Wedding of the year

More than months of planning, getting in contact with old friends, spreadsheets, money falling out of your pocket in increasingly large numbers as everyone adds a nought for a wedding, excitement, stress, joy, connection, then it is all over bar the shouting. Mopping up the tail. Generosity overflowing. Heartbeats gradually slowing down over a beautiful honeymoon, amazingly bought by friends. Released from any thought of money. What an occasion to bring two clans together, friends you know very well and old acquaintances rejoined. A special event. Cards littering the house, each with incredible heartfelt messages. Was it all worth it, months of worrying how to pay back now, financially skint. Yes. Yes. Yes. Memories are worth more than cash. They define you and your life. Money is just an accoutrement. Something forever to look back on. A union for life surrounded by friends for life. Amazingly no dogs. Nor any horses. Coming together with your life partner, forging a life together that now has a neatly tied know, joined, bonded. A close relationship brought officially together, two people who don’t believe in official titles, non religious, but believe in each other and their friends. We all want to do it again. Plan it again. Look forward to it again. Our marriage ceremony and party are in the past but our journey forging on into the future. Something we will always remember even as old age catches up with us. An event where you are spread too thin, trying to talk with everyone who has come, but time is too short, your voice becoming increasingly hoarse. Life together starts anew amongst the strewn paper and card, everyone overly generous and beautiful. What a world. What a life.

Does it change anything, being married (or Civil Partnered as we are not allowed to say that we are married, but civilly joined together)? There is a feeling of solidity. Of a life message, a commitment to each other. It provides roots, rooting for each other and a friendship group. The day meant so much, a whirlwind of people you know. Who do you talk to for more than 20 seconds? Trying to ensure that people who have come the furthest, made the biggest sacrifice, get most attention. The event really needs to go on for a few days rather than just the hours of one day.

Honeymoon period, a time to flop. A few days away where everything is bliss. Perfect. Days of planning gradually ebbing away, flowing from your body, massaging, gently kneading the stress away. Your friends and family had come together to buy you this holiday, with spending money too, so nothing to worry about. Wander around the vineyard, sit in the gardens gorging on the everlasting and beautiful breakfast. Walk off and find a sneaky perch for a little daily sojourn, goods attained as part of the wedding present from a seedy back room, two young guys unaware that they they can take their vanilla or Tangerine Dream away rather than blow in each other’s faces amongst the featureless walls. Sucking and blowing for its own sake.

Does it feel different to be civil partnered? The clans are joined, we have come officially into our families, we have literally tied the knot. We are together, forever. How cool. People ask, ‘how does it feel to be married? Do you feel any different?’ It is difficult to answer at this moment as my mind is still racing around trying to take it all in, but the anwer will be yes. A closened bond. A public display of love and commitment. We don’t like using the phrase ‘man and wife’ or ‘husband and wife’. We are not religious. We are staunchly feminist, humanist, into equality and nonhierarchical worlds. Leading individual paths together. Walking hand in hand down the street, ready to take on the world with a bit of extra power in our union.

photo by Paul Ramsbottom

Bank Holidays

Months pass without time to stop and think, an endless treadmill of work, gym, family, TV. As the buds of spring start to blossom, days stretch out further than Lance Armstrong’s stamina, mornings and evenings gradually blending into one. Bank holidays at Easter result in terminally long weekends. Bank holidays at the end of May result in extending this joyous month, a riot of colour and for one year only, no rain on the plain like Spain, parching the grass, concreting the soil. Another break arrives. Time to forget about the 9-5, replaced by excessively trying to catch up with all those other things which life throws uncaringly in front of you. Cleaning, tidying, sorting, moving, gardening, driving, deadening. Easter provides a break but one that defines the next stage, part two of the year. Winter is now truly behind us and beautiful bucolic times stretch ahead. The chance to watch your team lose twice rather than once over a long, long weekend. Top top players needed. So, by repeating words that means they are doubly important. We need a top top top top upgrade on all our players, manager and coaching staff. The food is good though, for the players. Fans suffer with blasted dodgy sausage rolls and overheated Balti pies. Extended weekends sometimes provide an opportunity to think about being creative, write some words, catch up on research, make music, take photographs. It always feels like the busiest time, when extra hours available are eaten by Pac Man munching creatures. Also, a time to read, books, paper, articles, to take a breath in and move forward. The pope died today after a long illness. Thoughtfully waiting until after his Sunday sermon before letting go, joining his friends in heaven and beyond, a good person by all accounts.

Bank holidays do have an end, but they are points in time where lots of people have the same time off. Not emergency or health workers, service trades or tourist spots. They are busier than normal coping with the mass of over drinking, overeating, dangerous swimming, human abandon. Time off from the daily grind. Moments which can feel uplifting and liberating if you are in a happy space, a couple, with family and friends but can be isolating, alone, watching men pot balls on a green baise, endlessly from cue tip to round object, bouncing around, trying to escape and leave nothing behind. The empty carnage from the stacked-up start of a frame. It is relaxing apparently, the heat of battle but with gentle contemplation, unfolding over time. Day after day after day. Bank holidays can change the flow of time, stop us in our tracks, Halt. Who goes there or where. Routines upended by not needing to do anything. So, we could mow the lawn, fix fittings, dump the unused wardrobe, reconfigure our spaces. Or just go for a long walk, aimlessly meandering off into the distance, not knowing when to turn round as there is no time limit. It just goes on. All is quiet in the countryside, whereas cities hum with eager anticipation, music, drink, desperate to party to ignore the upcoming slip back into tedium of normality. A release. Melancholic moments as your team finishes the season either relegated to a lower division or deep in mid table mediocrity, months of time off to contemplate the start of another cycle. New manager. New players. New kit. New hope. We start again.

End of May sparks festival season in my brain. Time to dive into the gently rotting shed and brush mildew off my festering tent. Will it appear again this year? Not yet, but in due time. preparing to stand outside in various weather forms, jigging and dancing and chatting, music wafting through the the ozone ecosystem pollen infected air. Time can finally standstill.

Weekends

I always get excited from a Thursday late afternoon onwards. The rhythm of the week drawing towards the excitement of the weekend. The end of the week. The finale. Why are we so drawn towards endings, not present in the moment but reaching out for the future. I am like that through the seasons. Desperately holding on through the everlasting dark of winter, looking for the first signs of spring, a new beginning, waiting for the end and a new start. Fridays are exciting, because it is soon going to be time for leisure. To relax. Unwind. But are weekends in reality like that? When you have children this is the time to fight your way to clubs, watch boring cartoons, worry about how to keep them occupied, stop them being bored. As an ageing adult I still love the approach of the weekend, but maybe it is this moment which is the most exciting part. The anticipation rather than the reality. We are constantly waiting. For that lottery win. For one of my tracks to be played on the radio. For that perfect job to arrive. For the post. For an email. For guests. For partners. For your football team to win. If they lose then this can ruin some weekends. How crazy is that. You wait in excitement and then are just bitterly disappointed yet again. Today, though, it is 6.30am on a beautiful late April Saturday morning in Devon. The golden sun is rising, starting to spread through our bungalow, glowing, rich, golden. All is quiet except for the occasional sound of rising birds. The beautiful dawn chorus interrupted by horrific seagull squalls. Two beautiful days spread out in front of us. The chance to chill. Mm possibly. Well actually my mother is arriving in a couple of hours and this place is a bit of a mess, so cleaning, scrubbing, tidying, shopping, cooking needs to happen. Daily chores that wait until the weekend. Surely the week is better then, when all you have to worry about is the day job. And that’s quite fun. Meeting friends, hanging out at the beach, sharing dinner, walking along the coastal path, swimming, exercising, browsing shops. All this is good. Saturday is activity day. Get all those chores and things out the way. Sunday. The only day of the week where I allow myself a lie in. Papers, books, articles, music. Through the week I mainly listen to talking on the radio but Sunday changes things. Sunday is music day. Exit from the real world and dream. Read articles on holidays. Plan your life. Allow a hangover to gently flow through your body, taking away an over active mind so that you exist in a semi dream state. Awake but chilled. Sundays can allow you to go with the natural flow, let the weather take you. Drift around. A holiday. A chance to potter in the garden. Hang out with friends. Take them back to the station after Sunday lunch. That great ritual. Lamb, chicken, pork, nut roast, gravy, too many potatoes. Sticky toffee pudding. Custard. Local beers. Snooze. Walk it off. Snack. Spend ages trying to find a film that might be good on the overly numerous streaming channels. One that you will both like. Possibly. The film comes to an unsatisfactory conclusion leading some debate on its merits. Then it is time. Time to think of the week ahead. At this moment the weekend ends. Abruptly. Getting ready for the week ahead. Meetings, emails to send, places to be, projects to rescue, people to support, money to be made. The dynamism of the week ahead racing through your mind, looking ahead to the next weekend.