Long travels
Oct. 10th, 2005 10:49 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smokingbootWell, that could have been a lot worse.
Friday night saw us celebrating the 25th anniversary ofcyanidemigraine's presence on the planet; glinting dangerously, whirling with chopsticks, he took us to a very nice dim sum restaurant. It was a real bummer not to be able to join the others afterwards at Jilly's but we had to go home, because next morning, we had to travel 4 and a half hours down to East Anglia for a wedding.
Disgruntled by so much effort for people I barely know, I found myself concocting the Wedding of Spite, the wedding designed to cause as much inconvenience and difficulty as possible.
First, the venue has to be miles away from anywhere and preferably inaccessible; the Cullen Hills on Skye - get there by boat or don't get there. The ceremony will be conducted by Lemmy, the wedding march will be Ace of Spades, skillfully mixed with Carmina Burana, my bridesmaids will be two black cats (must be a couple round here somewhere) guests will be given masks of crows and dragons and owls(For I am a sister to dragons and a companion to owls. And I like crows) said guests will be seated, not in pews, but in coffins which are then loosely buried, with the instruction that the moment you hear the opening riff, you slam your coffin lid open, burst out and dance like loons. Bowls of interesting substances will be available at the doors of the ruined castle in which this takes place. There will also be alcohol. Food is fish and chips wrapped in specially printed newspaper, detailing blackmail material about bride, groom and guests. Vinegar will be spiked. Venison may come later if some guests can assume lycanthropic form and go find their own, or we will just pick a guest and give them a twenty minute start (actually ten, but we won't tell them that) before the hunt begins.
Or we could just send out invitations and not turn up.
Anyway, onto the real wedding.
Despite the good roads, we turned up with one single minute to spare. The bride wore ivory material, corset top, A-line skirt (stop me if you've come across this before) Jennifer Anniston straight bits of fringe down one side with hair scooped up in 1950's bathing cap coils at the back, lemon cheesecake bridesmaids and one hefty mousse, pale yellow and salmon roses and sunbed tans all round. It was truly death by a thousand pastels.
The vicar was very cool, and so was the party afterwards; my ungracious mood had to give way before such excellent company and - unheard of phenomenon - a very good cover band. We had a great night.
The next day we were up horribly early, to join some chums in Norwich who had kindly invited us sailing on the Norfolk broads.
What a wonderful day this turned into! I have never been sailing before; It was strange, watching what seemed to be mobile wigwams drifting through the reeds. You could see windmills old and new everywhere. Windmills without sails look like giant daleks on the horizon; a bit bald and sad. Sails make them seem alive. I am more visual than aural (listening gets me into a lot more trouble than talking) but this was all about sound; there is a magic in the creak and flutter of sails, and I wish I knew a word to describe the musical movement of water around the boat. Overhead, great v-shapes of migrating geese quarrelled their way across the sky. We sailed, had lunch at a pub where we met Harry (probably got an lj, but I don't know) and Manda, we talked and ate, and we made our way back.
The return was marked by incident.
Out on the mere, it felt wonderful. Captain Rupert sans lj, beaming as the boat tilted(listed?) and water swarmed up our arses, racing through the waves (no, really through those waves) told us 'this is sailing.' We were so happy.larians eyes were shining; I haven't seen him sparkle this way for ages. We turned our way down Hinckly(?)Sound and into the wind. Then we ran aground.
Our companions on the good ship Walnut came over to rescue us. They ran aground too. No amount of oar shoving could get us out, so our valiant captain stripped off and dived into the water, pushing each boat up and back. Apparently he was standing on the remains of a wreck down there. Seeing him loom, bare-chested, over the prow, was all a bit Clash of the Titans*. Harryhausen would have been proud. We made off again, and couldn't catch a gust of wind. Feeling less mortified on seeing the Walnut concede defeat against the same problems, the gentlemen took up oars.
May I just say that there are few things more charming to watch than intelligent erudite attractive men working their nads off in the sunshine? I could have gazed at them all day, preferably to the sounds of a drum beating and a bejewelled nubian cracking a whip at them saying, 'Faster you dogs! The queen commands it!' while I am fed chocolates by various pretty slaves. Just a thought. Anyway, my job was to steer, and eventually, I was OK at it. This would not be an achievement for anyone else, but as I have no other aptitude for sailing (apart from enthusiasm) I've decided to be proud of this.
The drive home was long, but last night we slept well. Great friends, sunshine, adventure, food and fun...suddenly life feels good again.
*maybe I mean Jason and the Argonauts; whatever, you get the idea.
Friday night saw us celebrating the 25th anniversary of
cyanidemigraine's presence on the planet; glinting dangerously, whirling with chopsticks, he took us to a very nice dim sum restaurant. It was a real bummer not to be able to join the others afterwards at Jilly's but we had to go home, because next morning, we had to travel 4 and a half hours down to East Anglia for a wedding.Disgruntled by so much effort for people I barely know, I found myself concocting the Wedding of Spite, the wedding designed to cause as much inconvenience and difficulty as possible.
First, the venue has to be miles away from anywhere and preferably inaccessible; the Cullen Hills on Skye - get there by boat or don't get there. The ceremony will be conducted by Lemmy, the wedding march will be Ace of Spades, skillfully mixed with Carmina Burana, my bridesmaids will be two black cats (must be a couple round here somewhere) guests will be given masks of crows and dragons and owls(For I am a sister to dragons and a companion to owls. And I like crows) said guests will be seated, not in pews, but in coffins which are then loosely buried, with the instruction that the moment you hear the opening riff, you slam your coffin lid open, burst out and dance like loons. Bowls of interesting substances will be available at the doors of the ruined castle in which this takes place. There will also be alcohol. Food is fish and chips wrapped in specially printed newspaper, detailing blackmail material about bride, groom and guests. Vinegar will be spiked. Venison may come later if some guests can assume lycanthropic form and go find their own, or we will just pick a guest and give them a twenty minute start (actually ten, but we won't tell them that) before the hunt begins.
Or we could just send out invitations and not turn up.
Anyway, onto the real wedding.
Despite the good roads, we turned up with one single minute to spare. The bride wore ivory material, corset top, A-line skirt (stop me if you've come across this before) Jennifer Anniston straight bits of fringe down one side with hair scooped up in 1950's bathing cap coils at the back, lemon cheesecake bridesmaids and one hefty mousse, pale yellow and salmon roses and sunbed tans all round. It was truly death by a thousand pastels.
The vicar was very cool, and so was the party afterwards; my ungracious mood had to give way before such excellent company and - unheard of phenomenon - a very good cover band. We had a great night.
The next day we were up horribly early, to join some chums in Norwich who had kindly invited us sailing on the Norfolk broads.
What a wonderful day this turned into! I have never been sailing before; It was strange, watching what seemed to be mobile wigwams drifting through the reeds. You could see windmills old and new everywhere. Windmills without sails look like giant daleks on the horizon; a bit bald and sad. Sails make them seem alive. I am more visual than aural (listening gets me into a lot more trouble than talking) but this was all about sound; there is a magic in the creak and flutter of sails, and I wish I knew a word to describe the musical movement of water around the boat. Overhead, great v-shapes of migrating geese quarrelled their way across the sky. We sailed, had lunch at a pub where we met Harry (probably got an lj, but I don't know) and Manda, we talked and ate, and we made our way back.
The return was marked by incident.
Out on the mere, it felt wonderful. Captain Rupert sans lj, beaming as the boat tilted(listed?) and water swarmed up our arses, racing through the waves (no, really through those waves) told us 'this is sailing.' We were so happy.
larians eyes were shining; I haven't seen him sparkle this way for ages. We turned our way down Hinckly(?)Sound and into the wind. Then we ran aground.Our companions on the good ship Walnut came over to rescue us. They ran aground too. No amount of oar shoving could get us out, so our valiant captain stripped off and dived into the water, pushing each boat up and back. Apparently he was standing on the remains of a wreck down there. Seeing him loom, bare-chested, over the prow, was all a bit Clash of the Titans*. Harryhausen would have been proud. We made off again, and couldn't catch a gust of wind. Feeling less mortified on seeing the Walnut concede defeat against the same problems, the gentlemen took up oars.
May I just say that there are few things more charming to watch than intelligent erudite attractive men working their nads off in the sunshine? I could have gazed at them all day, preferably to the sounds of a drum beating and a bejewelled nubian cracking a whip at them saying, 'Faster you dogs! The queen commands it!' while I am fed chocolates by various pretty slaves. Just a thought. Anyway, my job was to steer, and eventually, I was OK at it. This would not be an achievement for anyone else, but as I have no other aptitude for sailing (apart from enthusiasm) I've decided to be proud of this.
The drive home was long, but last night we slept well. Great friends, sunshine, adventure, food and fun...suddenly life feels good again.
*maybe I mean Jason and the Argonauts; whatever, you get the idea.
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lj world gets smaller and smaller...
Date: 2005-10-10 01:53 pm (UTC)