I have two hours and fifteen minutes to whack out another thousand words of pure genius before midnight if I wish to stay within the confines of a week. A challenge, easily achievable one would think but this week has been somewhat surreal.
I feel as though I should be buying a hat! Not for that quirky little wedding tomorrow but, rather, for my looming court appearance: the Big Proof. This has all the makings of 2018’s answer to Dynasty and there is not a thing I can do about it! Similar to a wedding, once that train starts rolling, there is virtually no means of escape which doesn’t involve hurling onself, at great speed, into oblivion – more likely a ditch! I am, now, at the mercy of the legal profession and, six years on, that train is hurtling out of control – to an end of some sort. My days begin and end with emails and phonecalls whose cost I can no longer monitor and, quite honestly, my mode of survival is to block it out, pretend it is not happening and stay in the present. I have Pop’s words forever in my head: ‘Don’t worry, it will all fall into place.’ I am still that little girl and I still believe him …
I don’t know about anyone else but I am totally saturated by this Royal Wedding coverage and despairing of the circus. What happens to this country? As though completely brainwashed, throngs travel from all ends to camp out for weeks and secure their position along the route. I can understand the desire to soak up the atmosphere and be part of an historic event; I can understand the affection for Harry and it is lovely to see him so happy but this is ridiculous. He is a member of the Royal Family. We don’t know him!! Is there any necessity to dress up in a union jack, paint one’s face or march around wearing a Harry or Meghan mask? As ever, the sheep syndrome comes into force; the need to emulate everyone else just because … The country has gone mad. Perhaps it is just me who is out of step with the majority? A rhetorical question, methinks. Much as I am looking forward to watching it all and, particularly with a view to seeing what everyone is wearing, I cannot think of anything worse than getting dressed up and going to a street party with the neighbours. Quite frankly, I’d rather be staked to an ant hill naked! There are those, however, who are planning to squeeze into their old wedding dresses – many, I’m sure, have several from which to choose – before sitting down, glass in hand, to watch the day’s events from the comfort of home. Now, why didn’t I think of that?!
Of course, the story of the week – other than mine – has been the battle of the Markles! That is some dysfunctional family and I can talk. The half-sister has popped up everywhere claiming she holds no bitterness towards Meghan for not inviting any of her family to the wedding; her nephew is a legal cannabis farmer who has now developed a new strain named Markle’s Sparkle; and her father, following the exposure of his cash deal with a member of the paparazzi, has checked himself into hospital claiming to have had a heart attack. I’m sure his cardiologist recommended that McDonald’s carryout he was seen buying a matter of hours later! One couldn’t make it up. Horrific for Meghan, though, coping with all that on top of everything else. Families. One cannot choose one’s own but no matter how dysfunctional or estranged, there is no greater power for hurt.
So, the sheep that I am, I shall be glued to the television tomorrow eager to see the outfits. Has Fergie been invited? Who knows. I watched The Windsors Royal Wedding Special, earlier in the week, and laughed from start to finish. Fergie, in her bedsit, was bemoaning the fact that she hadn’t received her invitation while Beatrice was looking for a plus one! Superb. I do hope Fergie is there, if nothing more than to witness another monstrosity of a fascinator, the favoured accessory of her daughters.
Never fear, though, the Beckhams are going! One word: why? Little time left to launch into the Beckhams other than to say, aside from the leak of his hacked emails depicting his true self and, in so doing, ensuring he never receives that coveted knighthood, I remember trying to watch some programme which followed David Beckham in South America, I think. It was a task which defeated me. He was so unbelievably dull; so unbelievably boring. Thank God for money and fame! Still can’t see any connection between Harry and he so it must be Meghan. Oh well.
Thirty-two minutes left to post this! In view of the big day tomorrow, perhaps a nod to my own wedding almost thirty-four years ago – or is that just how long the divorce proceedings have been going on?! So not funny. Yes, like so much of my life, it was comedic in so far as the number of disasters in the run up to the day – and on the day itself. Suffice to say, 12th October 1984 will be remembered for the Brighton Bombing and the IRA’s attempt to wipe out Margaret Thatcher. Closer to home, however, my mother had twisted her ankle and was wearing an attractive bandage and I was wearing somebody else’s wedding dress – which didn’t fit me – as the one I had chosen in all of five minutes had been altered incorrectly! I shall never forget the minister – Pop’s best man – saying ‘Looks like you’ll have to go through with it, then!’ when no-one volunteered a reason why we should not be married; my sister sniffled, behind me, throughout the service, apparently set off by our school hymn; then there was the Polish photographer chosen by my mother because he had done the portraits of us as children. He could barely speak English, as I remember, and had no idea what he was doing. Listening to nobody, the photographs took hours, literally, and, meanwhile, my father was footing the bill for free champagne! The guests were all completely plastered while not a drop passed my lips – no time. Then there was a mix up with the seating plan which resulted in my brother sitting in the kitchen, virtually; and, finally, the band! My sister chose them – she loves me – and everything they played sounded like My Life by Billy Joel. So many signs but we laughed it all off just the same …
‘The knot had tightened and loosened and, for the last time, it had untied. I do. We did. It was done.’
Leaving Before The Rains Come, Alexandra Fuller.
Good Luck, Harry and Meghan!
This is Trish, signing off, very quickly!!
p.s. Once, again, unchecked. Sorry!
I feel as though I should be buying a hat! Not for that quirky little wedding tomorrow but, rather, for my looming court appearance: the Big Proof. This has all the makings of 2018’s answer to Dynasty and there is not a thing I can do about it! Similar to a wedding, once that train starts rolling, there is virtually no means of escape which doesn’t involve hurling onself, at great speed, into oblivion – more likely a ditch! I am, now, at the mercy of the legal profession and, six years on, that train is hurtling out of control – to an end of some sort. My days begin and end with emails and phonecalls whose cost I can no longer monitor and, quite honestly, my mode of survival is to block it out, pretend it is not happening and stay in the present. I have Pop’s words forever in my head: ‘Don’t worry, it will all fall into place.’ I am still that little girl and I still believe him …
I don’t know about anyone else but I am totally saturated by this Royal Wedding coverage and despairing of the circus. What happens to this country? As though completely brainwashed, throngs travel from all ends to camp out for weeks and secure their position along the route. I can understand the desire to soak up the atmosphere and be part of an historic event; I can understand the affection for Harry and it is lovely to see him so happy but this is ridiculous. He is a member of the Royal Family. We don’t know him!! Is there any necessity to dress up in a union jack, paint one’s face or march around wearing a Harry or Meghan mask? As ever, the sheep syndrome comes into force; the need to emulate everyone else just because … The country has gone mad. Perhaps it is just me who is out of step with the majority? A rhetorical question, methinks. Much as I am looking forward to watching it all and, particularly with a view to seeing what everyone is wearing, I cannot think of anything worse than getting dressed up and going to a street party with the neighbours. Quite frankly, I’d rather be staked to an ant hill naked! There are those, however, who are planning to squeeze into their old wedding dresses – many, I’m sure, have several from which to choose – before sitting down, glass in hand, to watch the day’s events from the comfort of home. Now, why didn’t I think of that?!
Of course, the story of the week – other than mine – has been the battle of the Markles! That is some dysfunctional family and I can talk. The half-sister has popped up everywhere claiming she holds no bitterness towards Meghan for not inviting any of her family to the wedding; her nephew is a legal cannabis farmer who has now developed a new strain named Markle’s Sparkle; and her father, following the exposure of his cash deal with a member of the paparazzi, has checked himself into hospital claiming to have had a heart attack. I’m sure his cardiologist recommended that McDonald’s carryout he was seen buying a matter of hours later! One couldn’t make it up. Horrific for Meghan, though, coping with all that on top of everything else. Families. One cannot choose one’s own but no matter how dysfunctional or estranged, there is no greater power for hurt.
So, the sheep that I am, I shall be glued to the television tomorrow eager to see the outfits. Has Fergie been invited? Who knows. I watched The Windsors Royal Wedding Special, earlier in the week, and laughed from start to finish. Fergie, in her bedsit, was bemoaning the fact that she hadn’t received her invitation while Beatrice was looking for a plus one! Superb. I do hope Fergie is there, if nothing more than to witness another monstrosity of a fascinator, the favoured accessory of her daughters.
Never fear, though, the Beckhams are going! One word: why? Little time left to launch into the Beckhams other than to say, aside from the leak of his hacked emails depicting his true self and, in so doing, ensuring he never receives that coveted knighthood, I remember trying to watch some programme which followed David Beckham in South America, I think. It was a task which defeated me. He was so unbelievably dull; so unbelievably boring. Thank God for money and fame! Still can’t see any connection between Harry and he so it must be Meghan. Oh well.
Thirty-two minutes left to post this! In view of the big day tomorrow, perhaps a nod to my own wedding almost thirty-four years ago – or is that just how long the divorce proceedings have been going on?! So not funny. Yes, like so much of my life, it was comedic in so far as the number of disasters in the run up to the day – and on the day itself. Suffice to say, 12th October 1984 will be remembered for the Brighton Bombing and the IRA’s attempt to wipe out Margaret Thatcher. Closer to home, however, my mother had twisted her ankle and was wearing an attractive bandage and I was wearing somebody else’s wedding dress – which didn’t fit me – as the one I had chosen in all of five minutes had been altered incorrectly! I shall never forget the minister – Pop’s best man – saying ‘Looks like you’ll have to go through with it, then!’ when no-one volunteered a reason why we should not be married; my sister sniffled, behind me, throughout the service, apparently set off by our school hymn; then there was the Polish photographer chosen by my mother because he had done the portraits of us as children. He could barely speak English, as I remember, and had no idea what he was doing. Listening to nobody, the photographs took hours, literally, and, meanwhile, my father was footing the bill for free champagne! The guests were all completely plastered while not a drop passed my lips – no time. Then there was a mix up with the seating plan which resulted in my brother sitting in the kitchen, virtually; and, finally, the band! My sister chose them – she loves me – and everything they played sounded like My Life by Billy Joel. So many signs but we laughed it all off just the same …
‘The knot had tightened and loosened and, for the last time, it had untied. I do. We did. It was done.’
Leaving Before The Rains Come, Alexandra Fuller.
Good Luck, Harry and Meghan!
This is Trish, signing off, very quickly!!
p.s. Once, again, unchecked. Sorry!
No fascinators but a bottle of suitably chilled black Lanson awaits!