Hello, family members!
(I have covered my surname with a Gogo to preserve some shred of anonymity, because, like, I am so protective of my private life, hem hem)
This also means I cannot tell you about my hideous wedding faux pas. If you really really want to know and can prove you aren't related to me, email with your family tree and I'll tell you.
1. It's odd to see them en masse, that side of the family. It's like seeing small pieces of my mother spread around various bodies; small dark women were everywhere, giving me agonising double takes. Sitting behind the mother of the bride at the ceremony, her hair and neck and ears looked so like her I almost wanted to reach out and give her a stroke, but then Fingers got himself entwined in a length of purple taffeta and one of my hold ups fell down, and the moment passed, thankfully.
2. Also, going to a beautiful, moving wedding full of hope and optimism when Things are as they are, four days before I take possession of the new house, was not the most sensible thing I could have done, either emotionally or administratively. I don't regret it though. Perhaps the maddeningly obtuse guy at Burger King in Glasgow Central Station does.
3. My children are totally, irretrievably French. I have never seen two children dance quite so seriously. They do whole body French dancing. I was torn between grudging respect and mortification.
4. I wore this dress and hoped noone would notice the magic eye motif. Is this remotely plausible? If the answer is no, lie to me. Remember, Scottish wedding, well stocked bar, many many glitteringly feathered outfits. Man, they dress up. I wish someone had warned me. Not that anything in the Shroud Collection could possibly have looked right, but I could at least have dipped myself in glitter, or worn a bit better make up. As it was, the Magic Eye dress was grubby and crumpled from a trip on Michael O'Leary's magical mystery tour, as was I, and the spawn were similarly coated in a mixture of sugar and ketchup. We looked like the gypsy entertainment but without the, uh, entertainment.
5. I need your help with this one. My sister, the Space Cadette, tried to convince me that people in Britain are now all keeping chickens in their back gardens as an accepted mainstream activity. She's wrong, isn't she? It's because she lives with trustafarian freegan hippies, right?6. This is utterly disjointed because we had to get up at half past five. We were staying somewhere so primitive it did not appear to have telephones. The wake up call was a whey faced fourteen year old knocking on our door. On top of that, I was sharing a bed with Lashes, who turns into a giant heated elbow at night. I do hope to become more coherent soon, but I will spend most of the week tackling my vomitous phobia of the bank and the telephone so posting may be of the fuckfuckfuckpanicfuck variety.