said that I was married to my job. That I neglected my personal life because I was chasing Seniority and spent more time with a notepad and laptop than just living my 20s. My cousin today asked me: "Does it not make you feel really sad that five of your friends are getting married and you're still their single guest?" I'm 23. What could I have possibly missed out on so far? Possibly...
Hindsight is indeed a beautiful thing. I have decided to close the door on journalism and look for something else. One year on, I have had no news, not even a small sign. I have absolutely no idea what to do or where to go but I'm going to take it one day at a time. Maybe the answer will come to me as I walk past the Anne Frank museum in Amsterdam, watching the sun rise over the Grand Canyon or breathing in the Manhattan skyline on the Brooklyn Bridge at night (all things guaranteed to happen). Or maybe some editor will contact me this week with a job offer (no guarantee whatsoever).
Maybe my next career should be one that requires less hours from me allowing me to focus on me, my personal life for once. Something tells me I have more luck in getting back into journalism than securing a date with Joe Bloggs. Hold press, maybe that's it. My new career should be me working on how to swallow pride, hide away the (apparent) intimidation and open my eyes to what's in front of me. Now that's one career that guarantees a lifetime tenure.
Friday 23 July 2010
Single, young and picky - good or bad?
A dear friend of mine described this to be his ideal woman. Ready?
Overall
Gorgeous lady, absolutely no doubt about that. If she brings chocolate even better.
Hair – short blonde, little bit messy but stylish, very cute.
Body – boobs, bigger the better as long as there is some proportional representation going on. But will not say no to slender women – the key is balance. Not interested in bums or legs so long as latter are not stubbly.
Must be reasonably tall but short enough for him to give all consuming cuddle.
Eyes – pretty ones, colour not fussed.
Teeth – pretty smile with pretty teeth.
Personality, flexible but ideally have following:
Need them to be slightly mental even if it's behind close doors. A bit kooky.
Likes wine and good food
Likes films
Likes good television (HBO)
Independent
Won't nag about washing up/cleaning. Let's get a dishwasher and hire a cleaner.
Will show affection without my demands, and won't get angry when I demand it even after unprompted showings.
He ended with this: ‘Aside from all that, I'm not picky at all!’
Now some would argue otherwise but to me having a criteria is not only clever but darn essential. In fact I am the Queen of (unrealistic) Criteria - much to the bafflement of my friends.
My current list reads like this. Brace yourselves.
Man with a combination of Patrick Dempsey’s dreaminess mixed with George Clooney’s smouldering sexiness, voice and charm, layered with Michael Buble’s personality. He fights for equality but knows how to chill out in his spare time. He has no objection in being silly and never gets too embarrassed to dancing stupidly. Plus he quickly learns how to put with all my shades of fabulousness and not feel the need to run far, far away.
You could say I am a lost cause. But when single, young and free, why not have our standards set in stone or typed up and posted on a blog for all to see? My mum says my list is verging onto “intellectual snobbery” in all areas of my life. In my mind this is not necessarily a bad thing.
A married woman did warn me however that while the 20s is all about being choosy, the following decade is taking every fine point on the list and replacing them with trust, laughter and security. Strong jaw line and Armani attire become insignificant. When I asked one groom-to-be how he knew that my friend was The One, he simply replied: “When it’s right you just know.” No Mills & Boon epic explanation, no song and dance.
That’s sweet and all but I have to admit based on married woman’s theory I have six more years to keep adjusting my list and carrying the unfailing hope that one day my McDreamy-McClooney-McBuble will appear. Then when I hit the big 3-0 I’m sure I will be happy to settle for McFunny-McNice-McSafety. Or maybe, just maybe, I’m destined to have both.
Overall
Gorgeous lady, absolutely no doubt about that. If she brings chocolate even better.
Hair – short blonde, little bit messy but stylish, very cute.
Body – boobs, bigger the better as long as there is some proportional representation going on. But will not say no to slender women – the key is balance. Not interested in bums or legs so long as latter are not stubbly.
Must be reasonably tall but short enough for him to give all consuming cuddle.
Eyes – pretty ones, colour not fussed.
Teeth – pretty smile with pretty teeth.
Personality, flexible but ideally have following:
Need them to be slightly mental even if it's behind close doors. A bit kooky.
Likes wine and good food
Likes films
Likes good television (HBO)
Independent
Won't nag about washing up/cleaning. Let's get a dishwasher and hire a cleaner.
Will show affection without my demands, and won't get angry when I demand it even after unprompted showings.
He ended with this: ‘Aside from all that, I'm not picky at all!’
Now some would argue otherwise but to me having a criteria is not only clever but darn essential. In fact I am the Queen of (unrealistic) Criteria - much to the bafflement of my friends.
My current list reads like this. Brace yourselves.
Man with a combination of Patrick Dempsey’s dreaminess mixed with George Clooney’s smouldering sexiness, voice and charm, layered with Michael Buble’s personality. He fights for equality but knows how to chill out in his spare time. He has no objection in being silly and never gets too embarrassed to dancing stupidly. Plus he quickly learns how to put with all my shades of fabulousness and not feel the need to run far, far away.
You could say I am a lost cause. But when single, young and free, why not have our standards set in stone or typed up and posted on a blog for all to see? My mum says my list is verging onto “intellectual snobbery” in all areas of my life. In my mind this is not necessarily a bad thing.
A married woman did warn me however that while the 20s is all about being choosy, the following decade is taking every fine point on the list and replacing them with trust, laughter and security. Strong jaw line and Armani attire become insignificant. When I asked one groom-to-be how he knew that my friend was The One, he simply replied: “When it’s right you just know.” No Mills & Boon epic explanation, no song and dance.
That’s sweet and all but I have to admit based on married woman’s theory I have six more years to keep adjusting my list and carrying the unfailing hope that one day my McDreamy-McClooney-McBuble will appear. Then when I hit the big 3-0 I’m sure I will be happy to settle for McFunny-McNice-McSafety. Or maybe, just maybe, I’m destined to have both.
Thursday 22 July 2010
Hen do #2: Leeds with the fabulous cannae Teesiders
Hen do number 2 was last weekend. Location: Leeds. Bride-to-be: Louise Hadfield. Lu and I met back in 2002 at college where we shared many a lunches and Psychology classes together. This makes her my oldest friend to be getting hitched.
It was surprising to have been invited to both the hen do and wedding because you know how you end up losing touch over time with old friends, acquaintances and even family members? We make promises to meet up regularly but real life, along with its demanding schedules, money issues and little hours to breathe, makes it hard to just travel across the country for a weekend. But thanks to the wonders of Facebook and texting, we still managed to keep in some contact during Christmas, birthdays and half terms while she was up in Durham and me in Sheffield.
The Hilton Hotel was where we reunited for a day of pampering. After months of work worries, work stresses and work frustration, a massage, facial and sauna was just what I needed. Some of you may be wondering why I opted for a treatment that involves people touching my neck and shoulders. Yes I am ticklish and yes I do freak out even before contact has been made. Call it whatever you want – commitment issues, invasion of personal space, my love to be in control, my absolute hatred of being ticked. However this past year I have noticed myself becoming more physically tense – so much so that it has affected my posture and ease at relaxing.
Before I knew it I was face down on the massage table, Dido playing in the background (I personally would have preferred Enya) and, Laura the masseuse trying to get me to relax. I had to grip the side of the table because I fought hard not to laugh hysterically as I felt her hands on me. Eventually she stopped and told me simply to picture a happy place and focus on it.
October 2007 – I’m standing on top of Table Mountain in Cape Town staring out at the clear blue Atlantic Ocean, eyes fixated on the physically small, yet magnitude in all that it stood for, Robben Island. I can still feel the light breeze on that gloriously sunny day and the sheer happiness running through my veins. It was a feeling quite like no other. There is this cliché that ‘life is not about the number of breaths you take but the moments that take your breath away’. Three years have gone by and I still have not experienced a breathtaking moment even remotely close to Cape Town. As sad as it is to admit, that is the last time I felt truly happy. So happy that I was able to block out every worry and constant feelings of disappointment and failures (something I can’t seem to do now).
The massage left me feeling relaxed and almost euphoric. I totally recommend them. Next was a facial done by a lady called Bev who claimed to be 38 but I swear looked 25. Bev is someone you would want to be friends with – infectious laugh, witty and free spirited. She got so excited when I told her that I’m off to Las Vegas in October that she decided to spend her 40th there.
Facials are great at cleaning out the gunk and dirt off your face. However going into a steam room straight after being exfoliated? Not a good idea. Within 15 minutes my eyes burned and my skin itch. Had I stayed longer I could have ended up with scratches on my face and a horrible rash. The price of beauty right?
Pampering finished, 11 ladies set off for a night of food, cocktails and dancing. Lu’s friends are all genuinely nice – cannae nice lasses as the Geordie/ Teeside would say. I particularly bonded with a teacher called Julie who coincidentally knows a girl I studied Journalism with. Julie and I had the conversation that I can only dream of having on a date. Sat opposite each other at the dinner table we talked about our passion for Human Rights, Amnesty and the prejudices in this world. The key ingredient that made our conversation work was genuine interest. While many a boy have turned away by my incontrollable urge to talk about real, deep topics (agreed by Julie) us ladies welcomed it. Our chat came to an end when we got onto the issue of stoning in Iran – something the rest of ladies did not want to hear over their dessert. Conversation resumes at the wedding.
The time came to paint Leeds red and dance until not even Party Feet could hide the pain from our soles. Obviously it being a hen do, we had on accessories. While the bride donned a pink cowboy hat and veil, the rest of us (chicks?) wore pink headbands and balloons. Such attire gave reason for three bouncers to turn us away. Three. One of them was at a gay bar. One bouncer even smirked at the mother of the bride and told her: “You’re most definitely not coming in here with that on.” Now I’m not being funny but where’s the restriction on the drunken fake tanned, peroxide girl who wore what can only be described as a t-shirt as she threw herself at the middle aged bouncer? I wore a classy, black wrap dress from Coast for crying out loud!
After finally being admitted into a places called Brown’s we had one drink before moving on to the Mecca of all acceptance, the one place where you’ll probably stick out like a sore thumb if you were dressed down: Flares. Rather than turn us away because of ‘inappropriate’ attire, we were given a goody bag filled with large Elton John style sunglasses, microphone, streamers, headbands for being on a hen do. Nothing quite like Flares – cheesy music, awful, sugary cocktails and the YMCA dance routine? Brilliant.
Only half the group ended up here because they were too tired. This included Lu’s sister and maid of honour. I had a feeling it wasn’t her thing but she should have stayed. At the end of day if the bride is your sister, you stay no matter how much it’s not your scene. I missed my Ben and Wendie’s first dance and still two years later she still brings it up. The bride never forgets.
In eight days time I’m off up to Darlington for the wedding. I haven’t met Rob, the groom, yet but if Lu picked him then I am sure he is one hell of a guy.
It was surprising to have been invited to both the hen do and wedding because you know how you end up losing touch over time with old friends, acquaintances and even family members? We make promises to meet up regularly but real life, along with its demanding schedules, money issues and little hours to breathe, makes it hard to just travel across the country for a weekend. But thanks to the wonders of Facebook and texting, we still managed to keep in some contact during Christmas, birthdays and half terms while she was up in Durham and me in Sheffield.
The Hilton Hotel was where we reunited for a day of pampering. After months of work worries, work stresses and work frustration, a massage, facial and sauna was just what I needed. Some of you may be wondering why I opted for a treatment that involves people touching my neck and shoulders. Yes I am ticklish and yes I do freak out even before contact has been made. Call it whatever you want – commitment issues, invasion of personal space, my love to be in control, my absolute hatred of being ticked. However this past year I have noticed myself becoming more physically tense – so much so that it has affected my posture and ease at relaxing.
Before I knew it I was face down on the massage table, Dido playing in the background (I personally would have preferred Enya) and, Laura the masseuse trying to get me to relax. I had to grip the side of the table because I fought hard not to laugh hysterically as I felt her hands on me. Eventually she stopped and told me simply to picture a happy place and focus on it.
October 2007 – I’m standing on top of Table Mountain in Cape Town staring out at the clear blue Atlantic Ocean, eyes fixated on the physically small, yet magnitude in all that it stood for, Robben Island. I can still feel the light breeze on that gloriously sunny day and the sheer happiness running through my veins. It was a feeling quite like no other. There is this cliché that ‘life is not about the number of breaths you take but the moments that take your breath away’. Three years have gone by and I still have not experienced a breathtaking moment even remotely close to Cape Town. As sad as it is to admit, that is the last time I felt truly happy. So happy that I was able to block out every worry and constant feelings of disappointment and failures (something I can’t seem to do now).
The massage left me feeling relaxed and almost euphoric. I totally recommend them. Next was a facial done by a lady called Bev who claimed to be 38 but I swear looked 25. Bev is someone you would want to be friends with – infectious laugh, witty and free spirited. She got so excited when I told her that I’m off to Las Vegas in October that she decided to spend her 40th there.
Facials are great at cleaning out the gunk and dirt off your face. However going into a steam room straight after being exfoliated? Not a good idea. Within 15 minutes my eyes burned and my skin itch. Had I stayed longer I could have ended up with scratches on my face and a horrible rash. The price of beauty right?
Pampering finished, 11 ladies set off for a night of food, cocktails and dancing. Lu’s friends are all genuinely nice – cannae nice lasses as the Geordie/ Teeside would say. I particularly bonded with a teacher called Julie who coincidentally knows a girl I studied Journalism with. Julie and I had the conversation that I can only dream of having on a date. Sat opposite each other at the dinner table we talked about our passion for Human Rights, Amnesty and the prejudices in this world. The key ingredient that made our conversation work was genuine interest. While many a boy have turned away by my incontrollable urge to talk about real, deep topics (agreed by Julie) us ladies welcomed it. Our chat came to an end when we got onto the issue of stoning in Iran – something the rest of ladies did not want to hear over their dessert. Conversation resumes at the wedding.
The time came to paint Leeds red and dance until not even Party Feet could hide the pain from our soles. Obviously it being a hen do, we had on accessories. While the bride donned a pink cowboy hat and veil, the rest of us (chicks?) wore pink headbands and balloons. Such attire gave reason for three bouncers to turn us away. Three. One of them was at a gay bar. One bouncer even smirked at the mother of the bride and told her: “You’re most definitely not coming in here with that on.” Now I’m not being funny but where’s the restriction on the drunken fake tanned, peroxide girl who wore what can only be described as a t-shirt as she threw herself at the middle aged bouncer? I wore a classy, black wrap dress from Coast for crying out loud!
After finally being admitted into a places called Brown’s we had one drink before moving on to the Mecca of all acceptance, the one place where you’ll probably stick out like a sore thumb if you were dressed down: Flares. Rather than turn us away because of ‘inappropriate’ attire, we were given a goody bag filled with large Elton John style sunglasses, microphone, streamers, headbands for being on a hen do. Nothing quite like Flares – cheesy music, awful, sugary cocktails and the YMCA dance routine? Brilliant.
Only half the group ended up here because they were too tired. This included Lu’s sister and maid of honour. I had a feeling it wasn’t her thing but she should have stayed. At the end of day if the bride is your sister, you stay no matter how much it’s not your scene. I missed my Ben and Wendie’s first dance and still two years later she still brings it up. The bride never forgets.
In eight days time I’m off up to Darlington for the wedding. I haven’t met Rob, the groom, yet but if Lu picked him then I am sure he is one hell of a guy.
Sunday 11 July 2010
Bright Red Wigs
I came home to eight of them on Friday. The package finally arrived. With that famous look of utter disbelief, even without saying the words, I knew what my mum was thinking: “What on earth have you ordered now?” Fear not mother for this time I need the wigs. They’re for Faye’s hen do in Amsterdam. One of my maid of honour duties is to order wigs off some website called Party Wonderland as part of the Moulin Rouge/ burlesque theme. White for the Hen and red for the... are the girls the chicks? Let’s go with that. Completing the look will be fishnets and tutus. I’m sure most of you will be happy to see the photos when they come out!
Knowing my luck my head will be too big for the wig or I’ll end up losing mine somewhere on the Red Light District. Even more frightening is that I end up being the only one out of the group who gets mistaken for someone who works the Red Light District. Honestly my biggest worry is that I will forget the wigs on the day we fly to Amsterdam. I can just see it now. I’ll be up in the air sipping an overpriced white wine spritzer and it will hit me tenfold – uh oh the wigs are back home in dazzling Stockport. Note to self: reminder in diary, post it notes on every wall and door and PUT THE WIGS IN THE SUITCASE!
On another note I was in Tescos today and came across the DVD bargain bucket. On top of the pile were, no joke, 27 Dresses and Made of Honour. If Muriel’s Wedding was there too, it would have been official: 2010, tis the year of weddings. I unashamedly bought Made of Honour because I, myself, will be one in less than three months and it would be nice to get some tips. Oh who am I kidding? Clearly it’s an excuse to watch the insanely handsome Patrick Dempsey. A single girl can still look and dream without any guilt or apology.
Knowing my luck my head will be too big for the wig or I’ll end up losing mine somewhere on the Red Light District. Even more frightening is that I end up being the only one out of the group who gets mistaken for someone who works the Red Light District. Honestly my biggest worry is that I will forget the wigs on the day we fly to Amsterdam. I can just see it now. I’ll be up in the air sipping an overpriced white wine spritzer and it will hit me tenfold – uh oh the wigs are back home in dazzling Stockport. Note to self: reminder in diary, post it notes on every wall and door and PUT THE WIGS IN THE SUITCASE!
On another note I was in Tescos today and came across the DVD bargain bucket. On top of the pile were, no joke, 27 Dresses and Made of Honour. If Muriel’s Wedding was there too, it would have been official: 2010, tis the year of weddings. I unashamedly bought Made of Honour because I, myself, will be one in less than three months and it would be nice to get some tips. Oh who am I kidding? Clearly it’s an excuse to watch the insanely handsome Patrick Dempsey. A single girl can still look and dream without any guilt or apology.
Wednesday 7 July 2010
BrideAngel
When Faye asked me to be her maid of honour, I did not care how much or how difficult it would be to get over to Las Vegas, for the ultimate commitment to my dear friend was far more important than money. You see Faye and I met at uni and believe me once you have lived with a friend for three years, been on the same course and seen the best and worst of each other, it's for life. We're there for each other through thick and thin, the good, the bad and the Big Day.
People have since told me about how the responsibility of being a maid of honour is far more difficult than being the bride itself. Organising the hen do, making sure the big day runs smoothly, helping the bride hoist the dress up each time she needs the loo (yes, it does happen) and saving the day in whatever catastrophe takes place. People have also warned me about Bridezilla syndrome.
You know what I mean. How the effects of planning a wedding turns even the nicest of women into the evil characters seen in fairytales (wicked witch, horrible stepmother and I'm sure there's a third example out there..), forcing the bridesmaid to wear unflattering gowns in the colour of puke and demanding all their spare time to go through hundreds of colour patterns for something as trivial as the reception tablecoth!
I can honestly say that Faye is nothing like that whatsoever. In fact forget Bridezilla, she's the ultimate BrideAngel. I did worry about having to use all my spare time heading over to Liverpool/ Wirral to help with the planning but somehow - and it still makes me wonder - she managed to plan everything within three months of the big day. All I had to do was research Amsterdam flights for the hen do, order some wigs (more on that later) and decide what kind of hairstyle I want. So far, so no need to run and hide from bridal monster.
Then came the bridesmaid dress shopping trip. I mentally prepared for a six hour traipse around Liverpool, dreading the thought of going into every store and trying on every dress that fit the colour scheme. How long did it actually take? Just over two hours. We started in Phase 8, went on to Debenhams, John Lewis, Warehouse, Monsoon, Coast and ended back in Phase 8 to buy the first dress we saw.
We both loved it - it's off white/ ivory in a shift style (abit like what Michelle Obama wears according to my mum). For shoes we went to three stores and eventually settled on these pale pink five inch beauties which, Lord help me, I will need to practice wearing or else I will forever be remembered by the Dabek/ Keane clan as the woman who fell up the aisle!
So now I have nothing pressing to do for Faye until the hen do in 7.5 weeks. I guess I'm just extremely lucky in being the maid of honour to someone as chilled as she. Sods law will have it that when the times comes, I will become the most evil of Bridezillas. I can just see it now:
People have since told me about how the responsibility of being a maid of honour is far more difficult than being the bride itself. Organising the hen do, making sure the big day runs smoothly, helping the bride hoist the dress up each time she needs the loo (yes, it does happen) and saving the day in whatever catastrophe takes place. People have also warned me about Bridezilla syndrome.
You know what I mean. How the effects of planning a wedding turns even the nicest of women into the evil characters seen in fairytales (wicked witch, horrible stepmother and I'm sure there's a third example out there..), forcing the bridesmaid to wear unflattering gowns in the colour of puke and demanding all their spare time to go through hundreds of colour patterns for something as trivial as the reception tablecoth!
I can honestly say that Faye is nothing like that whatsoever. In fact forget Bridezilla, she's the ultimate BrideAngel. I did worry about having to use all my spare time heading over to Liverpool/ Wirral to help with the planning but somehow - and it still makes me wonder - she managed to plan everything within three months of the big day. All I had to do was research Amsterdam flights for the hen do, order some wigs (more on that later) and decide what kind of hairstyle I want. So far, so no need to run and hide from bridal monster.
Then came the bridesmaid dress shopping trip. I mentally prepared for a six hour traipse around Liverpool, dreading the thought of going into every store and trying on every dress that fit the colour scheme. How long did it actually take? Just over two hours. We started in Phase 8, went on to Debenhams, John Lewis, Warehouse, Monsoon, Coast and ended back in Phase 8 to buy the first dress we saw.
We both loved it - it's off white/ ivory in a shift style (abit like what Michelle Obama wears according to my mum). For shoes we went to three stores and eventually settled on these pale pink five inch beauties which, Lord help me, I will need to practice wearing or else I will forever be remembered by the Dabek/ Keane clan as the woman who fell up the aisle!
So now I have nothing pressing to do for Faye until the hen do in 7.5 weeks. I guess I'm just extremely lucky in being the maid of honour to someone as chilled as she. Sods law will have it that when the times comes, I will become the most evil of Bridezillas. I can just see it now:
- I want five bridesmaids
- I want them to wear the exact shade of blue/purple created when the Atlantic and Indian oceans meet
- I want my hen do in Cape Town
- I want the invitations done only in recycled paper
- I want a horse and carriage.
- I want to fly to the moon.
- Finally, I want to marry, or at the very least have as a guest, George Clooney.
Monday 5 July 2010
One wedding and an almost funeral...
...for my hundreds of photographs that is. Those of you who know me, have lived with me and been on a night out with me will attest that I have an unhealthy obsession with capturing every moment. (Career move into paparazzi?) I must say I do have a knack of capturing the good, bad and the drunken moments very well.
So you can imagine my surprise – correction SHEER PANIC – when after being trusted with Ben and Wendie’s camera containing their 500+ honeymoon snaps as well as big bro’s 30th birthday antics and of course Gareth and Louise’s wedding, the XD picture card somehow got damaged. How am I going to explain this to two separate couples that sorry but your wedding and honeymoon photos are lost?
I took the card to a well known technical store with all the hope that their “electronic specialists for all your electrical needs” can perform a miracle. Well I quickly came to regret stepping foot into the store. Just my luck that I find the most gormless and anal retentive employee who worryingly enough was also the store manager. Mr Draw-Blood-From-A-Cliff told me (cue monotone) that the XD card cannot be damaged because scientists the world over have carried out experiments, including shooting the plastic out of a cannon to prove that they are indestructible. I did not know whether to laugh or cry. I showed him my camera with the words ‘Card Error’ in red. He then agreed that the card is 99% damaged. Knock.Me.Down.With.A.Feather. His solution was for me to send it to their specialists in Bradford who will try and retrieve the data. It could take up to 6 months. I said my thanks and goodbye.
Next stop PC World. This time a very bubbly and smiley tech lady tells me not to worry and that the pictures are not lost. However it will cost me £100 for labour minimum along with another £30 to buy a memory stick to copy the images to. That’s more than half a week’s wages. Are the pictures that important? No.
Just when I thought all hope was lost, my saviour came in the form of one Mr Gareth Corris – yes, groom number one. Gareth being the professional IT expert assured me that with all the software he owns, he guarantees that he can save the images. It took him and his colleague almost one week and two attempts to rewrite every piece of data into a readable jpeg format. Miracle at last! Every image was saved but not the picture card itself. That can rest in peace.
Payment to Gareth and colleague: £0 just beers.
So you can imagine my surprise – correction SHEER PANIC – when after being trusted with Ben and Wendie’s camera containing their 500+ honeymoon snaps as well as big bro’s 30th birthday antics and of course Gareth and Louise’s wedding, the XD picture card somehow got damaged. How am I going to explain this to two separate couples that sorry but your wedding and honeymoon photos are lost?
I took the card to a well known technical store with all the hope that their “electronic specialists for all your electrical needs” can perform a miracle. Well I quickly came to regret stepping foot into the store. Just my luck that I find the most gormless and anal retentive employee who worryingly enough was also the store manager. Mr Draw-Blood-From-A-Cliff told me (cue monotone) that the XD card cannot be damaged because scientists the world over have carried out experiments, including shooting the plastic out of a cannon to prove that they are indestructible. I did not know whether to laugh or cry. I showed him my camera with the words ‘Card Error’ in red. He then agreed that the card is 99% damaged. Knock.Me.Down.With.A.Feather. His solution was for me to send it to their specialists in Bradford who will try and retrieve the data. It could take up to 6 months. I said my thanks and goodbye.
Next stop PC World. This time a very bubbly and smiley tech lady tells me not to worry and that the pictures are not lost. However it will cost me £100 for labour minimum along with another £30 to buy a memory stick to copy the images to. That’s more than half a week’s wages. Are the pictures that important? No.
Just when I thought all hope was lost, my saviour came in the form of one Mr Gareth Corris – yes, groom number one. Gareth being the professional IT expert assured me that with all the software he owns, he guarantees that he can save the images. It took him and his colleague almost one week and two attempts to rewrite every piece of data into a readable jpeg format. Miracle at last! Every image was saved but not the picture card itself. That can rest in peace.
Payment to Gareth and colleague: £0 just beers.
Sunday 4 July 2010
Number One: Gareth and Louise Corris
Kicking off the five weddings this year was Gareth Corris and Louise Steele’s big day back in May 8 (yes, I know it was two months ago!). So how did I get an invite? Well Gareth’s older brother is my brother-in-law Ben. Like I said it’s all relative.
The big day took place at the Marriott Victoria and Albert Hotel in Manchester. Forget the traditional architecture, backdrop of the city skyline and the canal. Oh no, to me the best part of this hotel was the doorman by the name of Babysham who may have been less than five foot but had the most infectious laugh and charm.
I managed to convince Ben and my sister Wendie to crash in there room for the night. After all there were two double beds and I was not paying over £100 for a room of my own! Rather than pay half I managed to take advantage of my status as the vulnerable younger sibling with a piss poor job that pays pittance, therefore rendering me eternally broke. Result: free accommodation. I did have to fork out a grand total, bank breaking £25. (I also bought them a round (note singular – hotel prices after all!)
Back to the wedding. I wore my turquoise green knee length chiffon dress. So it was not entirely new (I’ve worn it once on a night out in Flares, Derby and a birthday night out in Manchester) BUT it is one of favourites. Hair was done up in a traditional bun much to the approval of my mum who maintains I look 30 when my hair is down and big. Funnily enough Wendie wore green too – a gorgeous emerald A-line dress which was voted Top 5 in Grazia! Not that sis cared anyway despite being a subscriber of the fashion rag.
Before the reception guests hung around the bar. With my ridiculously large wine glass filled with white wine and lemonade, I did my usual and mingled. Wendie, myself and a girl called Jess almost missed the start of the ceremony because we were nattering in the beer garden.
But thankfully the bride was fashionably late. The wait in silence, prompted Ben to whisper rather inappropriately and loudly to the groom, ‘maybe she’s not coming!’ He was wrong.
Louise wore a stunning, strapless gown and looked radiant. As she walked up the aisle with her proud father David I turned to look at Gareth who had a huge smile on his face. I could tell he was nervous as he waited for his wife-to-be by the deep breaths and nervous glances to the door (no, not because he was checking for the nearest exit routes!) But as soon as the door opened and the music started, his face said it all: She’s The One.
After the ceremony and photos, came the meal. As I was a single guest, fortunately I was seated on the same table as Wendie, Ben and Jess – at least there would be three sane people to talk to if by freak of nature I was sat next to someone who had zero social skills. But no need to have feared as I was seated next to a gay couple (one was called Phil) who told me all about how they met on Facebook and how much they hated commercial music like Madonna. My years of being around the Gays came in handy as I knew instantly what topics to embellish on.
Then came the evening do – the dancing. I’m sorry to say that I forgot what the bride and groom’s first dance was. To be fair I was not familiar with the song anyway. As the night went on I noticed just how empty the dance floor was. It was pushing on 10pm and still people seemed reluctant to dance. Usually I never pass on an opportunity to shake and twirl until the early hours but note to Mr DJ, Biffy Clyro and The Killers doth not a dance floor fill with an all ages demographic! Instead, by this point I was enjoying my overpriced G&Ts and the one Strawberry Daiquiri that took 10 minutes to make and cost £7.50!
It was only when Jane the maid of honour came up to me asking for my help that my inner DJ Debs, the one that is reserved strictly for house parties and cheesy places like Flares, came out. I went up to the DJ and made a few requests. That quickly turned into a full tracklist. I am proud to say that the songs I picked got people on the floor. Whitney Houston, Madonna, Cheryl Cole, GLEE!, Michael Jackson, Barry Manilow, ABBA, Dirty Dancing and so forth works everytime! I was so proud of this moment that I even texted a few people declaring my fabulousness!
By the end of the night, things wound down and cue the ballads for the loved up couples. Fortunately these tender moments were captured by yours truly – more on how they were almost destroyed! The night for me ended around 2am. Ben and Wendie had already crashed out by midnight, rock and roll.
Gareth and Louise’s wedding for me was a real first – I had never been to a full, Western wedding where the emphasis was all about intimate, small and private. I doubt there were more than 100 people at the ceremony. It was an eye opener to be at a wedding where unlike typical Chinese dos with an average turnout of 300, it was all about the close family and friends of the bride and groom. It was a privilege to be invited.
Wedding gift: $30 for their honeymoon somewhere in the Caribbean.
The big day took place at the Marriott Victoria and Albert Hotel in Manchester. Forget the traditional architecture, backdrop of the city skyline and the canal. Oh no, to me the best part of this hotel was the doorman by the name of Babysham who may have been less than five foot but had the most infectious laugh and charm.
I managed to convince Ben and my sister Wendie to crash in there room for the night. After all there were two double beds and I was not paying over £100 for a room of my own! Rather than pay half I managed to take advantage of my status as the vulnerable younger sibling with a piss poor job that pays pittance, therefore rendering me eternally broke. Result: free accommodation. I did have to fork out a grand total, bank breaking £25. (I also bought them a round (note singular – hotel prices after all!)
Back to the wedding. I wore my turquoise green knee length chiffon dress. So it was not entirely new (I’ve worn it once on a night out in Flares, Derby and a birthday night out in Manchester) BUT it is one of favourites. Hair was done up in a traditional bun much to the approval of my mum who maintains I look 30 when my hair is down and big. Funnily enough Wendie wore green too – a gorgeous emerald A-line dress which was voted Top 5 in Grazia! Not that sis cared anyway despite being a subscriber of the fashion rag.
Before the reception guests hung around the bar. With my ridiculously large wine glass filled with white wine and lemonade, I did my usual and mingled. Wendie, myself and a girl called Jess almost missed the start of the ceremony because we were nattering in the beer garden.
But thankfully the bride was fashionably late. The wait in silence, prompted Ben to whisper rather inappropriately and loudly to the groom, ‘maybe she’s not coming!’ He was wrong.
Louise wore a stunning, strapless gown and looked radiant. As she walked up the aisle with her proud father David I turned to look at Gareth who had a huge smile on his face. I could tell he was nervous as he waited for his wife-to-be by the deep breaths and nervous glances to the door (no, not because he was checking for the nearest exit routes!) But as soon as the door opened and the music started, his face said it all: She’s The One.
After the ceremony and photos, came the meal. As I was a single guest, fortunately I was seated on the same table as Wendie, Ben and Jess – at least there would be three sane people to talk to if by freak of nature I was sat next to someone who had zero social skills. But no need to have feared as I was seated next to a gay couple (one was called Phil) who told me all about how they met on Facebook and how much they hated commercial music like Madonna. My years of being around the Gays came in handy as I knew instantly what topics to embellish on.
Then came the evening do – the dancing. I’m sorry to say that I forgot what the bride and groom’s first dance was. To be fair I was not familiar with the song anyway. As the night went on I noticed just how empty the dance floor was. It was pushing on 10pm and still people seemed reluctant to dance. Usually I never pass on an opportunity to shake and twirl until the early hours but note to Mr DJ, Biffy Clyro and The Killers doth not a dance floor fill with an all ages demographic! Instead, by this point I was enjoying my overpriced G&Ts and the one Strawberry Daiquiri that took 10 minutes to make and cost £7.50!
It was only when Jane the maid of honour came up to me asking for my help that my inner DJ Debs, the one that is reserved strictly for house parties and cheesy places like Flares, came out. I went up to the DJ and made a few requests. That quickly turned into a full tracklist. I am proud to say that the songs I picked got people on the floor. Whitney Houston, Madonna, Cheryl Cole, GLEE!, Michael Jackson, Barry Manilow, ABBA, Dirty Dancing and so forth works everytime! I was so proud of this moment that I even texted a few people declaring my fabulousness!
By the end of the night, things wound down and cue the ballads for the loved up couples. Fortunately these tender moments were captured by yours truly – more on how they were almost destroyed! The night for me ended around 2am. Ben and Wendie had already crashed out by midnight, rock and roll.
Gareth and Louise’s wedding for me was a real first – I had never been to a full, Western wedding where the emphasis was all about intimate, small and private. I doubt there were more than 100 people at the ceremony. It was an eye opener to be at a wedding where unlike typical Chinese dos with an average turnout of 300, it was all about the close family and friends of the bride and groom. It was a privilege to be invited.
Wedding gift: $30 for their honeymoon somewhere in the Caribbean.
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