NS August 10th, 2007

Wedding and holiday mania have officially taken over my time, wallet and brain. I’ve been running around like a madwoman all week, shopping and running endless errands that need to be done before tomorrow (Tim’s wedding) or Tuesday (the day we leave for Crete).

I had a hell of a time finding a dress to wear but I finally got a gorgeous one from Monsoon yesterday and then accessorised it beautifully with a pair of heels, a pashmina, earrings, a bracelet and a bag. All in the space of an hour and a half. Damn, I’m good. Well, damn Sara and I are good — what else are friends for if not helping you in a shopping emergency in a limited space of time? She stood patiently outside the dressing room and dutifully zipped, unzipped, got different sizes, found matching pash, held my bags while I tried on shoes, and ran ahead to the next store to get in the queue while I finished paying at another.

The reason that shopping had become an emergency is because of a phone call Paul received on Wednesday night. Tim, whose wedding reception we were set to attend on Saturday evening (ceremony for family only) phoned to ask if Paul would be his stand-in best man. His brother came down with the mumps (adults get the mumps?!) and couldn’t come to the wedding for fear of infecting everyone else. Did you know that mumps in an adult can cause sterility? Hey, I suppose if you’re looking for long-term birth control…I could give you his number and you could go lick the inside of his cheek or something.

Anyway, so Paul is now best man which means we’re going to the small, intimate ceremony at 11am, which means I can’t really wear my black evening dress and fire engine red lipstick. Well, I could, but I’d feel a bit like the proverbial whore in church. Besides which, I’d already been told that I can’t wear black to the Greek wedding next week so I needed a new dress for that one too. Kill two birds with one stone and all that. It’s expensive, this wedding business, especially destination ones. New outfit, suit for Paul, travel cot for Amelia, swimsuits, a myriad of toiletries and sun lotions, sun hat, etc…the amount of things needed to go on a beach holiday and attend a wedding seem to be something resembling a bottomless pit.

I spent last night helping Paul write his best man’s speech, which he has had two nights to work on. Poor guy. I think what he’s written is pretty good so far and I’m sure he’ll do fine, but it must be nerve-wracking to write and perform a speech at such short notice. And he’s not exactly the most comfortable of public speakers, let me tell you. He tends to cross his arms over himself protectively, mumble and talk reallyreallyquickly. He’s gotten better over the years though, after much prodding and pushing from me and a bit of Dutch courage beforehand. Here’s hoping it’s a success.

In other news, I am officially a wuss. I am dreading the thought of being in hot weather in Greece and long for the perfect 25 degrees Celsius (77F) that it is in the UK right now. It’s freakin’ 35 in Crete this week (95F) and expected to reach 39 (102F) while we’re there. Ga-reat. Nothing says happy holiday like skin cancer and sunstroke. I’m going to die, I just know it. My lily-white skin and delicate sensibilities have been used to the mild, cloudy, will-it-ever-stop-fucking-raining weather of this damn island and is not prepared for the hot as hell, shadeless and thankless, does-this-place-actually-sit-ON-the-sun’s surface, lovely little Greek island.

Also, I’m feeling slightly grumpy and apprehensive about having a kid with us for the first time on a beach holiday. Who the hell is going to watch her while I sit in a sun lounger for hours one end, reading novels and taking part in the thrice-daily happy hour? When I went to Mexico a few years ago, I was on a first name basis with the poolside cocktail waiters by the end of the first day. To this day, I still make the sign of the cross and mutter a prayer for Juan and Guillermo when I have a frozen drink. Gracias, mi hermanos.

Oh, and also? Next time I go on holiday with Paul and his family, we are going somewhere where I am not the only person who doesn’t speak a lick of the language. We go to France, they all speak French in varying degrees. We go to Greece and I’m the only one who doesn’t speak a word. Next time we’re going to Spain or Argentina or something. Then I’ll show them! I’ll use my mediocre, halting Spanish to order eggs and rice and ask where the bathrooms are and then point in their faces and go “Ha! Suckerrrrrrs! I speaky Spanish and you don’t, la la la la la la!” Ha. That’ll learn ‘em.

I leave you with this Imogen Heap song which, apparently, has a bunch of dorks’ knickers in a twist as they try to figure out what the lyrics ‘mean.’ Jesus, since when did every song have to mean something, you know? Why can’t it be about nothing, the Jerry Seinfeld of songs? I gave up on decoding lyrics long ago. Just enjoy the music!

• Miscellaneous Missives , Travel
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