Saturday, April 02, 2005

Y'all wanna know about the wedding?

Since posting my last entry I’ve received 7 emails from concerned friends (for ‘concerned’, read ‘nosy’) who have asked me why I’ve not written anything further about the wedding. Am I sunning myself on the luxury yacht of an oil tycoon? Have I been buying white cowboy boots and matching white Stetson for a Texan wedding of my own?

Sadly, no. The dull but truthful reason is that, despite being away for just four days, I appear to have returned to three weeks worth of emails and I’ve been frantically trying to catch up. It’s a good job I didn’t go away for five days. But the emails have now been returned or deleted and so I’m able to get back to the matter in hand.

First things first. I did not meet an oil tycoon. Although, and I didn’t know this until I was put straight by a very nice cousin of the bride, they’re not called ‘oil tycoons’. They are ‘oil men’. An ‘oil man’ needs no other description other than ‘oil’. If a man is in oil, it goes without saying that he’s a tycoon. ‘Oil’ says it all. But whatever the correct term, I did not meet an ‘oil man’. In fact, I hardly saw a Stetson hat, checked shirt or rope tie the whole time I was there.

The nearest I got to catching a millionaire was dancing with a very nice New York lawyer – now based in London (I checked, of course) - who’s a friend of the groom. We talked about our careers (he has a great one), our homes in London (his is in a very exclusive part of town) and our divorces (at last, something I can compete with on a level playing field). Unfortunately, he had to leave the wedding early as he was rushing back to the UK for a very important meeting with some very important clients. I commiserated him on having to spend 9 hours sitting upright on a plane before his meeting. He looked at me like I was an idiot and replied, simply, ‘I fly flat’. That’s code. It’s like saying ‘I drive a Mercedes’ or ‘I wear Gucci’. I felt stupid. And poor. But put a brave face on it and told him ‘I fly fetal’. He laughed and took my phone number.

I should point out now, before I receive another 7 emails demanding further information, that, at the time of posting, he has not called me. Maybe he’s lost my number? Or his voice? Or just his mind. (Well, he may have a nice flat and a good job, but I’m funny and intelligent and good looking, so who’s the fool?)

But I still haven’t told you about the wedding itself. Well, I’ve now been to 36 weddings in my life, one of which was my own. And I have to say (apologies to all readers whose weddings I have attended) that they are all pretty much the same. The bride smiles all day and looks fabulous. The groom starts off looking nervous, then relieved and then, finally, elated. The parents look stunned and the assembled married guests avoid the temptation to tell the happy couple that the novelty soon wears off and before long they’ll be bickering like the Duckworths and arguing about whose turn it is to load the dishwasher.

So I will avoid the temptation to bore you with every wedding detail. You’ve been to a wedding before. It was a bit like that. But I should tell you what is wasn’t. It wasn’t loud and brash TEXAN or in-yer-face JEWISH. It wasn’t over the top Alexis Carrington meets Maureen Lipman, despite my expectations to the contrary. The Texan guests were friendly and funny and welcoming. The English were made to feel at home and part of the Houston family. One couple invited me to spend the summer in their home in San Antonio. Another offered to arrange funding for me for a course in New York that I’ve wanted to study for years. And a very nice lawyer from London took my phone number. Well, two out of three ain’t bad.

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