2nd July: Getting frisky in a white van

My hair is supposed to be flirtatious honey blonde.   The reality is more of a straw-textured, Orange Fondant Cream than the raunchy Milky Bar I’d been hoping for, so this morning, just before the wedding, I’m spending ninety minutes back with Kelly.  Staring at my face in the brightly lit, mirror-adorned room I’m shocked to discover a matriarchal orangutan gawping back at me.  Why on earth haven’t friends, family and people at bus stops with better eyesight mentioned my beard?  There’s about ten, eleven, no fifteen sprouting hairs some of which are half a centimetre long.  I looked more like The Nurse, or even Friar Lawrence, than Juliet.

Between the hairdressers and my house I nip into the Queen Street Sainsbury’s and buy a bottle of brandy in case I need a tot to calm my Juliet-losing-virginity nerves.  The cashier doesn’t mention my beard but probably sends a Tweet about it. 

I’ve now got thirty minutes for a shower, depilation, present wrapping, dressing and makeup.  The present is a framed monoprint/collage of a stack of tea cups.  It’s not exactly Van Gogh but it’s an original, which, until last month was on display at Leicester’s Open Art Exhibition.  Luckily nobody bought it so I’m able to shift it to the bride and groom.  As for my frock, I’d planned to wear a bias-cut, silk, double-layered dress.  Unfortunately, the bias-cut is not forgiving when I’ve somehow put on five pounds in my sleep – how has this happened?  Has my vibrator got me pregnant?  Will I give birth to half a dozen twitchy-eared electric-blue bunnies?  Instead I opt for a chiffon TK Maxx number. The first dress had cost over £200 in a previous life, this second, wearable one was just £25. Woohoo! I am the world’s most glamorous van–driver.

I park Lauren LaVan on the Ashby Folville cricket pitch, finding a secluded flat spot under the oak trees.  This will be my bedroom for the night. The marquee, ready for the wedding reception is about two hundred yards to my left. I take a quick swig of brandy on my own in the van rather than venture solo into the Carington Manor pub, looking like a lost hooker.

Three double decker buses transport all of us guests to Barsby Church and it’s all very lovely.  The church is full of nearest and dearest, multiple bunches of hand-tied garden flowers and chunky white, lit candles.  The vicar talks about the marital symbolism of a bar of Twix even graphically telling the sniggering congregation (some of whom are stuffing orders of service into their mouths to muffle their laughter) why two fingers are always better than one.  I try to follow this with my Shakespeare reading but feel like a first-time stand-up comedian straight after the headline act at the Apollo. 

The bride and groom have asked a friend of theirs to do the wedding photography. He is tall, about my age, wearing a smart cream jacket and rather pleasingly, has an aura of confident safety.  He’d also get placed in the top three in a Burton’s mannequin lookalike contest. Towards the end of the ceremony there’s a commotion as he leans on one of the lit candles and his jacket catches fire.  Gosh.

In the marquee the table plan shows that I’m sitting next to the jacketless photographer.  Alison, the bride has been channeling her inner matchmaker.  “Have you heard of the Burning Man festival?” I ask him because I’m very witty after three large Pimms.

“No.”

This is the first wedding he’s photographed as he normally specialises in red kites and little owls.  His day job is as a University lecturer in Artificial Intelligence and he’s still doing his PhD but after dating four professors I’m relieved that he’s a thickie.  He also voted for Brexit so there’s no need to excitedly phone my mother.  On the other hand, my internal automata of a single woman in possession of no sofa, no sofa companion, and in need of etcetera, still resorts to flicking her hair, applying more lipstick and, yes, thank you, I will have another glass.   Lidl really do have some jolly good wines, Aldi as well… and the middle-class conversations continue.

A few well-oiled hours later when Brexit Bloke is taking photographs, hopefully of wedding guests, not kingfishers and kestrels, and especially not that naughty seabird, the shag, another guest sits next to me.  “That bloke’s not right for you.”

“Why not? He’s nice. We’re getting on well.”

            “He’s too missionary for you.”  I ponder this probably accurate observation.  Yes, at any other stage of my life he might be too straight for me with his immaculate nails, shiny shoes and military haircut, but seeing as I’m about to become a vagrant it might be lovely to have a secure, reliable anchor tethered within driving distance.  We are jigsaw pieces from different jigsaws but that doesn't mean we can't try to connect in a surreal juxtaposition for a while.  Brexit?  What’s Brexit? 

At about midnight Brexit-Bloke offers to walk me home.  This is the most unnecessary accompaniment of my life but a rather giggly action in front of the remaining guests.  “Gen!” a voice calls to me. “Are you sure you’re going to be alright?”

“Yes, I think he’s safe.”  He isn’t just safe but useful too as he knows how to switch Lauren’s electrics over to the 12-volt circuit so that we have some romantic light.   As soon as the van door is shut he kisses me and I snog his face off.  We get to know each other a wee bit better over the following two hours but remain mostly clothed.  He even leaves his glasses in the van which is surely a deliberate Cinderella-style, gender-swapping action.  And, yes - fingers crossed he’s short-sighted so won’t notice my beard.

There are three possible sleeping positions for tonight: single, small double or large double.  High on champagne and snogging I choose the easiest to assemble, the single, which takes just two minutes to convert from the passenger cab-seat and the armchair in the lounge area. 

This has been an excellent day, probably even better than Debbie Harry’s.