Wow. Just Wow.
Sep. 21st, 2003 07:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smokingbootJust Wow covers everything, but I want to bang on about the weekend, so that I never forget it. We just came back from two friends' non-wedding in a beautiful tudor style hostel in Wales, surrounded by trees, mountain, and what the Irish call 'soft weather' - the kind of mist that's just rain enough to take the curl out of your hair.
Curls turned out to be an important factor of the weekend, but first things first. The order of events went as follows:
Friday night, everyone arrives at the Youth Hostel, gets profoundly pissed. After many thought provoking conversations (none of which Smokingboot can clearly remember) Smokingboot gets to bed at 4 am.
Saturday morning, Breakfast.
Then Outward Bound style games performed by those trying to prove themselves devoid of hangovers. The sensible amongst us watch from the reading room, eating sandwiches and drinking Earl Grey Tea.
Preparation for the Non Wedding Ceremony. This took much of the day, as costumes circa 1800-1900 had been stipulated, and Room 1 became a centre of cosmetic chaos. Ringlets, of course, are damned important in the history of the empire on which the sun never sets. But ringlets are fickle friends. They may arrive easily, but they have to be co-erced into staying, by use of fire and paralysis. Rollers, crimpers, tongs, wax, gel, spray, clips, ribbons, feathers, only to be followed by the ingenious tortures of bustles, gloves, fans, crinolines, petticoats...how the hell Victorians found the time and energy to do all this beats me. The room smelt of fried hair, men were running away, and everybody was helping everyone else into beautiful but impossible costumes. The result was amazing. Whether you were staring at Sharpe's regiment(quite a few of the Chosen Men had turned up) or the ladies from the Moulin Rouge, somehow, we all brushed up into gorgeous, glamourous creatures in time for the Not-Wedding.
The Not-Bride and Not-Groom have been together for 10 years. The Not-Wedding was their way of declaring their love, and committing to their partnership. Poems were spoken, and personal words so deep and so from the heart, that everyone including hard-hearted Smokingboot was choking back tears. The party that followed was of course, marvellous, punctuated by Pimms, champagne, fud, much victorian silliness, the absolute best and, er, closest, fireworks I have ever seen, a ceilidh and a disco. The weekend was happy, perfect and full of love, and people are already begging for an anniversary party. May the Not Bride and Not Groom remain in the blessed state of Not-Marriage for a long time! Hmm. Time for Smokingboot to go and cuddle her Beloved Bar!
Curls turned out to be an important factor of the weekend, but first things first. The order of events went as follows:
Friday night, everyone arrives at the Youth Hostel, gets profoundly pissed. After many thought provoking conversations (none of which Smokingboot can clearly remember) Smokingboot gets to bed at 4 am.
Saturday morning, Breakfast.
Then Outward Bound style games performed by those trying to prove themselves devoid of hangovers. The sensible amongst us watch from the reading room, eating sandwiches and drinking Earl Grey Tea.
Preparation for the Non Wedding Ceremony. This took much of the day, as costumes circa 1800-1900 had been stipulated, and Room 1 became a centre of cosmetic chaos. Ringlets, of course, are damned important in the history of the empire on which the sun never sets. But ringlets are fickle friends. They may arrive easily, but they have to be co-erced into staying, by use of fire and paralysis. Rollers, crimpers, tongs, wax, gel, spray, clips, ribbons, feathers, only to be followed by the ingenious tortures of bustles, gloves, fans, crinolines, petticoats...how the hell Victorians found the time and energy to do all this beats me. The room smelt of fried hair, men were running away, and everybody was helping everyone else into beautiful but impossible costumes. The result was amazing. Whether you were staring at Sharpe's regiment(quite a few of the Chosen Men had turned up) or the ladies from the Moulin Rouge, somehow, we all brushed up into gorgeous, glamourous creatures in time for the Not-Wedding.
The Not-Bride and Not-Groom have been together for 10 years. The Not-Wedding was their way of declaring their love, and committing to their partnership. Poems were spoken, and personal words so deep and so from the heart, that everyone including hard-hearted Smokingboot was choking back tears. The party that followed was of course, marvellous, punctuated by Pimms, champagne, fud, much victorian silliness, the absolute best and, er, closest, fireworks I have ever seen, a ceilidh and a disco. The weekend was happy, perfect and full of love, and people are already begging for an anniversary party. May the Not Bride and Not Groom remain in the blessed state of Not-Marriage for a long time! Hmm. Time for Smokingboot to go and cuddle her Beloved Bar!
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