Archive for the 'The Family' Category

The Wedding

May 10th, 2009

I confess that it is quite some time since I was at a wedding.

Apparently the ceremony is full of new traditions.  Now I always assumed that a tradition was something that has been done for generations, but it seems that the modern wedding ceremony is full of traditions that were dreamt up in the last week or two.

I don’t know whether it is a modern tradition or not, but I was a little surprised when in the middle of the proceedings, the priest gave a Nazi salute [complete with a ‘Heil Hitler’] and then went on to extol the virtues of the Third Reich uniforms.  I don’t remember any mention of that being introduced into the wedding ceremony, but who am I to argue?

A few minutes after that, I swear I heard the priest signing the happy couple into the Roman Legions and pledging allegiance to the Emperor, but I may have been mistaken.

The main thing though is that TAT finally signed that bit of paper.  It has taken a few years, and a lot of persuasion, but he has finally done the honourable thing, so I suppose I can give him those negatives now.  I have no further use for them, though I have kept a couple of copies, just as proof that it is possible to do that to a goat.

There were a couple of anxious moments where the whole thing went belly-up, such as the time near the beginning when TAT did a runner.  Our K8 was a little anxious until we managed to find him hiding in the graveyard.

waiting

The bridesmaid was TAT’s sister, Loopy Loo.  She was a bit hyper before the wedding but we managed to get her sedated and sobered in time, so that was all right.

loopyloo

For some unknown reason, TAT and the Best Man turned up wearing skirts.  I think it may have been a ploy to allow him to run faster, but that didn’t work.  I had to ask The Question though, and apparently they do.

underwear

TAT’s biker friends all behaved themselves impeccably.  Until they got drunk, that is.  When we left the pub, it was burning merrily and even as I write, I can see the smoke rising beyond the hills.

Herself took a photograph of me after we got home.  I was proud of the fact that I managed to drive that distance with a pint of Guinness in my hand, without spilling a drop.

fireside

Incidentally, she has asked me to point out that the underwear belongs to Cousin Stacey and not her.

But seeing as we don’t have a Cousin Stacey, I think you can draw your own conclusions.

I’m free

May 9th, 2009

I won’t be around today.

Having successfully traded my daughter on the open market, I’m off to the signing off ceremony.

Major celebrations.

She is TAT’s headache now.

I am become my father

May 4th, 2009

Lately I have been seeing a lot of my father.

He has been hanging around the house quite a lot and I have been enjoying the comfort of familiarity.  Those expressions of movement, the mannerisms, and the general deportment that I remember so well from times gone by.

You must realise that my father passed over nearly thirty years ago, but I am not cracking up.  I am not seeing ghosts.  What I am seeing is as real as you or me.

It struck me earlier today that I was seeing him vividly.  The only thing was that I was seeing him from inside, not outside.

As I grew up, in common with most children I felt my father was ancient.  In my case, he was in his late forties when I was born so he always was pretty old compared to me.

As I grew, he was the solid rock of dependability that steered us through life, and I always felt that once my father was around, that all would be right with the world.

Now what I am seeing is his mannerisms that I have subconsciously adapted.  I see his walk, his distinctive movements, almost his thought patterns, for I have reached the age that he was at when I remember him the best.

It is quite comforting really.

I am become my father.

Saturday musings

May 2nd, 2009

I had a grand lie in this morning.

After getting up and having my morning mug of tea and a grand pipe full, Herself switched on the radio.

It was non-stop whinging and moaning about Swine Flu, and the government who apparently have decided to extend their bank holiday by an extra day and a half [fully paid, of course].  It was gloom, doom, political incompetence and was generally pretty depressing so I fucked the radio out the window and settled back to enjoy a nice peaceful Saturday.

The sun is shining and it is warm out.  I contemplated mowing the laws, as it is a couple of months since I last did it, and Sandy is beginning to find it difficult to find her way back to the house after I have let her out.

I decided that the Interweb can manage without me for a day so I brewed another mug, lit the pipe and happily contemplated whether to start the lawn with the lawnmower or a scythe.  I also calculated how much Paraquat I would need to kill the lot to save me the trouble of mowing it in the future.

The phone rang.

It was our K8.  Could I possibly do some emergency babysitting?

So now I’m stuck indoors.  I brought the laptop with me, but the little wagon has encrypted her wireless network. Luckily she is only using 128 whatsit security so I soon cracked that.

Now I am stuck here with a television blaring out children’s programmes which seemed to be designed to delight the children but irritate the hell out of grandparents.

The television is about to go out the window.

Puppychild has just climbed on my lap.

It’s not a bad Saturday after all.

Life with no remission

February 6th, 2009

It was our wedding anniversary last week.

For those of you who are not married, wedding anniversaries area time to dread.  They are a minefield more deadly than any in Africa or Bosnia.  One wrong step, and the poor husband can expect months of misery ahead.

Of course the biggest mine that any bloke can step on is to forget the damn thing altogether.

I did remember a couple of weeks ago, and made a mental note to Do The Right Thing.  The Right Thing is to buy something ludicrously expensive and to make a big fuss of Herself on the day.  Usually what I do is to find something at the bottom of her jewellery box and polish it up.  If there is nothing there, I usually nip down to the Pound Shop or Oxfam.

Of course, making mental notes at my age is fatal.

I forgot.

The day dawned and I remembered.

There was that horrible sinking feeling – that sword of Damocles hanging over my head – when would she remember?  I tried some damage limitation by rifling through her jewellery, but she had been to the pawn shop again, and the cupboard was bare.  Bollox.

It was a long day, as any minute I was expecting the explosion.

But it never happened.

I realised that Herself had forgotten too, so I relaxed and enjoyed the evening in peace.

As the days subsequently passed, I knew I was completely in the clear.  She couldn’t accuse me of anything, as she was just as guilty.

I mentioned it the other night.

‘We forgot our anniversary,’ I said breezily.  [Note the use of the plural]

‘Did we?  When was it?’

‘Last week.’

‘Oh!  I forgot about it.  How long are we married?’

I whipped out a pencil and did some calculations.  ‘Thirty four years,’ I said.

’Is it that long?’

‘No,’ says I.  ‘Much longer.’

She gave me one of her looks.

‘Who needs anniversaries anyway?’ she said.  ‘Don’t I know that you love me without any fancy gifts or anything?’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes. Sure, aren’t you letting me sleep indoors while the snow lasts?’

‘True.’

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