Wedding Bells and Belles

The wedding of Justin and Donna was in a small town in Wicklow (Clash) and almost everyone in my department was going. We all had rooms booked in local guesthouses and many were staying down to celebrate on the following day too.

The wedding ceremony was beautiful, as was the bride. As befitted a wedding day couple they looked totally and completely in love, and knowing the couple, long will that continue. My hearthiest congratulations to them both!

We had been told that the reception would be in a barn, the toilets would be portaloos and the entertainment would be provided by an Elvis impersonator. How can such a description be so true and yet so false at the same time. The 'barn' was beautifully decorated and lit, with a stage for the Elvis impersonator, a wood dancefloor and a good old disco ball for highlights. The food was served in a marquee outside and the food was excellent (the lamb was barbequed there and then) and plentiful. Even the portaloos were the poshest 'portaloos' I have ever seen with carpets and gleaming taps. The Elvis impersonator had won awards in Las Vegas (where else?) and was excellent. All in all the setup was brilliant.

There were one or two potentially disastrous moments. Jules accidentally set fire to his napkin which in a venue largely floored with wood chipping could have been a wee bit troublesome. The wood chips were fire proof. Killian had a wee bit too much to drink (as did his brother), but Jules was there to keep him (and his brother) under control. The coaches back to the guesthouses were a little slow in arriving and departing, but then that gave us more time to wind up the night. And then of course, there was little blonde Niamh. Rarely has a black dress and black combat boots been used to such devastating effect. And she actually sought me out! Niamh, an architect, party animal and a friend of the gang from way back, had done some travelling herself, but she had much to tell me on the subject of Columbia, where she had spent a year studying. She loved it. She wanted to go back. From what she told me it was the most dangerous place on Earth! She herself had narrowly missed being accidentally shot, throwing herself into bushes out of harm's way. A friend of her's had been attacked in a taxi by a marauder in the boot, presumably for his organs. He escaped by throwing himself out the door. And the stories kept coming. Fine by me. I was interested in them, and I was interested in the teller. Sadly I discovered that her surfing dude boyfriend was asleep in a nearby camper van. What an idiot! (Him and me both.)

Eventually Francisco and I made it back to our guest house at 5.40 a.m. The minibus ride home involved Jules swirling a pint glass of wine and narrowly missing my suit (Francisco wasn't so lucky), and an out-there Killian who stopped the bus to puke, but refused to because we 'were all looking at him'. Those two went back to another venue to drink some more all in preparation for the Sunday of drinking ahead of them. I was a little thankful I had to go back that day in preparation for London. I was sad as well though. Justin and Donna had made it a special weekend.