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Weird wedding

The other night, myself and the wife were at a belated wedding do for her work-colleague's daughter. The fact she was wearing a white dress was the only part of the night that verged on normality.

Enter the hotel, scanning for people we know.... nobody, yet. Then we spot the father-of-the-bride. I offer to buy him a drink - he pretends to be insulted. It's his wee girl's night and nobody is paying for anything. The wife asks for half a cider and is given a pint. I ask for coke (I'm driving). We are directed to the photos of the day itself.

The minister looked like Trevor McDonald (ok they were in Jamaica, so it's expected).

After the photos, my wife's work-friends arrive. Alas their personalities were left behing, circa 1983.

Then the work-enemies arrive. We politely say hello and while they go off to gossip about us, we go off to gossip about them. The bitter bitching spinster, mutton dressed as lamb and train-track braces thinks she is going to pull tonight. She is an optimist of the highest order.

More people arrive. Lots of girls who, neck-down are pretty decent looking. Their faces look like they've been in too many fights. One smiles at me, revealing a mouth in serious need of teeth.

The bride explains how her and new hubby got stoned last night, as easily as explaining going to the shop for milk. Then the speeches....

The best man (who wasn't at the wedding) has people laughing at his memories of having "a wee smoke" with his mate. An old, drunk man is "very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very happy" for the couple and asks the DJ to play some Jim Reeves. In case I had any doubt, I am now sure Jim Reeves was not designed for drunken old men's karaoke ambitions. Everyone else laughs at the drunk old man singing (he thinks we are enjoying it). The DJ eventually puts us out of our misery.

Dance time. Our eyes are drawn to a hefy woman you would not fight with. Almost 6 foot tall, built like the proverbial shed and around sixty years, with a tattoo on her right forearm. The tattoo probably looked good in the 1960s but it now looks like an over-cooked cabbage.

The father-of-the-bride does YMCA with dyslexic actions and we go up to thank him for a good night. After he kisses me, full on the lips, we go home.

It was a weird night. Louid Theroux would have liked it.

Big greedy fat pig

On the way home from Belfast after getting Mrs Duck new shoes for a wedding (there were no suitable shoes for fifty miles), she shouted at me: "Big Greedy Fat Pig!"

I was deeply offended.  Yes, I have a certain fondness for lardy dinners but I'm exercising more and eating better.  "Big Greedy Fat Pig!", she shouted again.  This time, she pointed.

It was a van we were passing (going up a hill at 80mph in a new Toyota Yaris), advertising "Big Greedy Fat Pig".  I've no idea who they are and we've forgotten their web address.  Google, alas is not locating them.  So, if you know who they are, please let me know.

Still, it let her shout "Big Greedy Fat Pig" at me.

Married to Google

I married Google

This morning, I asked my wife if she had seen two passport photos I had left lying around.  Her immediate answer: "Study, top drawer."  I had looked in the drawer - I explained this to her.  She insisted that is where they were.

Up the stairs she goes, to return with the photos.  They had been hidden underneath and behind things.  She had only seen them once, yet remembered exactly where to get them.

This is normal for us.  When she 'tidies', I cannot find anything.  To me, her tidying is really hiding things away like a squirrel.  She tells me where the things are: "driving licence is here, passport there, medical card here, birth certificate there, insurance there...."  Sorry, information overload.  By the time she's telling me where to find bank statements from two years ago I am still wondering why she has moved the passport (because leaving it lying on top of the microwave is 'silly'). 

I later hide the 2004 bank statements in the shredder.

She sometimes is fed up telling me where things are.  Am I the only guy forgets where he left a can of deodorant after the gym?

She can tell me exactly who bought our wedding presents and where from.  I'm not even sure which things we have are wedding presents.  Is that tacky ornament really a gift from her Aunt?  I ask GoogleWife- "Auntie Jane got it for us as an engagement present from Captain Cook's in Ballymena, two weeks after we were engaged.  The picture you don't like in the back room was her wedding present, from some place she saw on holiday in Wales".

When we drive somewhere strange she knows the way.  One glance at the map and she knows where to go.  Picture it - driving along an unknown road and she's telling me "left, right, third left".  Maybe I have married Google Earth also?

Weird, yet wonderful.

Computers have ruined Margaret's world

This seems to be the week of revisiting past entries. In April I mentioned Margaret (not her real name), whose otherwise happy life was being ruined by computers. Or, rather, her life was being ruined by a society that has deemed paper and taking time obsolete and, in particular, by her employer introducing a really badly put together computer system.

Last night she sat beside me in church, beaming from ear to ear. She had quit the job and her happiness has returned.

A month-or-so ago, Margaret started shaking in work when the computer refused to let her bill a customer for two widgets - the computer insisted on four. The phone rang, the customers were queuing up. The computer was still saying No. Margaret was still shaking. She was still shaking at three in the morning.

Aged sixty-one, she has decided to call it quits. She, at least, has a state pension (of sorts) if she needs it. The other staff members (one out on stress, the other actively looking for something else) have no such option.

This does not hide the fact that some young go-getter has rendered sixty years of experience of life ‘useless’ because she doesn’t use computers very well. She hopes to get another receptionist-type job. I wish her well – though whether she can avoid our technological dictatorship is another matter.

It says a lot for our society though. What price will we pay for writing off the experienced ones as ‘past it’?

Ding Dong! The Witch is Dead!

My mate, whose girlfriend I once described as the Happiness Thief is finally a free man. Hurrah.

The sad thing is, she dumped him for apparantly being completely unreasonable. I think the reality is she got the vibes he had finally reached the end of his considerable endurance.

He put up with her skulking behind his back; lying; shouting; stalker-like tendancies; manipulation; generally being a pathetically insecure, shallow, clingy, obsessed nutter. He even put up with her mother giving his car a kicking! He, honestly, is a really good guy.

I wish him well. I wish her a good psychotherapist.

I shall sign off with the Munchkins, from the Wizard of Oz:

Ding Dong! The Witch is dead. Which old Witch? The Wicked Witch!
Ding Dong! The Wicked Witch is dead.
Wake up - sleepy head, rub your eyes, get out of bed.
Wake up, the Wicked Witch is dead.

She's gone where the goblins go,
Below - below - below. Yo-ho,

let's open up and sing and ring the bells out.
Ding Dong' the merry-oh, sing it high, sing it low.
Let them know
The Wicked Witch is dead!

Unexpected visitor for breakfast

Do you notice anything unusual about our back gate, below?



That little chap tried to join us for breakfast but didn't realise you have to open the patio doors first.  *smack* into the class he fluttered off, dazed, onto the gate.  There he remained, fairly motionless for about ten minutes while we had our toast and The Wife took photos of him.

Then he flew off.  Good thing too - a big tabby made an appearance soon after...