Gods and Faeries, August Weddings

I am ensconced in the kitchen of my dear friends Matt and Becca, who live just outside Hereford in a town whose name I've completely forgotten. I had little choice but to come here after the wedding of my friends Kingsley and Becca (wherefore so many Beccas?). See, I'm fairy/faerie Godfather to their son Toby, and now I believe I am an erstwhile faerie godfather to their daughter Lily. The official ceremony, complete with full godparent retinue, will be later but I shan't be in country.

For I am only in country for THE WEDDING!

All I have to say is : PERFECT. I arrived at my B&B in a village nearby the church to find a working farm. By which I mean everyone was working. I hung out with a donkey named Sparky 'til two of Kinsley's mates showed up, let me in, saved my ass et cetera.

The church was small but cozy. I couldn't believe how many people were there, especially considering how many of them all lived in the same hall of residence at Uni. Sue read from Victor Hugo - the "love in spite of ourselves" bit from Victor Hugo. Oh, and the bride entered to Pachelbel's Canon in D, among my most beloved bits of music. I was surrounded by my favorite people, my favorite music, and my favorite thing: love.

At one point, the proprietor of the event asked Kingsley and Becca if they knew of any reason they could not be lawfully wed under the eyes of God. They both turned to face each other, gave a curt nod, turned to the pastor and nodded again. Darling.

The Reception: I arrived to find my nametag in front of a high chair. At first we thought someone was playing a brilliant, if diabolical, joke - but it turns out there was a small child seated at the table as well. At dessert, her father fed her small bits of this deliciously puckering tart made from various berries. Her parents weren't sure how she would react but apparently the child liked it. At which point I felt the need to chime in, "Careful, mate. We are what we eat and she's still quite small, so I'm not sure how much sour tart you want to feed her."

Yes, I know.

Later on I made the child weep by singing "Barbara Ann" by the beach boys. It seems her favorite song is Ba Ba Black Sheep, and as soon as I got to 'slide betty sue' it was patently obvious I was mangling her favorite. Cue screaming. And I mean full-on, entire-marquee-full-of-guests-looking-to-see-who's-murdering-a-child screaming. I guess the chick's not a Brian Wilson fan. What can I say?

I love Pete Sinclair

Pete Sinclair is a hero. He is a gentleman scholar, a magnificent bastard of the highest order. Praetor of the 39th Chamber of Funktronic Positivity.

I am currently ensconced in the posh London digs of Pete's buddy Matty S., whom I have never met before today. I called him on the Heathrow Express. I purchased a ticket for the cheap train, the Connect, then just jumped on the Express and claimed ignorance upon ticket-taking-time. Feigned ignorance, I should say. Luckily the train had been much delayed by "technical difficulties", so the staff had bigger fish to fry and all I got was a sigh.
So I call Matt. "Come over," he says. "Any friend of Pete is a friend of mine." He then feeds me some delicious homemade pasta with chicken and inducts me into the cult of Wii. And I actually beat him in baseball.
I'm back in the UK, being cared for by friends and friends of friends, and life feels like it couldn't get better. Hell, they're even ceasing military operations in Northern Ireland. Thirty-eight years of ... operation, not occupation. Hurrah! This engagement ends, just as Kingsley and Becca's engagement will end on Friday - when it becomes a marriage.
Savor the good times, people. Relish them. Pickle them. And yourselves.