Gaining A Son

So. Little Miss Farty is no more; now it's Mrs Drummer.

The service went very well, flower girls strew petals down the aisle as I led my daughter to meet her new husband. She didn't recoil in shock when she saw his face, which I took as a good sign.

The minister said a few words: when it came to the "any lawful impediment" part, he didn't even pause to draw breath; you don't want to take any chances with these things.

Rings were exchanged and the deed was done.

A quick pause outside for photos and then Mr & Mrs D headed down to Arthur's Seat for the scenic shots while the hoi polloi were carted off in a coach. Meanwhile the ladies and I climbed into the stretch limo and relaxed as we were transported in comfort and luxury to a classy hotel just outside the city.

Spacious grounds, sunny weather, hardly a breath of wind - hard to believe a week ago it was snowing here. A leisurely drink before the bride and groom arrived, then a blitz of photos. To everyone who asked, "But where's your own camera?", I replied that I had absolute trust in the professional photographer. Which left me free to get pissed.

The hotel staff were friendly and efficient, showing us all the way to our room. A bicycle would have helped: getting there involved negotiating a maze of twisty little passages, all different.

With the meeting and greeting out of the way, a kilted piper serenaded the happy couple into the wedding breakfast. Butternut soup, roast lamb or chicken, followed by sticky toffee pudding were all on the menu but first! The speeches.

Yes, I did do the bit about rising from a warm seat with a bit of paper in my hand (thanks to Non-Working Monkey for that), right through to my daughter being the reigning SE Scotchland Farmville Champion, which got a laugh from everyone under thirty and puzzled looks from everyone else.

And then got totally outclassed by the Best Man speech with accompanying slideshow. Grr!

Missed the first dance as Mrs F and I were up in our room trying to get our granddaughter, Princess Farty, settled. Not. Going. To. Happen. Eventually mum and dad arrived, picked her up and took her down to show her off to the guests. They were suitably impressed that at eight months she was dancing to All The Single Ladies, even though she can't walk yet.

There was a special request from Mr & Mrs D just for me - Westlife singing Amazing. Which was quite thoughtful, considering that they know full well I can't stand the talentless Irish coverband. I'm already plotting my revenge. Patience.

Three little old ladies turned up - I didn't see them arrive, but surmised that they had come by broomstick. I swear I heard one say, "When will we three meet again?"

And once we'd said goodbye to the last of the guests, and made our way back to our room, we found that we'd forgotten to pack Mrs F's underwear, my pajamas, her nightie, my jeans, any toothbrushes...as you do.

Slept soundly, then up at the crack of ten o'clock just in time for a quick shower before a fab breakfast with the folks who had stayed the night. Still wearing the kilt (see above), but combined with a t-shirt because I'm classy.

Cadged a lift home, opened the door to a bombsite. "Oh, my God, we've been burgled again!" wailed Mrs F. "No, wait. This is how we left it yesterday. Oh, lordy!"

Fast forward to Monday, where just as I was about to return my kilt to the hire shop, daughter-in-law dropped off her sons' outfits with an abject, "Sorry about the vomit." Lovely.

Oh, and if you were wondering if anything is worn under the kilt? See the labels below.