White Wedding

The dress code, as some of you will know, was ‘Dress to Kill’.  I received much-welcomed advice, ranging from ‘full fig’, via ‘SAS uniform’, to ‘green loon pants and tie-dye T shirt’ – thank you all!  But in the end I decided my upstaging days were over, and settled for L’s advice: dark suit, blue shirt, polka-dot tie (white on darker blue as it turned out).  Boring; but most of the men of my generation went for white shirt and paisley tie, so I was actually quite outragous.  (And you haven’t seen my belt!)  There were in fact two kilts, both on men; I wondered, given the code, whether this was some kind of Scots Nat statement about Bannockburn.  They looked good on the dancefloor though.

I’d set out for Buxton about one o’clock on Saturday.  (The wedding, by the way, was on Sunday, the bride’s family being Jewish.)  Snow started around the M42, and was pretty significant once I turned off the M6 for Congleton and the A54 across the Peaks to Buxton.  This was once voted the most dangerous road in England.  It certainly looked that way on Saturday.  Apprehensive doesn’t begin to say it.  BMWs are not famed for their prowess in these conditions.  But the new ‘winter tyres’ proved their worth –  I found myself overtaking wheel-spinners up hills – so a heartfelt thanks to BMW for their brilliant £1,200 correction of their own design flaw!  It was five inches deep by the time I got there.

That evening, a few of us dined at a Thai round the corner from the hotel.  Most Thai restaurants rightly pride themselves on their presentational skills, a meal being to them an aesthetic as well a culinary experience.  But they were completely upstaged by the vehicular cabaret taking place on the street outside, the high spot being a bus, at the third attempt, succeeding in skidding into the bollards lining the pavement.  We were concerned about R and S, whose Jag had conked out on that same road I had managed to transverse three hours earlier.  There’s another story there, which I’ll probably tell in the future; for now, suffice to say they made it in the end.

I won’t say too much about the actual wedding, because all weddings are alike whilst being uniquely different.  Also because this isn’t The Tatler (not that I know what a Tatler is).  It was in the hotel where I was staying.  They got married, beautifully; there was champagne (well, Prosecco actually) by the gallon; there were speeches, ranging from long and funny to short and, er, funny; delicious food, free bar, disco (my dancing days may be dwindling, or my ‘Get fit, Tim!’ days approaching); and an after-hours pay bar which went on a lot longer than I did.

Heroism In The Face Of Adversity Spot: I banged my wrist against something on Sunday morning after breakfast, resulting in a small wound which was bleeding, so I went to Reception to ask if they had a plaster.  The nice lady explained that they did, but weren’t allowed to give them out to guests (‘Health and Safety – you might be allergic to them’ – oh yes, that’s why I asked for one), but heroically gave me one anyway.