Sorry I haven’t written in so long, but my time has been consumed by going on holiday and, more recently, going to weddings. I’ve been to three on consecutive weekends now; firstly in the glamorous Las Vegas, then in the not so glamorous Horsham and finally in Taunton.
I don’t hate weddings per se, I just hate the effort required to attend them. You can’t just pull on a pair of encrusted, washing basket bottom feeder jeans and rock up half an hour late, well, not if you actually want to attend the nuptials. You must dust of your best/only suit, iron a shirt, pick a tie, clean your shoes, pack said items into a weekend bag along with toiletries and a whole plethora of miscellanea that you don’t really need and hop on some form of public transport at an ungodly hour to ferry you to a train station where you must board a train that you pre-booked two months ago, which you must sit on for an extended period of time before then getting in a taxi, which for an offensive amount of money will drive you 100 yards down the road to you accommodation; unpack miscellaneous items, attach clothes to your person, get another taxi to the wedding venue, mill about with friends and family until you are shepherded into a room to watch the ceremony (This bit is ok because you can sit down). Then comes food and with it the potential to ruin your nice clothes, then there’s booze and more potential to ruin your clothes, followed by dancing, drinking, hugging, smiling, congratulating, drinking, taxiing, sleeping, then awakening with a hangover to complete the process in reverse.
It’s not the ceremony I dislike, it’s the rituals.
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At least you got an invite. You grumpy old git.