I do, I do, I do, I do, I do, I do

I've talked before of the wedding circus mafia and the arseholery that goes on, but there is also a very bright side to the nonsense. Being a guest. Sadly the wedding 'party' themselves often get too wrapped up in the photocalls, speech nerves and potential family feuds to actually remember to enjoy the day, but as a guest; no public speaking, no months (or years) of organising, no weeping wallet, just the bubbles and the dancing.

There is a little preparation involved, granted, but it never fails to amuse me how quickly the wedding visage crumbles. The hours, and sometimes days, we spend making sure we look as good as we possibly can (for some that's just about presentable, but all I can do is work with the ginger raw materials I was given) only for it all to be destroyed in a matter of hours.

We find ourselves on the dance floor in our bare feet, the shoes so carefully matched to the dress abandoned under a table, with a tie around our head and our dignity whimpering beneath an avalanche of Michael Jackson/Mick Jagger/Pigeon inspired dance 'moves'. Oh yes - we've got the moves like Jagger. The makeup, hair dos and manicures are long forgotten as we swing our sweaty mane in time with the 80s power ballads.

In addition to revisiting my rock star (*ahem*) youth, I tend to unearth a worrying passion for interpretive dance after a few dry sherries. My Kate Bush impressions are 'inspiring', so I've been told (look out for me on got to dance next year; I'll be the one who inspires the phrase 'would her family not tell her...?')

There is a delightfully unhinged quality that is unique to a wedding dance floor. Maybe it’s because it’s such a happy occasion, or that some of the guests don’t get out much, or perhaps it’s the unique mix of ‘performers’; where else do you get to share the floor with an 80 and an eight year old?

On a more serious note, I must issue a word of warning to wedding bands/DJs. If you will play Tiffany and Footloose back-to-back, be prepared with a crash cart/ambulance on standby. Some of us are not as young as we used to be, but we can’t seem to stop ourselves.

From this...

..to this...

...to Kiss.

Small People V Sleep

 'When are you getting a baby?' my 6 year old niece asked recently. (I suspect she may be in training to be a nosey b@$t@rd…) But she's a little young to hear about the horrors of pregnancy, childbirth and child rearing, so I used a trusty 'I don’t know' in response. If it was as easy as getting a baby, from the shop, like you would a pint of milk or a nice new handbag, I might consider it, but I know too much. FAR too much. Thank you friends, family and far-too-intimate TV for sharing.

Don’t get me wrong. It's not that I don’t like small and miniature people, they can be great fun altogether when you know you can hand them back to their sleep-deprived parents at the end of the afternoon and skip off to the pub.

Therein lies the rub. I like children, but I like some other things more. These things include, but are not exclusive to, sleep, the occasional 5 minutes of quiet and TV that does not feature Barbie and/or Barney and/or 'bonkers' presenters (you know them - the 'I'm mad me!' types). And there are other things I do not need to experience directly to know I would not like one little bit. These things include, but are not exclusive to, cracked nipples, tearing (down there!) and projectile vomiting.   

'But it's all worth it!' they tell me, at the end of another story about getting covered in poo, with a smile that doesn't extend to their hollow, exhausted eyes. I'm not really sure if it's me they're trying to convince or themselves.

I know I risk sounding like a self-centred cow, but rest assured it's not purely selfish reasons that keep me from boarding the broody express; I am also thinking of the children. ('Will no-one think of the children?!' I cry…) Sleep deprivation and copious amounts of hormones would not a loving, nurturing ginger make.

Me + hormones - sleep = THIS.

 A womb, an egg and a few good swimmers may be all it takes to make a baby*, but it takes a hell of a lot more to make a mother (as the girls on 16 and pregnant so ably demonstrate).

*According to some of the nuns at my old school simply sitting on a boys lap is enough to get you 'in the family way'. Unless, of course, you place a telephone directory on said boy's lap first; if, for instance, you have to sit on his lap for a play or suchlike. Sound contraceptive advice from the Catholic Church there. And there are more pearls of wisdom where that came from... Ladies please take note - this is important - you should exercise extreme caution when wearing patent shoes with a skirt. Boys can and will see your knickers in the shine. You have been warned.

Sage advice AND stylish head wear. Is there no end to their talents?

Why use two words when one ridiculous one will do?

I like words, and I’m all for us making up new ones, especially sweary ones (like twazzcocks – excellent word) but things are going a bit too far of late. Our propensity for portmanteau is positively plague-like (try to say that without spitting...) And has anyone noticed it tends to describe very unpleasant things? Smog (ick), tweenagers (those 8-year-old girls with belly tops and high heels on. Yes – them.) and Spedi (utter twazzcocks the two of them).

‘But fusion is a good thing!’ I hear you cry, ‘If it wasn’t for the fusion of nuclei we wouldn’t have stars!’ You are right, of course (and a very clever lot if I may say so. I failed Physics at school. To be fair I might have had a shot had I not chosen to write a letter to the examiner rather than answer the questions on the paper. But I felt it would be nice to brighten his/her day with a cheery hello amongst all the dull formulae and experiments they’d be forced to read about. Anyway, I digress…)

We’ve had plenty of fair warning that, when we start mucking about with it, fusion can go horribly wrong. Never mind nuclear bombs, when trousers and skirts were merged in the 80 to form culottes I think we all agreed it was a very bad idea, did we not? The polka dot ones I got for my confirmation were certainly a huge mistake. As was the perm, but that’s another story, and no, you can't see a picture.

Sadly the fashion world has not taken note of this grievous error. They have carried on regardless with their jeggings and their snoods and their (*retch*) meggings. Meggings. I ask you. It sounds like something you’d need a powerful cream, or a dose of antibiotics, for. ‘I’ve got meggings’ you’d whisper to your friends, eyes cast downwards in shame, and they’d back slowly away from you with a look of both sympathy and disgust (symgust even?)

It must stop. And so must I. Must get ready for brunch.