I blame Beans' lovely mum primarily, although my sister and my friend Natascha also have to accept their fair share too. I probably would have accepted every drug offered to me during labour and would have been content to lay on my back with my legs in the air to give birth. That's all changed now.
When Beans' mum heard I was pregnant she presented me with a much-thumbed copy of Sheila Kitzinger's The Experience Of Childbirth, apologised for the dated quality of some of its advice but said it had been invaluable in helping her have three children naturally and enjoyably.
"My mother looked at me while we waited in Bournemouth Nursing Home and said pityingly 'she really doesn't know what she's going to go through', but do you know? I was so relaxed! And it was wonderful! I think my mother was quite disappointed," she said.
When I asked my sister for advice on the best way to have babies (let's face it, she's had four, all at home, all without trauma and using nothing stronger as pain-relief than a warm bath and a paracetamol) she promptly said, "Janet Balaskas," and hunted through her book-shelves for New Active Birth, which she failed to find. When I asked Natascha (two children) the question, she gave me the same answer, so I figured this was well-worth following up. My mother kindly bought me Janet's book for a birthday present and I read it avidly.
As a result of Sheila and Janet's influence, I'm now very keen to try and have the baby sans pethidine, epidurals and all the rest and ideally while remaining in a generally upright position, if possible. So I've been doing loads of undignified yoga positions, practising relaxation techniques and rehearsing breathing methods for contractions and earnestly trying to discover if Spanish delivery suites will be open to this hippie earth-mother stuff or if I will have to consider forking out two thousand or so euros for a specialist private clinic just for the privilege of having a baby without being forced into unhelpful and painful positions or subjected to all sorts of unnecessary medical procedures. Of course, if things get complicated or there's any genuine danger to me or my child, I'd let them do anything they wanted to ensure we both got out of the experience in one piece. But I like the idea of getting through the birth process using only my own efforts, if possible. Having said that, I may wimp out and scream for analgesics, despite all the Taylor positions and Sun Salutes I've done. But I'd like to have a go. And I think there's an element of sisterly competition there too. After all, if Becky can do it...
Sunday, 15 November 2009
Friday, 13 November 2009
Português próxima
I've just finished reading Night Train to Lisbon by Pascal Mercier, which I really enjoyed. Essentially a story of a teacher of ancient languages voyage of self-discovery triggered by a chance meeting with an unnamed Portuguese woman it was very enjoyable and thought provoking, putting me in mind of Sophie's World (though without the massive plot twist). The book is littered with quotations and phrases in Portuguese, which I was very pleasantly surprised to find I mostly understood - most of the nouns are similar to their Spanish counterparts, while the verbs and articles follow the same rules as other Romance languages. Pronunciation is the major difference. Anyway, I think I'll make a start learning Portuguese next. When I've finally mastered Spanish of course. So 2020 then.
Actually I'm feeling more and more confident about Spanish. I still litter my conversation with mistakes, but I'm generally understood and I usually understand. As we've been negotiating our unborn child's process through Madrid's health service we've both been called upon to engage with Spanish with a greater frequency than before, while hanging out with some of my former students (who have a lower level of English than our Pueblo Ingles friends) has meant we socialise more and more in the language. We've also been going along to free lessons at International House again - really these are training classes for new Spanish teachers, but the need guinea pigs, so we get them free. We've made some good friends among some of the regular attendees, although why there aren't more people taking advantage of them I don't know; often there's been just 3 of us in a class. Still, it means we get loads of attention.
Actually I'm feeling more and more confident about Spanish. I still litter my conversation with mistakes, but I'm generally understood and I usually understand. As we've been negotiating our unborn child's process through Madrid's health service we've both been called upon to engage with Spanish with a greater frequency than before, while hanging out with some of my former students (who have a lower level of English than our Pueblo Ingles friends) has meant we socialise more and more in the language. We've also been going along to free lessons at International House again - really these are training classes for new Spanish teachers, but the need guinea pigs, so we get them free. We've made some good friends among some of the regular attendees, although why there aren't more people taking advantage of them I don't know; often there's been just 3 of us in a class. Still, it means we get loads of attention.
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
Puente
Any long holiday weekend in Spain is called a puente - literally 'a bridge' - often because if, say, the Thursday is a holiday they make it a bridge to the weekend by taking the Friday off as well. This past Monday was a puente in Madrid, so we felt it was only fitting to visit a famous puente on our way back from Estepona.
Ronda is one of the oldest towns in Spain, with remains in the area going back to the stone age, though it was under the Arabs that it really rose to prominence, a fortified rock in the middle of a high, fertile plateau, ringed by mountains that became a regional capital. Once Spanish control of Andalucia had been firmly in place for a couple of centuries, they decided the old part of town didn't need to be quite so inaccessible, and so the bridge for which Ronda is now chiefly famous was built, a beautiful construction spanning a plummeting gorge. However Ronda was not just a one-trick town. Even the drive there had been worth it, as we wound our way up the mountains of the Sierra behind Marbella which offered stunning views across the Straits of Gibraltar to Morocco, the Atlas Mountains clearly visible. Ronda itself, with its pretty whitewashed houses, doors open to the cobbled streets revealing beautifully tiled vestibules, was a pleasure to walk around and well worth the diversion on our way back to Madrid.
Ronda is one of the oldest towns in Spain, with remains in the area going back to the stone age, though it was under the Arabs that it really rose to prominence, a fortified rock in the middle of a high, fertile plateau, ringed by mountains that became a regional capital. Once Spanish control of Andalucia had been firmly in place for a couple of centuries, they decided the old part of town didn't need to be quite so inaccessible, and so the bridge for which Ronda is now chiefly famous was built, a beautiful construction spanning a plummeting gorge. However Ronda was not just a one-trick town. Even the drive there had been worth it, as we wound our way up the mountains of the Sierra behind Marbella which offered stunning views across the Straits of Gibraltar to Morocco, the Atlas Mountains clearly visible. Ronda itself, with its pretty whitewashed houses, doors open to the cobbled streets revealing beautifully tiled vestibules, was a pleasure to walk around and well worth the diversion on our way back to Madrid.
Monday, 9 November 2009
Return to Eden
We just spent a lovely, relaxing weekend at Patty Pan's Paradise, just outside Estepona on the Costa del Sol. While still on our honeymoon, we had spent a great week there and we'd been itching for the chance to get back down, see the friends we'd made and catch some sea air. The 4-day weekend seemed an ideal time, so we loaded up Delilah and headed off. The drive was pretty easy - a cool 6 hours - though there were some hair-razing moments as the road twisted spectacularly through the mountains towards Jaen. Amazing views for Kate, sweaty palms for Theo! We arrived to a very warm welcome from Patty, who promptly put us up in her (absent) daughter's room - much comfier and warmer than Delilah!
It has suddenly got chilly in Madrid, with coats and jumpers coming out of cupboards, so it was wonderful to wake up to flip-flops and T-shirt weather. Naturally, hitting the beach before lunch was the only sensible option. Only Theo was brave enough to go swimming, though in fairness Kate's still getting over a chesty cough, so the bracing waters probably wouldn't have been a good idea. Funnily enough we had the sunny beach and views of Gibraltar pretty much to ourselves.
That evening Patty cooked a delicious roast, and we were joined by Patty's boyfriend, San Steveo (patron Saint of vans), plus our friends we had met at the Rocket Festival, Andy and Kerine. Our attempts to poison Patty, who has a nut allergy, with various chocolates and a nut roast all failed, so we had to resort to beating her at Scrabble. The evening went on late enough that our vague plans for a daytrip to Cadiz on Sunday faded out of view.
Instead Sunday was another wonderfully chilled day of reading, Scrabble, home-cooked curry and an enjoyable stroll along the beach with Patty, Steve and assorted canines. We left earlier today, clutching gifts from the garden and an awesome travel backgammon set made of coloured cloth, which Patty had brought back from India. Hopefully we'll be back soon, especially as Patty wants to be the Jewish godmother of our as yet unborn child. There is definitely a touch of Maureen Lipman about her...
It has suddenly got chilly in Madrid, with coats and jumpers coming out of cupboards, so it was wonderful to wake up to flip-flops and T-shirt weather. Naturally, hitting the beach before lunch was the only sensible option. Only Theo was brave enough to go swimming, though in fairness Kate's still getting over a chesty cough, so the bracing waters probably wouldn't have been a good idea. Funnily enough we had the sunny beach and views of Gibraltar pretty much to ourselves.
That evening Patty cooked a delicious roast, and we were joined by Patty's boyfriend, San Steveo (patron Saint of vans), plus our friends we had met at the Rocket Festival, Andy and Kerine. Our attempts to poison Patty, who has a nut allergy, with various chocolates and a nut roast all failed, so we had to resort to beating her at Scrabble. The evening went on late enough that our vague plans for a daytrip to Cadiz on Sunday faded out of view.
Instead Sunday was another wonderfully chilled day of reading, Scrabble, home-cooked curry and an enjoyable stroll along the beach with Patty, Steve and assorted canines. We left earlier today, clutching gifts from the garden and an awesome travel backgammon set made of coloured cloth, which Patty had brought back from India. Hopefully we'll be back soon, especially as Patty wants to be the Jewish godmother of our as yet unborn child. There is definitely a touch of Maureen Lipman about her...
Friday, 6 November 2009
The Internal View by Kate
Almost five weeks late, Fosbella foetus finally got her second proper scan. Actually, it's her fourth, if you count the ultra-sound part of the amniocentesis test and the quick check our local obstetrician gave her since we first saw her picture.
This time we had to take the train to yet another hospital in Madrid (Ramon y Cajal) where we had been told (the day before) we had a ten o'clock appointment. As it turned out, so did about twelve other people so, in fact it was another hour and a half later that we finally got ushered in to see the radiographer.
Once more, my belly was slathered with cold lubricating gel and the scanner was slid and pushed against various parts of my abdomen while Theo (with the best seat in the house again) got a variety of views and cross-sections of our fast-developing offspring.
"Lively, isn't she?" commented the radiographer (my translation) in a mixture of admiration and exasperation as our progeny wriggled and squirmed and resisted all attempts to capture her best side.
After about fifteen minutes, the radiographer gave a satisfied nod and told us everything was fine. She then gave us a tour of various cross-sections through Fosbella's bits and pieces, which all appear to be present and correct at this stage. The one thing I didn't get to see was a full head and body view, or even a sense of her face, which was a disappointment, although I did see inside her nostrils, which was something I suppose.
Any hope that the stills taken by the radiographer would offer some sort of clue as to Fosbella's external features were also in vain, although the inside view of her spine is pretty impressive. Theo, who did get a quick glimpse of her face assures me she has my nose (I'm not entirely convinced that's a good thing), although he also says she bears a striking resemblance to Skeletor. At least her internal organs all seem to be aesthetically arranged. True beauty, after all, is on the inside.
This time we had to take the train to yet another hospital in Madrid (Ramon y Cajal) where we had been told (the day before) we had a ten o'clock appointment. As it turned out, so did about twelve other people so, in fact it was another hour and a half later that we finally got ushered in to see the radiographer.
Once more, my belly was slathered with cold lubricating gel and the scanner was slid and pushed against various parts of my abdomen while Theo (with the best seat in the house again) got a variety of views and cross-sections of our fast-developing offspring.
"Lively, isn't she?" commented the radiographer (my translation) in a mixture of admiration and exasperation as our progeny wriggled and squirmed and resisted all attempts to capture her best side.
After about fifteen minutes, the radiographer gave a satisfied nod and told us everything was fine. She then gave us a tour of various cross-sections through Fosbella's bits and pieces, which all appear to be present and correct at this stage. The one thing I didn't get to see was a full head and body view, or even a sense of her face, which was a disappointment, although I did see inside her nostrils, which was something I suppose.
Any hope that the stills taken by the radiographer would offer some sort of clue as to Fosbella's external features were also in vain, although the inside view of her spine is pretty impressive. Theo, who did get a quick glimpse of her face assures me she has my nose (I'm not entirely convinced that's a good thing), although he also says she bears a striking resemblance to Skeletor. At least her internal organs all seem to be aesthetically arranged. True beauty, after all, is on the inside.
Thursday, 5 November 2009
Wedding Cake
Our lovely friend S recently asked us to write a testimonial about the sumptuous wedding cake she made for us. As we haven´t had all that much to blog about lately I thought I´d stick what I´d written up here. So here we go:
Our cake was important. More than that, it was beautiful, delicious, special and so very us. Our favourite flavours, chocolate, ginger and fruit, were layered artfully on top of each other in stunning colours - bright, cheerful and joyous, with a subtle homage to Bristol Rovers! The gorgeous hand-made fascinater that topped-off the cake was later transferred to our honeymoon vessel to supply a constant reminder of the wonder of our special day. The cake, and its decor, was a perfect reflection of us. Not ones to be traditional about things - the bride didn't wear white and Nina Simone replaced Offenbach - the towering, delicious artifice reflected the festival feel of our boda, in both its conception and realisation. It looked stunning, laid out in the entrance hall as it collected congratulations cards around it, never diminishing in its impact and continuing to attract heartfelt comments and hungry eyes, even as the tables around it began to groan with the culinary contributions other guests had brought. Asymmetrical and delicately balanced, but laced with colour, passion and love, the cake seemed to reflect the reality of marriage - a difficult balancing act that can bring forth great beauty and happiness when worked at. If we put half as much work - and love - as S did into making our cake then we're going to be more than just fine; our marriage will be full of flavour and colour.
The cake is one of the highlights of any wedding. Along with the vows, the exchange of rings, the procession, the speeches, and the first dance, cutting the cake is one of the standards of modern western weddings. No matter how out-there and avant garde your nuptials or traditional your marriage ceremony, it's going to feature in some way as a means of including and sharing the ceremony with your guests. The couple cut the cake and pieces are shared out among their loved ones; it's a beautiful, inclusive and poignant moment. It's a way of saying, in an echo of the eucharist, “take, eat; we wouldn't be here without you; you've given us gifts both emotional and physical and you've helped us make this marriage; help us keep it.” The cake is important.
Our cake was important. More than that, it was beautiful, delicious, special and so very us. Our favourite flavours, chocolate, ginger and fruit, were layered artfully on top of each other in stunning colours - bright, cheerful and joyous, with a subtle homage to Bristol Rovers! The gorgeous hand-made fascinater that topped-off the cake was later transferred to our honeymoon vessel to supply a constant reminder of the wonder of our special day. The cake, and its decor, was a perfect reflection of us. Not ones to be traditional about things - the bride didn't wear white and Nina Simone replaced Offenbach - the towering, delicious artifice reflected the festival feel of our boda, in both its conception and realisation. It looked stunning, laid out in the entrance hall as it collected congratulations cards around it, never diminishing in its impact and continuing to attract heartfelt comments and hungry eyes, even as the tables around it began to groan with the culinary contributions other guests had brought. Asymmetrical and delicately balanced, but laced with colour, passion and love, the cake seemed to reflect the reality of marriage - a difficult balancing act that can bring forth great beauty and happiness when worked at. If we put half as much work - and love - as S did into making our cake then we're going to be more than just fine; our marriage will be full of flavour and colour.
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
Poked, Prodded and Spiked by Kate
The Spanish ante-natal system has now clutched me to its starchy white-clad bosom and my overriding feeling is that it's a good job I'm the one carrying the baby and not Theo. I'll come back to that in a moment.
Our first appointment with the obstetrician in our local clinic was best characterised as perfunctory. No leisurely hour-long chats with a friendly midwife here - at least, not yet. We were given a list of matronas and we assume we choose one, but we're still a tad confused about that part. Anyway, with minimum hanging around we were ushered into the consulting room where the obstetrician and nurse worked as a team. While the obstetrician asked questions and took notes, the nurse busied herself taking my blood pressure, weighing me, then ushering me round a screen and motioning me to bare my midriff. Once I had done this, the obstetrician came in, slapped on a load of cold gel and proceeded to scan me with breath-taking efficiency. Theo hovered at the back and managed to get a glimpse of our unborn daughter, but I wasn't so lucky. After less than a minute, the obstetrician nodded and gave me the briefest half-smile (she was far too business-like for a full rictus), said “Todo bien” (“Everything fine”) and handed me a tissue to mop the gel off my tummy. Apparently we would have to wait another three weeks for a full scan before we could take a proper a look at what was in there. When I asked Theo how she was looking, he replied, “A bit fat,” which was slightly worrying. Maybe I should cut down on the chocolate biscuits.
A few minutes later we were dismissed with a sheaf of forms, a pregnancy advice booklet and strict instructions to go to the medical centre at San Blas the next morning before nine with a urine sample and absolutely no breakfast (me - Theo was excused that part).
When we arrived at a quarter to nine prompt, we found the waiting room choc-a-bloc with a numbering system policed by a dour looking male nurse who periodically barked out the next five numbers and shooed their owners through a door. We never saw any of the patients come out again, which was slightly worrying. As an “embarazada” (pregnant woman) I was excused the queueing system and was instead told to wait until I was called. While perching on a moulded plastic chair I noted a number of other women with assorted tummy bumps and urine sample-shaped pots wrapped in various bags or bits of foil. Clearly I wasn't the only embarazada at this party.
“Embarazadas!” called out the dour nurse and about twelve of us heaved ourselves out of our chairs and crowded round the door. The nurse herded us into an ante-room where another medic gave us a brief lecture about what we could expect. From what I could understand we would be subjected to various tests, the last of which assessed us for possible diabetes and involved a wait of an hour and an absolute prohibition on eating or drinking anything except water. We were each given a sheet of numbered labels and bidden to queue up at the reception desk in another room full of tables with white-suited medics waiting expectantly behind them. While we waited our turn, the dour nurse abruptly changed demeanour and started cracking jokes, which I smiled at dutifully, despite a total lack of understanding of the punchlines.
When my turn came, an orderly took my urine sample and stuck my stickers on a bewildering variety of colour-coded vacuettes, handing them to me and motioning me to one of the waiting nurses. I sat down and watched in growing amazement as she rapidly took one blood sample after another out of my torniqueted left arm. I counted twelve. When she had finished, she wound on a compress and sent me back to the ante room where I waited, feeling the teeniest bit faint from lack of blood and exchanging glances with the other embarazadas, who were also looking slightly shell-shocked by the experience.
Once we were all assembled, another nurse came in and started handing out plastic bottles full of a suspicious-looking orange liquid. This we were instructed to drink - all of it - and then return to the waiting room. It tasted like a fizzy vitamin drink, only twice as sweet. Spanish people have quite a sweet tooth, but most of the other embarazadas grimaced a bit as the full sugary force of the glucose drink hit their taste-buds. Obediently, we all swallowed the bottles' contents and were released back to the moulded plastic chairs.
Throughout, Theo had been waiting patiently for me having foregone breakfast in a gesture of solidarity. It was a good job he hadn't been invited into the sampling room as I dread to think what effect a room full of medical blood-letting would have had on him. He was also astonished at the amount of blood taken and wondered aloud whether the medical centre was actually a front for a local detachment of vampires. We settled down with some marking to pass the time.
When the hour was up, there was another call for embarazadas and we all trooped back into the testing room. Numbers were called out and as ours came up we were sent to another of the tables and ordered to bare an arm - the other one this time. Thankfully, we only had to give a single sample and I was jabbed, blotted, told to go home and have breakfast, then sent packing again in the space of about ninety seconds. By now feeling somewhat light-headed from a combination of blood-loss and hunger, I gratefully returned to my dutiful husband and we did exactly as I had been told.
So that's that, for another few weeks. We've been informed we'll be notified about my next appointments by post or telephone and in the meantime, we aim to do a bit of research about the business of finding a midwife and choosing a hospital for delivery. On the language front, I'm pleased with myself at having managed a bit of pregnancy chat with some of the other embarazadas, including how far along we were and who was having a girl or boy - or twins in one case - and possible names. It made me feel like a little less of an outsider. Language barrier and unfamiliar systems aside, we are all in the Bump Club.
Our first appointment with the obstetrician in our local clinic was best characterised as perfunctory. No leisurely hour-long chats with a friendly midwife here - at least, not yet. We were given a list of matronas and we assume we choose one, but we're still a tad confused about that part. Anyway, with minimum hanging around we were ushered into the consulting room where the obstetrician and nurse worked as a team. While the obstetrician asked questions and took notes, the nurse busied herself taking my blood pressure, weighing me, then ushering me round a screen and motioning me to bare my midriff. Once I had done this, the obstetrician came in, slapped on a load of cold gel and proceeded to scan me with breath-taking efficiency. Theo hovered at the back and managed to get a glimpse of our unborn daughter, but I wasn't so lucky. After less than a minute, the obstetrician nodded and gave me the briefest half-smile (she was far too business-like for a full rictus), said “Todo bien” (“Everything fine”) and handed me a tissue to mop the gel off my tummy. Apparently we would have to wait another three weeks for a full scan before we could take a proper a look at what was in there. When I asked Theo how she was looking, he replied, “A bit fat,” which was slightly worrying. Maybe I should cut down on the chocolate biscuits.
A few minutes later we were dismissed with a sheaf of forms, a pregnancy advice booklet and strict instructions to go to the medical centre at San Blas the next morning before nine with a urine sample and absolutely no breakfast (me - Theo was excused that part).
When we arrived at a quarter to nine prompt, we found the waiting room choc-a-bloc with a numbering system policed by a dour looking male nurse who periodically barked out the next five numbers and shooed their owners through a door. We never saw any of the patients come out again, which was slightly worrying. As an “embarazada” (pregnant woman) I was excused the queueing system and was instead told to wait until I was called. While perching on a moulded plastic chair I noted a number of other women with assorted tummy bumps and urine sample-shaped pots wrapped in various bags or bits of foil. Clearly I wasn't the only embarazada at this party.
“Embarazadas!” called out the dour nurse and about twelve of us heaved ourselves out of our chairs and crowded round the door. The nurse herded us into an ante-room where another medic gave us a brief lecture about what we could expect. From what I could understand we would be subjected to various tests, the last of which assessed us for possible diabetes and involved a wait of an hour and an absolute prohibition on eating or drinking anything except water. We were each given a sheet of numbered labels and bidden to queue up at the reception desk in another room full of tables with white-suited medics waiting expectantly behind them. While we waited our turn, the dour nurse abruptly changed demeanour and started cracking jokes, which I smiled at dutifully, despite a total lack of understanding of the punchlines.
When my turn came, an orderly took my urine sample and stuck my stickers on a bewildering variety of colour-coded vacuettes, handing them to me and motioning me to one of the waiting nurses. I sat down and watched in growing amazement as she rapidly took one blood sample after another out of my torniqueted left arm. I counted twelve. When she had finished, she wound on a compress and sent me back to the ante room where I waited, feeling the teeniest bit faint from lack of blood and exchanging glances with the other embarazadas, who were also looking slightly shell-shocked by the experience.
Once we were all assembled, another nurse came in and started handing out plastic bottles full of a suspicious-looking orange liquid. This we were instructed to drink - all of it - and then return to the waiting room. It tasted like a fizzy vitamin drink, only twice as sweet. Spanish people have quite a sweet tooth, but most of the other embarazadas grimaced a bit as the full sugary force of the glucose drink hit their taste-buds. Obediently, we all swallowed the bottles' contents and were released back to the moulded plastic chairs.
Throughout, Theo had been waiting patiently for me having foregone breakfast in a gesture of solidarity. It was a good job he hadn't been invited into the sampling room as I dread to think what effect a room full of medical blood-letting would have had on him. He was also astonished at the amount of blood taken and wondered aloud whether the medical centre was actually a front for a local detachment of vampires. We settled down with some marking to pass the time.
When the hour was up, there was another call for embarazadas and we all trooped back into the testing room. Numbers were called out and as ours came up we were sent to another of the tables and ordered to bare an arm - the other one this time. Thankfully, we only had to give a single sample and I was jabbed, blotted, told to go home and have breakfast, then sent packing again in the space of about ninety seconds. By now feeling somewhat light-headed from a combination of blood-loss and hunger, I gratefully returned to my dutiful husband and we did exactly as I had been told.
So that's that, for another few weeks. We've been informed we'll be notified about my next appointments by post or telephone and in the meantime, we aim to do a bit of research about the business of finding a midwife and choosing a hospital for delivery. On the language front, I'm pleased with myself at having managed a bit of pregnancy chat with some of the other embarazadas, including how far along we were and who was having a girl or boy - or twins in one case - and possible names. It made me feel like a little less of an outsider. Language barrier and unfamiliar systems aside, we are all in the Bump Club.
Thursday, 29 October 2009
Sam and Stu´s wedding
The modern world is quite amazing. Friday evening we set off on this crazy metal tube 20 metres underground, that hurtled across Madrid and deposited us at Barajas airport. Then, with Kate clutching her little bottle of Valium, we climbed into another metal tube thing which whisked us up into the sky at 500 miles per hour back to Bristol for the weekend and the wedding of our good friends Samantha and Stuart. It's amazing what you can do these days!!
As the soon to be wed couple had met and befriended my sister Hermione and her betrothed Richard at Kate and I's stag and hen dos, we were going to have company at the wedding and the comforts of their hospitality over the weekend. Richard was meant to be chauffeuring the bride to the ceremony and the freshly married couple afterwards in his newly valetted BMW (Valerie). However, Stu had managed to flood the engine the night before and the AA went to the wrong address, so Sam was slightly surprised to have a hired Merecedes and driver turn up instead.
Still all was more than well. It was a lovely wedding, full of tears and laughter. A civil ceremony at the Bristol registry office, which brought back floods of memories for Kate and I, and then a short bus ride to the beautiful Circomedia building in St Paul´s square. (We felt slightly sheepish at this – Kate and I had just left people to make their own way to the reception!) My sister Hermione´s fingerprints where everywhere, from the bridal jewellery to the floral arrangements, and she and Richard got a special, tearful thankyou from the bride and groom. We ate, danced, chatted, blew bubbles, drank absolutely nothing (Kate´s pregnant and I was on antibiotics) and, best of all, played air guitar! A lovely weekend!
As the soon to be wed couple had met and befriended my sister Hermione and her betrothed Richard at Kate and I's stag and hen dos, we were going to have company at the wedding and the comforts of their hospitality over the weekend. Richard was meant to be chauffeuring the bride to the ceremony and the freshly married couple afterwards in his newly valetted BMW (Valerie). However, Stu had managed to flood the engine the night before and the AA went to the wrong address, so Sam was slightly surprised to have a hired Merecedes and driver turn up instead.
Still all was more than well. It was a lovely wedding, full of tears and laughter. A civil ceremony at the Bristol registry office, which brought back floods of memories for Kate and I, and then a short bus ride to the beautiful Circomedia building in St Paul´s square. (We felt slightly sheepish at this – Kate and I had just left people to make their own way to the reception!) My sister Hermione´s fingerprints where everywhere, from the bridal jewellery to the floral arrangements, and she and Richard got a special, tearful thankyou from the bride and groom. We ate, danced, chatted, blew bubbles, drank absolutely nothing (Kate´s pregnant and I was on antibiotics) and, best of all, played air guitar! A lovely weekend!
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