The random witterings of Jonathan Morris, writer.

Friday, 16 October 2009

This Time Tomorrow

Today was the day before I got married. I’m writing about it six days later because, as you might expect, I’ve had better things to do. It’s only out of a desire not to let events slip into half-forgotten memory that I’m typing about them now.

The day before I got married was like any other; I was writing a script, it was going okay, keeping out of the way of D and her bridesmaids. Was I nervous about the following day? I’d woken up from a few nightmares; my fear wasn’t that D wouldn’t turn up, or that she would unexpected be replaced by the Dark Lord Voldemort, or that it would rain, snow or earthquake. My fear was always that the day would end with D crying her heart out and using the word ‘ruined’. For me, the day would be a success if it ended with us hitched; anything else, to use the rock star cliche, would be a bonus.

That was my fear. Not standing up in front of people – though I was wary of mis-pronouncing my own surname, I’ve never been happy about my Rs, and of my speech lead ballooning, or my best man doing his ‘fisting’ joke. All that mattered that enough people turned up and those that did had a good time – to use another rock star cliche. So long as the people who mattered made it.

I also finished writing my speech on this day; it won’t be going on this blog, if you weren’t there, you’ll have to ask me on Facebook or email me. And in the evening there was the traditional pre-wedding outing to Pizza Express for an American Hot. My parents had phoned to say they’d arrived. And so my last evening of bachelorhood was spent first dropping off boxes of things for the next day at the venue – the reception hall looking sombre, dark and echoey, the taxi driver having no idea how to get there - before drinking far too much red wine and chatting with S, his D, and SGrw.

After that, a taxi back to mine and an amusing half hour where I was the Boy Born With No Brain as I struggled to find everything I’d need for the next day; the flat had been Tidied so nothing was where it normally lived. I had to phone out for the location of my shoes. Then a taxi to SB’s, where I would be staying the night on a gradually deflating bed. Probably very good for my posture.

More red wine – and plenty of water to prevent hangover – and we watched a couple of episodes of a Family Guy spin-off thing, in which the funniest thing was that the next-door neighbour was a bear, and two Star Wars parodies by a sketch show called Robot Chicken which were amusing but required quite a lot of concentration after so much red wine. And then, to sleep – to sleep like a log on a punctured lilo.

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