Nice view
I’m afraid this is the most interesting thing that happened to me at work today:
As much as I know it’s wrong to take the piss out of a town, I can’t help but notice that Bray makes it far too easy.
Stop the lights
Ok, this is it. This is the story of one of my worst fears coming true. It’s a good thing I came prepared! It’s difficult to write because it’s still fresh and it gives me palpitations just to think about the nightmares I’m going to have as a result of it; so I’m hoping that flushing it down my blog will help a bit. Sorry, it’s going to get messy in here.
-o0o-
I picked him up from a car park in Bray today as per instructions from base. He appeared straight away, a tall man wearing a grey suit, carrying two bags full of beer from the off licence.
When he sat into the seat he gave me a sharp shock, with a two-second time limit to regain my composure. He pleaded with me to bring him home, desperation was in his voice and his face… his face. This guy would be a good advertisement for why it’s not a good idea to put water on a burning chip-pan. Perhaps it was a petrol bomb? Something had stolen the skin from the entire near-side part of his head and what remained was topped with a bright ginger mop of hair. He stank. He was pissed as a fart and had the worst case of hiccups that I’ve ever heard in a person.
Why did I let him stay in the car? I dunno. Was it because I’m a sucker for a needy, or was it because I was looking for a good story? Who knows. Stayed he did.
He calmed slightly and I asked him where he wanted to go.
“Tallaght” he said.
“Okaaay… now just to warn you that might cost around fifty quid and I’m going to need most of that up front, I’m afraid.”
“Whhaaa? Ah no, I’ll give you a twenty. All I have’s a twenty.”
“Fu.. no way, chancer! I’ve me own mouths to feed. I can bring you to a bus stop or a train station though?”
“Anything, jus gemme outa here. But don’ go back inta d’town, I don’t wanna go there, take the back roads.”
Strange request. I was driving around now, heading south where he pointed. He calmed further as we drove, and started crooning gently.
“I love you… I love you so much… you’re lovely for taking care ‘me. I love you more than I love myself right now….” the rest trailed into mumbles interspersed with ‘Y’know warri mean?’ or, ‘You know what I’m talkin’ about, don’tya?” to which my automated reply – ‘Yep.’ was standard.
I picked up some garbled words, and picked out that what I had here, was your genuine bonifide tinker. The fact was disguised by the scarring and the accent which had a Belfast sort of frosting to it. I asked him about it, and he uttered a few staccato words (still battling seriously stubborn hiccups) – soldier… army… real… with random lines of semi-coherent speech. Turns out he did a few terms alright, interrupted by court, prison, and a coma.
Well. Fucking. Dodgy. Mate.
As we drove, he reached into his bottle bag and withdrew a bottle of Bud. He de-capped it, sipped for a bit, then belched loudly. At least that cleared his hiccups I suppose. He then leaned in towards me and started whispering sweet nothings. The stench was incredible and raised my hackles instantly.
“OI, BACK OFF MATE.” I said sincerely. “Put that belt on and sit the fuck still. Try anything funny again and I’ll radio the coppers. Don’t want that, now, do ye?”
“No. Sorry I’m sorry – sorry. Sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I just got out of court! Sorry, so sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry etc…” for ten bastard minutes. Then I hit traffic and he had my undivided attention. He asked for my hand (this is the usual stage when drunken old men realise that it’s not appropriate to chat up your driver and get so apologetic that they feel like they have to shake my hand to confirm it.) so I offered it and shook. He rose it to his lips and planted a fat wet kiss on my knuckles.
My squirm factor ploughed the ceiling and I looked in my rear view mirror to see that the dude behind was watching intently. Nice one. My passenger then started to kiss my shoulders wetly and roughly and so I pulled the fuck over.
Bollocks. I can’t get out. Fight or flight or money and car? Bollox to it. Fight.
“OUT YOU GET” I shouted.
“Ahh no don’t do that, I love you. I’m gonna give you a hickey as payment! He chuckled and I laughed maniacally at his fucking hilarious joke. But hey guess what? It wasn’t a joke. He reached over and grabbed my neck with his right hand and pulled himself towards me. Our heads collided and I elevated to Code Green and my sanity left the building.
I whipped one of these bad boys out and shoved the pointed tip into his larynx.
“Don’t fuck with me, fuckface.” It was the best I could come up with I’m afraid. I’ve thought of loads more things I should’ve said since, but the delivery seemed to do the job nevertheless. He sank with huge melancholy back to his side and slid out of the door, slamming it after what seemed like an eternity.
I sped away and my sanity returned. I suddenly felt like I needed to throw up, so I parked by the beach and sat still for a second. Adrenalin ebbed away with the tide and I screamed. I rolled up the windows and closed the sunroof and I screamed for thirty seconds.
When I’d finished, I was a new person. Alive, strong, powerful, shitscared… it’s another patch on the quilt that is my life and I’m better for it. You make your own luck. I had no problem picking up drunks from the Foggy Mirror after that, their leers paled by comparison.
The base fed me sweet tea and cigarettes and cured my shakes by taking the piss for a while and then sent me out on a nice relaxing drive to Terenure. Just what the doctor ordered… rush-hour contemplation.
-o0o-
To people who love me and hold friendships with me, don’t freak out. I mean this most for my mum and dad who will, if they find this, go completely ape-shit. Not without good reason, either – I have babies too and understand the intense worry. They will tell me to quit taxi driving but I’m going to stand my ground. This is life, and if I run away I’ll never grow stronger. I’ve been vulnerable all my life and that was a mistake, toughness must be bet-in through experience, which is what I got today.
Wow, that feels so much better, the burden’s been lifted and I feel floaty with relief. I’m so glad I have a way to get it out! Maybe I won’t have nightmares after all. They’re your nightmares now.
Hustled
I finished my shift at seven and pulled into a supermarket to buy some bits as you do. As I rounded the last rack of parking spots I braked suddenly to avoid running a man over, and he waved and smiled pleasantly, crossing my path. I parked up and headed toward the ATM.
I was standing in the queue for the cash machine when I heard his voice over my shoulder.
“Have you many hours left to work?” I turned around. It was the same man… he was dark skinned, holding a mobile phone in his hand and wearing a pretty naff jumper. He spoke with a true Irish accent and with the smile of a thousand sailors.
“No I’m finished, thank God!” I instantly knew that saying this was a bad idea… an ONOsecond later I realised I’d just told him there was a rake of cash in my car.
“Hey! I know you from somewhere!” (Warning bell #1)
“Uhhh… I don’t recognise you, mate.”
“Yeah… you’re… ummm… it was last week, you said you were from… where was it again?”
“I live near Jack Whites Pub” I said. DAMMIT! Stop answering questions!!! I mentally slapped myself hard across the face.
“Ahh yeah, yeah, that’s right… I’m from Ashford meself, that’s how I know you.”
“What?!” I laughed in disbelief and turned away. Second in line now.
He continued the conversation anyway, telling me how he’d got a new bank card in the post but he’d forgotten the PIN, and that he had no diesel, and he had to drive to Stillorgan to pick up his sister… he babbled away while Alarm bells #2, #3 and #4 rang for Ireland in my brain.
It’s my turn at the ATM, and this dude is still there, floating nervously about with a mobile phone stuck to his ear, invading my bubble and triggering Alarm bell #5. I inserted the card and typed four digits, then entered the cash request, only to have it tell me my PIN was incorrect.
“Oh dear!” I said loudly. “Wrong card!! You’ve jinxed me! Tell you what… here’s a fiver, hope it helps!”
He looked at the five euro note in my hand and put on his sad face.
“Maybe if you could lend me ten or twenty euros, I could put it in an envelope for you and drop it into Jack Whites! Here’s my number, look, on me phone… take it down.” Alarm bell #6 jingled away as I smiled like a siamese on the outside.
“Sorry, that’s a no… I’ve been stung with that one before!!”
“Look, here’s my number…”
“Take the fiver and keep hustling. You’re doing a great job.” I walked back to my car and inserted every last penny of its contents into my shoulder bag which I slung round my neck and tightened nice and snug. The man had walked away and was talking to a tall lady in white slapper boots, so I snuck back to the cash-machine and withdrew my shopping money on the sly.
When I’d finished bribing my trolley to come along, I walked in through the front door of the shop and glanced behind me, to see the lady in the slapper boots right on my tail. I made a point of noticing her, but she looked away and fell behind. A bag of apples, 4 red onions and a watermelon later, I turned to see that she had returned and was lingering behind me… I knew I felt her eyes.
I abandoned the trolley and went back outside, to see if I could find yer man with the fiver. No sign whatsoever, nothing to report to the security staff. I continued my efforts to blow 200 quid on random effects and checked it all out with no bother at all from anyone, even though I was bricking huge chunks of paranoia all the while. The white booted lady was waiting outside (for an hour?!?!) but did nothing as I passed her, so I sorted my bits and bolted.
Maybe he was telling the truth, maybe the white booted lady was a coincidence… but I know from my poker endeavours that good faith doesn’t mean much these days. Anyway I don’t have a diary so this is the next best thing and it felt like it needed noting. You just read my diary! How very dare you.
Eroticow
This isn’t my story, it’s the Accidental Terrorist’s because fortunately, daytime taxi driving doesn’t spew up many stories like this one.
We sat in the sunroom to eat dinner this evening, and as we ate, he relayed his adventures to me. The fork to mouth repetition slowed more and more as the story unfolded, and I began to feel sick, it’s that good.
He told me about how he’d picked up two men and two women from Bray at around closing time o’clock. Dropping one of the men off along the way, he continued to Ballybrack trying hard not to listen to the conversation being held between the two girls in the back of the car.
“Why?” I asked. ”What were they talking about?”
“Nothing much, it was just riddled with curses but… I know some blokes who find cursing women repulsive and I never understood why until now. It was trashy, really crude.”
“Oh. Carry on.”
“Then she got her tits out.”
Apparently the loudest of the two women, who happened to be the girlfriend of the remaining bloke in the car, opened her top for the world to see. TAT swears his eyes were on the road but I’m dubious.
Then, she began to appeal to TAT with ‘this really annoying whiny scumbag voice’ to stop somewhere so that she could pee. He did – he stopped at a perfect spot on the road adjoining a small green area protected by bushes, and pointed her towards them. Did she use them? Did she fuck. She opened her door, squatted by the rear tyre on a busy road, and splashed her pints back home right there in front of him.
When TAT finally pulled up outside the house, the same girl got out of the car, crawled about on the pavement for a bit while she got her co-ordination back and then stumbled to the front of the car where she turned around, bent over and lifted her dress over her head, revealing every last detailed orifice. She then re-robed, and as she was laughing and walking through her front gate, she yelled back at TAT;
“So do you want to come in for yer hole?”
I dropped my fork when he got to that part. I clapped my hands over my ears and shouted “LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA” for a good five minutes. The image of this bint saying that to him… my bear, the King to my Queen… I felt like throwing my entire dinner up back onto the plate. It disturbed me to the core.
Die, evil slapper bitch, DIE
Will this girl cry with shame tomorrow morning when the memories float to the top of her scummy mind? I doubt it. Will she do it again? Most definately… why break old habits? Bray is full of these women. They are all over Ireland, giving it away like it was the Ebola virus. AIDS and STDs are on the rampage but they don’t give a shit. Babies are born without a snowball’s chance in hell of making it straight, and are found lurking ominously under bridges and on street corners looking dodgy. Village of the damned.
Won’t they please legalize prostitution?
These people are in serious need of precaution and a cleaner environment… seriously, some pubs are pure cattlemarkets. The men don’t even bother to dress up, they just leave their farmer’s shirts on. The women wear seriously ridiculously skimpy clothes (okay, okay, I wore greyhound* skirts and sent the wrong messages entirely too when I was a kid, but I grew out of it!) and rub themselves against anything with a pulse. So, all a bloke has to do is walk in the door, and SCORE! his beans are cooked.
Everyone loves sex. It’s our most basic calling, but it’s still very much in the underworld when it should be out in the open! Clean, safe, there whenever you need it. Bring back prostitution and save our small towns. PLEASE.
* 2 inches from the hair
Vagabondage – a blog is born
I meet an abundance of very interesting people in this job.
I met one particular person in the first few days of taxi-driving, someone with whom conversation came easily and made the job a lot easier. We soon became friends… I give her lifts to work, and she supplies me with the most potent and delicious damn coffee I’ve ever tasted.
We swapped numbers, and enquired about each other’s online status, only to find that I’d found myself a bonafide bebo chick. I explained what a shallow and anonymous gig this Bebo lark is, and explained the theories of blogging. I reluctantly handed over my blog address which is something I hate doing – I like to keep the virtual and the real totally seperate for embarrassment purposes, but something in me sensed that this girl had something to say. A genuinely sound person with a dark and twisty edge needed a blog of her own, don’t you think?
So, I turned her. I bit and infected a civilian and now her thoughts are immortal. (Bwah hah hah hah)
Without further anything else, I introduce you to:
Vagab0ndage
Welcome to the blogosphere, Vicky!
Old my arse
For some reason, other taxi drivers on the rank at the Dart station find me very amusing. They like to stand in groups and watch me parallel park which fucks up my concentration and gives me the shakes and ultimately leads to embarrassment. They give me occasional lectures about smoking in my car (technically the cigarette is outside!) and tell me my brake lights need work with much nudging. It’s definitely not a place for a lady.
That’s why today I was extremely excited to find the rank deserted. I pulled up first in the queue and seconds later my rear door opened, but when I turned around, there was nobody there. My rear view mirror told me that there were two little old dears hobbling towards my car however, one supporting the other like best friends.
They were very happy to see me, being that they’d just been told by another cab company that they’d have to wait for 25 minutes in the pissing rain for another taxi.
“Ooooh!! A lady driver!!! How nice.” the lady in the backseat exclaimed as she fought her stubborn legs into the car. I get this a lot, it’s a nice buzz. The other lady plopped herself in to the seat beside me with no effort at all.
“Right.” says she. “We want to go to Monkstown, and then on into Dublin.”
“Certainly, ladies.” *WOO-HOO!!!* I thought inside my little head. Having just come back from the airport, I felt rich. Sundays are good days for me.
I stuck on some music from the ‘Classycal’ folder on my SatNav and took off. The lady beside me was quite attractive with her hair-mac off… she wore a bronze bob and posh sunglasses with sparkly flowery stuff on the sides and had on her Sunday best. She prompted me for personal information which I always give out far too freely and we complained about the weather, all the way into Monkstown.
We pulled up outside an old Georgian house, and I helped the back-seat lady to her feet. I offered to help her across the road and up the steps (heavily prompted by front-seat lady) but to no avail… she got quite annoyed and said “don’t mind her, I’m fine! She’s always babying me!” then waved at me and headed off.
Then there were two.
There was some silence, then…
“Ahh lookit, I’m nearly falling asleep here, have you any dacent music?”
“Sure!!!” I racked my brains, and waited for a stop-light. I then began to scroll down the music folder and play snippets of songs for her approval. Paul Simon? No. The Waifs? No. Blind Melon? No. I cycled through until she stopped me, at Soundgarden’s Black Hole Sun.
“I love his voice! Yes I like this, keep this on.”
I was confused. Time passed. To make conversation, I mumbled something like;
“It’s lovely of you to have such concern for a friend, you’re a credit to her.”
“She’s my little sister, sure I worry about her… there were eleven of us to start with, but there aren’t many of us left.”
Now I’m really confused. I begin to wonder if the lady in my car isn’t extracting the urine. The lady we’d just dropped off had to be at least 85 years of age, but I couldn’t ask the question. I knew she was itching to tell me anyway, which she was.
“I’m in my ninety-second year” she said with a grin.
Now, there aren’t many statements that will warrant my taking my eyes off the road for more than two seconds, but this one was an exception.
“Fu… I mean… You can’t be serious?!?!” I normally hate the ‘guess how old I am!!!’ statement from a fellow female. It’s a deliberate fish, but this one warranted true amazement.
“What’s your secret?”
She giggled, and said “I have a good life. I’m well travelled, and I smoke 20 a day.”
“Fair play!!!” I stated. “Where have you been?”
“Everywhere… Germany, France, America, Mexico, Brazil, last year I went to Amsterdam and it was really very excellent indeed!”
“I’m sure it was!”
“The only places I haven’t been yet are Australia and China. Sure there’s plenty of time for that yet, I suppose.”
Ninety one years old!!!
I was unable to say another word for the rest of the journey, the woman had me speechless. I dropped her off at her batchelor-ette pad and thanked her for her generous tip as she walked away. She has made me re-think old age completely, blown my pre-conceived ideas right out. Maybe I won’t bugger off to Africa where I’ll no longer be a pain in the ass to anybody! Maybe I’ll follow the advice in a poem my mum told me last week:
When I am old I will wear purple.
Yeah!!! I’m gonna live it up!!! I’m gonna have impressive stories to tell taxi drivers when I’m 91 years old coming home from the pub too, and demand that they play The Beastie Boys while we talk.
I officially, from this moment on, do not want to hear anybody complain about being old, because you’re not. When you’re 93, come back and talk to me, then I’ll listen. Right now, I’m well impressed.
Sirprising
I believe that if you give respect, most of the time you’ll get it back, hopefully with tips! I’m trying to teach this to my kids but there’s no way to explain this in pre-schoolspeak, so I lead by example.
The thing is, I’m having problems. I came home after a work shift recently, exclaiming that men don’t like to be called ‘Sir’ anymore.
“You call them Sir?!” Xboxboy seemed more than surprised.
“Yes, if I don’t know their name, I’ll call them Sir. Not all the time, just sometimes.”
“But you’re not below them!!! Never call anybody Sir… it’s demeaning to everybody!”
“Eh?”
I don’t understand this, but it’s true. Also, instead of calling my mechanic ‘Bert’, a few weeks ago I called him ‘Mr. Byrne’, and he was horrified. He instantly exclaimed “Jeeeeesus stop! Mr. Byrne is my father’s name!”. This is a strangely common occurance among men of all ages… they evade chivalry as though it were an insult. Did I miss something?
Can somebody please explain to me why ‘Chivalry is dead’, or ‘So-and-so is the last true gentleman’, or ‘Kids have no respect for their elders these days’ are all such common gripes of adults today when all they need to do is accept a bit of respect?
My kid is watching me and learning that the word ‘Sir’ evokes a similar reaction to the word ‘Shit’. Such surprise and chastisement her mother gets! Better not do that so.
So what do I do now?
Watch this space
A few weeks ago, the acc. terrorist bought one of those flashy LED thingys that scroll pre-programmed messages for the back of our taxi – he’s a sucker for shiny stuff. It’s pretty much exactly a bit like this one:
You can pre-programme up to 50 messages to display, controlled by an extemely complicated looking remote. I reckon I could get the hang of it! I’m trying to think of stuff to display, though I’ve only mustered up these ones so far:
- Thanks!
- Hang up and drive.
- Turn your f***ing lights down.
- Keep tailgating me, I need the cash.
- Jesus is coming, everyone look busy.
- Remember: Stop Lights Timed For 35mph Are Also Timed For 70mph.
- Warning! I brake for hallucinations.
- Is this a rhetorical question?
I need 42 more. Give a girl a hand?
-o0o-
What a response!!! Here’s the follow-up:
From Thriftcriminal:
- Awww yeah, overtook your sorry ass!
- Seen the film ‘The Hitcher’?
- Mr. Hanky, the Christmas poo, he loves me and I love you, therefore vicariously he loves you, even if you’re a jew.
- Exterminate! Exterminate!
- Make it so!
- Rigormortis makes me hard
From Me Ma:
- Supercalifradgealisticexpealidocious
- Don’t push yer Granny off the bus
- Free perks on monday – neck massage with every ride
From Me Da:
-Danger! Driver has P.M.T. (predictable but accurate)
From Baino:
- Get in, sit down, shut up, hang on!
From Warrior:
- Imagine, it could be you in this car.
- If you can read this then tell me what the previous line was.
- What are you doing looking at this, look at my brake lights… oh too late.
- Boo!
- You are alone, I am alone, give me a tenner to pay for my petrol, you can walk.
- If you stop following me I won’t tell your wife what you did last night.
From Jefferson Davis:
- Get the f**k out of my way!
- Feck off! (Nice and to-the-point, this one)
- Don’t dare skip on the fare
- No lip, just a tip
- Hire these tyres
From Doc:
- I got some bad ideas in my head
- You talkin’ to me?
- Pssstt… what does the yellow light mean?
- Driver speaks no English
- I knew at an early age I wanted to act
- How’s my drinking?!
From John Braine:
- I’m not getting another ticket just for you. So back the f**k off!
From Xbox4NappyRash:
- So it goes ‘Accelerator, brake, clutch… I think.
From La Vepista, herself:
- You are being watched.
- Slow down, cops ahead!
From a bored person: (Whos style I like!!!)
- Don’t make me go Psycho-Bitch on your annoying ass
- You say I’m a Bitch like it’s a bad thing!
- I’m sorry. My fault. I forgot you were an idiot
- Amazingly enough, I don’t give a shit
- Admitting you’re an asshole is the first step
From Moo Dog:
- You’re so close and ugly, I can tell that your Spitting Image puppet would actually be good looking. Ya prick ya.
From Maxi Cane:
- Baby on board… last person to cut me off in boot!
- Roads? Where we’re going we don’t need roads.
- Giving me the finger won’t turn the roof sign off!
- I’m not a real taxi, I borrowed the sign off Michael O’Leary
- Guess who I had in the car last week… your ma!
-o0o-
*CALCULATING…*
That’s 51 messages!!! Fair play to you all. That’s fucking team-work.
Bray Summerfest Airwhatever
Did you hear about the Bray Summerfest Airshow today?
Did you hear about the big planes swooping low over the rooftops and the pretty fighter jets doing loop-de-loops in the clear blue sky and the army with their big trucks and tanks and uniformed men? I bet if you did, you thought ‘Let’s get our asses down there, quick!’ or, ‘Awww, innit a shame we can’t go to see all that great stuff?’ because it all sounded so great, but in reality, it wasn’t.
In reality it sucked.
I started my shift in Bray at lunchtime and drove in first gear to the seafront to see what I could see. Everybody I passed was staring up into the sky like morons – but not me, I kept my eyes on the road and battled onwards and Lo! Just as I was approaching my target I got called upon to pick up Mrs. Boring from Stupidville, without seeing diddly-squat.
When I was finished with Mrs. Boring from Stupidville I got sent up to the Ritz (in best behaviour mode though I can’t see why…) for Mr. Bad-Timing and had to drive all the way out to the airport and back.
When I returned, Bray was one big massive car-park. Cars were everywhere… parked on top of each other, under sleeping dogs, one or two were even parked in little old ladies’ handbags. It was mental. The gardee were everywhere, waving traffic back and forth and making rude gestures at passers by (I gotta say though, they seriously did an excellent job of clearing away every last smear of traffic sludge) so taxi-fares suddenly became extremely awqward.
Throngs of people kept hurling themselves at my car and jumping in regardless of existing passengers and shouting ‘TAKE ME TO THE SEAFRONT PRONTO!!!’, at which point I would take out my BB gun and ask them to make my day and they would slowly get out again.
I was then sent to Tescos to collect two people who had been waiting for over an hour for a cab. A gentleman and his ladyfriend loaded up their groceries and jumped into the back seat.
“Didya see the airshow?!” the gentleman said excitedly – “It was deadly, wasn’t it?!”
“No I had to go to the airport.” I was grumpy. Very grumpy.
“They had this huuuge carrier jet and it swooped right down over our heads and it was deadly!!!!”
“So you said.”
“Do you not like ‘planes?” He was dissapointed at my lack of enthusiasm.
“I bloody love ‘planes, so can you shut up about it now?”
“Right, subject changed. Did ya see the big army tank?!”
“NO!!!!!”
45 minutes later thanks to aforementioned sludge, we arrived at his house and the meter read €27.40. This was a tad cruel seeing we had only travelled the length of a football field, so I waived it and charged him a tenner instead.
“Wow, that’s really kind of you, thanks!” the gentleman’s missus said. Then, as an afterthought as she was leaving the car she added;
“Sorry your job sucks. You should try to arrange to get time off next year!”
Yeah. Some tip. Thanks wench.
Serendipity
Taxi driving is turning out to be a tough job. It’s not the punters, it’s the lack of work. We have to put in serious hours now that the hotels are quieter and people are guarding their money because of this imaginary recession.
It balances out, though. Driving is such great fun around Wicklow, the roads are interesting and there are thousands of undiscovered quirky Wicklowisms hidden down windy roads and behind dense thickets.
TAT found a most excellent quirky Wicklowism on his travels last week!
The Accidental Terrorist and I are best mates. We already feel married, but have been putting off the dirty deed… the knot-tying itself, for 7 years just because nothing felt right. It doesn’t seem right that we should have to sign away an arm and a leg to some swanky hotel and make such a big deal out of everything when it’s just really only about us, and our ickle family. We thought about eloping, threatened weddings in France and even considered Gretna Green… anything to get out of surrendering to the cash-pit that is the buzz-word ‘Wedding’.
Is it really so hard to find somewhere unique and intimate? Apparently so.
We already have a spot, it’s a patch of grass under enormous trees by a river with a permanent burnt patch in the center. I’d love to get married there. This is my tree:
This used to say ‘Happy 21st Kate love…’ (but oh look, the name’s chipped off. TAT he remains so.) and was carved on the day he proposed to me with the ring-pull from his can of Miller. I prayed for that tree and hugged it and apologised to it for carving into its flesh and I think it’s forgiven me. It must have liked the warmth of our campfires for it’s still alive and thinking.
Thing is though, we can’t get married there because it would involve hiking with generators and boxes of lights and boxes of sausages and tea-bags, but we discovered the next best thing! There’s a nudist colony just up the valley hidden at the end of a very long windy road so we’re getting married there instead.
I would so dearly love to link to this place but I don’t think they’d appreciate the publicity, besides, I don’t want you all gate-crashing stark bollock naked.
Yep, we’ve finally set a date to get hitched! We’ve got nine months to get our act together and then BAM! we’re official. Sweet.
I might need help with this. I don’t do the whole ‘organizational skillz’ thing because I can’t think past tomorrow generally. It works for me for the most part, but the idea of sorting out a wedding scares the bejeebus out of me. This might be the wedding blog of Bridezilla for a while, I’m sorry about that but tough shit. Extremely helpful people will get a pass into the nudist colony for a week.
Peior est bello timor ipse belli.
