In the week that celebrates the 20th anniversary of Four Weddings and a Funeral, I find myself faced with the same dilemma so many women have on the starting line of 'The Wedding Season.' Luckily, I only have one such invitation hanging over me like the Sword of Damocles and so I resolved to deal with it in the time honoured fashion; that I would spend an entire weekend shopping and if I hadn't secured anything to wear by Sunday evening, I'd wear a bin bag with stilettos and a flash handbag. Little did I know how many of my words I'd be required to eat.
Preparing myself for the mammoth shopping spree in Nottingham*, I had to endure a few hours in The Bunker filing medical records with the bride to be, the Rota Witch. Hiding in the racking, I heard the Andrex Puppy arrive and start a conversation regarding some contracted hours going spare every Friday night which she wants to tack on to some poor sod's weekly grind, i.e. mine. She spoke thus,
"Well I know it's going to be difficult to fill because Fridays always are but we want someone who wouldn't mind adding another three hours to their working day." Insert ominous pause here.
"Perhaps we could add it on to Raven's day after she's done eight hours as a medical secretary?" I'm in the room remember. "I'm sure she wouldn't mind doing eleven hours every Friday." To stop myself screaming, I was gnawing the corner of a medical record and will apologise to the patient some other time. In her head, it's all agreed and when that job's advertised and someone asks what I think, I hope they won't be offended by my polite rebuttal of "Over my rotting corpse!"
Next day, I skipped off the train and headed for the shops with a credit-card induced spring in my step, only to find the first of two major retail cathedrals boarded up; more importantly T K Maxx had vanished and the legend that was The Broadmarsh Centre looked like a war zone. Undaunted, I followed the signs and found the new, massively improved branch of the US giant whose basement housed several thousands of frocks of every size, colour and fabric; surely one would fit? That Saturday morning, I tried on thirty dresses and yes, one fit me perfectly. A little black Ronnie Nicole number with gold sequins on the shoulders, an underneath layer that could squeeze the life out of a Gloucestershire Old Spot and when held up to the light it had a rip down the front. The pink version in the same size didn't fit anywhere it touched and made me look like a condom with earrings. Several hours and another retail cathedral later, I finally struggled onto the train home with some marmalade and new icing bag from Lakeland.
Stupidly, I decided I had enough energy left to try a different branch of T K Maxx, just in case they had a non-damaged LBD. Yes, I know I've foresworn the wearing of black but in the absence of anything red, I had little choice and so took another ten frocks into the fitting rooms and am now a desperate bird. It was hot, noisy and whiffy, unlike Nottingham with it's full-on Arctic air conditioning. Beetroot with effort, I handed over the rejects to the girl on the fitting room door and was about to compliment her on her patience when she snapped,
"Yeah! I know! It's not you, it's our dresses that are wrong." I'll bugger off then shall I? **
Armed with little choice but to wear something from the back of the wardrobe, I was looking forward to the Hen Night Party so imagine my horror when everyone under 40 was wearing a dress and everyone over 40 was wearing a Monsoon top and leggings, as I was. Mortified, my youthful enthusiasm evaporated and suddenly I took the walk of shame towards the bride's grannie and elderly aunts, merely because of my outfit. How I wish I'd worn that bin bag now. Undaunted, I had great hopes of the evening ahead mainly because the featured act was www.theultimatebuble.com. I'm a big fan of tribute acts and can personally vouch for Nearly Dan, Bjorn Again and some bloke I saw in Portugal who was the spitting image of George Michael on stage. He had his magnificent voice too but, later at the bar, he was a whole foot shorter and quite sexy. Sorry George.
The Shires are notorious amongst the entertainment industry as a hard crowd and on this particular night, the audience wasn't having any of the usual romantic slush. Oh dear me no. He'd driven all the way up from Devon and all I could see was a bloke who looked like Lee Mack in a tight suit. Still, he ploughed on into the jazz classics and from the first chords of 'Save the last dance for me' we were all up on our feet and boogied the night away. In the end, it was pure Buble, unmarred by the awful food and extortionate cost of drinks. Two of the MedRecs team should be commended for their amazing jazz dancing routine and I'm looking forward to their comedy debut at the Edinburgh Festival this summer. But surely the best act of the night was the elderly couple who were dancing a perfectly technical cha-cha-cha at the speed of a Tai Chi master regardless of whatever ultimatebuble was up to; genius. Simmie was on her back in hysterics crying,
"We don't get entertainment like this in Slovenia." We don't normally get it this good in The Shires either.
*For Blog Followers out of the UK, Nottingham is the birthplace of Robin Hood and north East of the nest; and is so expensive to park I took the train. For US Followers, Nottingham should not be confused with Hugh Grant's Nodding Hill as it is nowhere near London.
**I finally secured the LBD from River Island. It fits. I have shoes, it will do for the big event next weekend. I actually found it on the floor, trampled underfoot, and when I took it to the till the girl said,
"Where did you get this? It's really nice." I give up.
Tip of the Beak: Thanx to Rockin' Robin who mailed me about the T K Maxx poster which dominates the entrance of my nearest branch. In their newly renovated store on the outskirts of town, they've got an even weirder picture of a bloke in a hat that someone's drawn a moustache on ... or is that his real face? I'm not sure anymore.
Raven
