Confetti & Cake …and a Ghost Baby
by Sylvia A. Winters
The other weekend was my friends’ wedding, and it was amazing. I knew it would be, but I was not prepared for the emotional impact there, the way everyone teared up as the bride and groom’s voices cracked saying their vows, the fact that everyone looked so fucking beautiful.
There were a couple of ‘oh god’ moments, a fellow bridesmaid’s zip broke as we were getting ready and she had to be sewn into her dress (and then later ripped out of it), and then the same bridesmaid (so glad it wasn’t me) got her stiletto heel caught in a drain outside the church just as we were about to start going down the aisle, and it took three people to yank it out. Thankfully the weather just about held out, the rain didn’t start until we were back in the jags and on our way to the venue.
The venue was fucking amazing. Sabine Baring-Gould’s old stomping grounds, Lewtrenchard Manor, a big old English country estate where we were served drinks on arrival and portraits of ladies and gentlemen in the finest 18th and 19th century dress stared down at us from every wall (including one chap who appeared to be touching himself). There were a few strange items littered about the place, including a small baby’s rocking cot outside our room, made of the kind of mahogany wood I’d usually associate with coffins, and inside the room were a pair of creepy old teddy bears in the fireplace. Thus ‘ghost baby’, the meme of the night, was born.
There was a photo booth and a silent cinema to occupy us, but mostly we just kept hitting the bar. There were gifts handed out at the dinner for the bridesmaids, best man, and bride and groom’s parents, and speeches aplenty, and the dinner itself was amazing. Later on, after the cake cutting (the cake was a chalkboard effect to match the silent cinema and the photo booth), there was a swing band and the first dance, and that moment of panic as me and the other bridesmaids realised we had to dance practically sober to save our friends from still being the only ones on the dance floor.
My friend and I spent a lot of our time watching one of the bride’s uncles, a rather suave looking, white-haired chap who we first noticed outside during the group photographs, a scarf slung over one shoulder and a bottle of wine under his arm. Once he hit the dance floor, he didn’t leave it, and danced solidly for a good three and a half hours, although I assume that at some point he must have left briefly to refuel on wine.
When I got home the next day, I went to sleep and didn’t wake up for twenty hours. Twenty hours wasn’t enough, but sadly I had to go back to work so nothing could really be done about that. Being near Dartmoor has inspired me again, I think, and I’m just starting to plot out a little horror story, although my laptop is away for repairs after someone sat on it, so I’m going to have to do most of that by hand.
I’m looking forward to a quiet and relaxing week now, to do some reading, tidy up a bit and get some writing done. Mostly I’m going to be considering the pros and cons of fostering rats to keep my old girls company (Ren has officially hit 2 now). I’ll also be going through yet more edits for Bat’s Children and trying to thing of things to say in the guest blog posts I’m doing on it (more details on those later). Oh, and voting in the EU referendum tomorrow. I won’t say which way I’m voting, but I’m sure you can guess.
And now, more sleep.