The fake beards just arrived. All thirty-six of them. It seemed like a good idea at the time; that and calling up a load of his mates behind his back to summon them to his ceremonial crossing into the fifth decade next Sunday afternoon.

♫ “For he’s a jolly good fellow..” ♫ 

I say fifth decade, but he’s only forty (Christ. I’d hate to be that age… again). It’s a current favourite of mine to freak people with. Like they didn’t already suspect. I’m annoying like that. I’ve been using it since my mate delighted in reminding me I was technically in my fourth decade when the bells struck thirty. But I already had form when it came to age-related anxiety when I turned 25; specifically the relentless echo from Miss Carr’s maths class (pass, obviously), warning us to round that decimal number off to the next whole number from point five onward. Ah, thirty. I knew you too well.

I say afternoon so it won’t clash with Room to Improve or any other sadistic middle-aged viewing rituals that involve roaring obscenities at the TV like…”how in the name of good fuck did they get the money to do that?”, swiftly followed by “we should invite Dermot round for tea sometime”. Other fantasy guests include: Ross Noble, Will Hanafin, and David McSavage. Besides, it’s the only time people can’t make up shit about not being able to find a baby-sitter (the real reason for having children). And I find all parents’ ability to conduct a conversation slowly grinds to a halt by early evening, after which time I’ve heard enough about what Sophia did at creche, or in the frozen food aisle in Tesco,  or with Mummy and Daddy’s condom stash, or wherever. Fascinating. And it’s the slot he’ll least expect a party to be sprung on him. Insert dirty Muttley laugh here.

Trying to organise a wedding you never had vicariously through a surprise birthday party is at once immensely pleasurable and painful. Pleasurable for seeing him strain to conceal the sad dejected face he didn’t realise he had when he initially warned me (rather forthrightly, I feel) not to make a fuss. It took just one bluff suggestion of ‘early bird meal’ for the martyr mask to slip. “Oh, right”. Was there ever a more loaded expression? In another double-bluff victory for fake authenticity, I’m lining up a little weaner size of a cake from the bargain shelf of M&S for the fridge the previous evening *blows fingers, buffs lapels*. No, really *hand up* I love all my work even without your admiration.

I’ve also managed to share the pain from the process between us by doing that annoying thing of absentmindedly starting a sentence before dismissing it as quickly with a “oh, nothing”. Examples include..

1. “That…[blank]…oh nothing”

2. “Christ…[blank]..oh nothing”

3. “I wonder…[blank]..oh nothing”

4. “You should…[blank]..oh nothing”

Answers to these blanks at the bottom of this page.

Meanwhile, I’m going to have to resist all urges to break open the beards. At three in the morning the idea was hatched, it didn’t occur to me that I would have to provide a rationale to his Mother and others as to why they should wear them. And “Je suis *insert his name here*” doesn’t seem all that funny now.

But fuck it. It’ll be grand. Nothing can possibly go wrong.

Answers:

pǝɹǝpɹo ǝʌ,I ǝʞɐɔ ǝɥʇ ǝǝs ˙ㄣ
ʎɐpunS uo ɥɔǝǝds ɐ ǝʞɐɯ puɐ lɐuoᴉʇoɯǝ llɐ ʇǝƃ llᴉʍ pɐp ɹnoʎ ɟᴉ ˙Ɛ
¿ɥǝ ‘pɹᴉǝʍ ʇᴉq ɐ sᴉ sɹnoʎ ɟo puǝᴉɹɟ ssᴉʍS ʇɐɥʇ ˙ᄅ
ƃuᴉʞooq dnoɹƃ ɐ ɹoɟ lɐǝp ʇɐǝɹƃ ɐ sǝop ʇuɐɹnɐʇsǝɹ ˙Ɩ

One of the benefits of being married to a man with an inscrutable face, is the freedom to share certain questionable thoughts without fear of facial reprisal. There wouldn’t be much difference in his responses to say “can I get you a cuppa?” and “I think I’m dying. No, seriously. Help me.”, while adopting a semi-keeling over position in the case of the latter.  His expression would remain blank. And he would doubtless insist on completing both tasks himself.

As it happened, my self-diagnosis was slightly off-beam. Rather than suffering a heart attack brought on by the hedonistic lifestyle of my 20s that finally boomeranged to wipe me out after surrendering to sobriety (frequently overheard at my funeral: “And she had just given up carbs and bitterness”. Insert head-shaking and hand-wringing here), the tremors were palpitations and random muscle twitching. A death-scare detonated by excessive caffeine in-take in rapid time. And it hadn’t yet struck ten on a weekend morning, which was more likely the probable cause of my temporary organ failure.

More often than not, it is to his credit that he refrains from erupting into eye-rolls, grimaces and tears. Here is a sample of some of the things I declared with a dead straight face over the weekend that merited one or all:

“I’ve decided I’m going to become a Humanist celebrant”

I truly believed it in that moment. For anything is possible when you’ve had a dire week at work. You can simultaneously punch yourself with one fist for minor failings while caressing your cheek with delusions of grandeur clutched in the other, plucked when listening to a radio documentary on folk who marry and bury folk with such skillful professionalism they make it look easy.

Other recent instances of job envy:

Toll road booth collectors: Some of the happiest people on the planet. Doubtful there’d be enough material there for a documentary, but whatever it is that keeps their bearable cheeriness on show, I’m game.

Postwoman: Recession-proof. Minimal interaction with the public. Uniform. Postman Pat for a role model. Getting paid to exercise and lose weight. What’s not to love?

“I’m going to give that 5:2 diet a go”

Potential perfect get-out clause for those of us not arsed with cooking on a Monday and Tuesday. And there would be no need to waste valuable Sunday evening time preparing dinner for the following day. Time that could be better spent sitting on the sofa running my fingers through the mane of The Fear in dreaded anticipation of Monday coming round. And wondering how I’m going to fill the empty TV void in the wake of The Fall finishing.

“That new David Gray song isn’t bad”

In fairness, I waited an entire week before admitting it. Then backed it up later by reading aloud an article that confirmed he had broken off his under-the-table hand-holding with Telestar and was back plumbing the depths of his remaining credibility.

I tend to pull that reading aloud tactic whenever I stumble on scientific proof the world agrees with me (i.e. one columnist. A blogger will do. What do you mean they’re both writers? Ha). “Listen to this”.. a sure sign there is some righteousness afoot along with unbearable self-satisfaction. Both mine.

“I’m just the annex of your life”

There might have been a cameo appearance from a few hormones, and an invasion of the ridiculous that even I was aware of, but I wasn’t going to back down from a non-argument with anything other than a flourish of excessive melodrama that required me to turn away and conceal my own laugh. I’ve an awful feeling I’m going to blurt that one out accidentally again, the new recurring motif in my irrational line of defense for behaving like a wanker. At least it beats “you’re so remote” that had long passed its expiry date.

“You’ll never guess. I was mistaken for a homeless person”

At an ATM in Dublin of all places. Maybe it’s the heightened level of concern and consciousness following the devastating death of a young man in a doorway close to government headquarters last week, but I couldn’t help but think it was down to my poverty chic. It must’ve been because the bloke just dived in in front of me in the queue then did a double-take and apologised on failing to locate a polystyrene cup about my person. I like to fashion myself on those put-upon, impoverished, rural pensioners and strive to emulate the best with my daring season defining shawl.

It was my opening anecdote when I met my mate five minutes later in the cafe opposite. And was demolished moments after by the contents of a private message she’d just received on Facebook from a guy she was half-trying to work up some chemistry with to see where it would lead them.

“I suppose a shag with you in a strap-on is still out of the question?”

I’m so robbing that one.

“How do you spell that again, Peig?”

“S..t..r..a..p..o..n”

.

Hi there

Just got your info from the weddingsonline.ie site. I was wondering if you would be available for hair & make-up on Tuesday 20th September. I’m getting married in the registry office at 3:30pm. It’s just the pair of us without guests or glamour but I’d like to look half decent. We’re travelling to the city the previous evening so a trial in advance wouldn’t really be an option. Just to have my hair styled would be grand, and some light make-up would be great. You can advise me on cost, location etc. We’ll likely be staying in a city centre hotel. You’d be welcome to come there if need be. Hope to hear from you soon.

Many thanks

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Congratulations on your wedding,
Yes i am available for your date.

I would be able to do your hair and make up in your hotel,  e mail where you are staying when you have made a decision.
There would be no charge for travel as it’s in the city centre, for both hair and make up it would cost you €80.

If you have an idea on how you would like your hair and make up to look e mail me some pictures so I can have the relevant colours etc with me.

Take care and talk soon
—————————————————————————————————–

That’s great. Thanks for getting back so quickly.

I’ll let you know where we’re staying once we’ve booked, and what colour my dress is when I get it.

I don’t usually wear make-up, so I’m comfortable with a fairly light make-over when I do.

My hair is shortish but enough length to tie it up. It has a kink and I normally curl it with a diffuser and wrapping it round my fingers. Could probably do with defining the curls a bit and tidying it up at the back. I’m not overly fussed to honest. I’ll try to send you a photo nearer the time too.

Will be in touch again soon.

All the best

————————————————————————————————-

can i just have a contact number so i can hold the date for you?
looking forward to hearing from you with all your wedding plans.

kind regards

—————————————————————————————————

We are alike in so many ways. For instance, we both have eyes, and a nose.

Hi again

Just to let you know this is the dress I’ll be wearing [insert meringue here] I’ll be less than half as glamorous, and six months gone by then. I’ll probably wear black tights & shoes (though any suggestions to the contary would be welcome).

My hair is auburnish. Had a look through some upstyles. Tied up at the back (nape of neck) would be grand, but I’d prefer something more on the dishevelled side than a slick do.  Maybe not a million miles from Eva thingiemabob’s style in this picture.. http://www.weddingsonline.ie/discussion/viewtopic.php?f=13&t=294895&start=60  except I’ve a side-parting and a raggedy fringe.

Will be in contact nearer the date with hotel details.

Best wishes

———————————————————————————————–

It’s always the same. The bride glides down the aisle, and no sooner has the groundhog titter at the priest’s threadbare welcoming joke petered out than we’re into the first reading. From gold-gilded pages of ornate cursive print, chosen friends read aloud solemn definitions of love. Love is patient, love is kind. Love is never having to shave your legs with the same regularity etc.. And though this is a celebration of our two hosts, all I can think about are the guests.

I estimate the row directly in front has a combined 150 years of marriage between them. Stalwarts of an institution that has no notion of going away. How do these words ring in their ear-pieces now? Do they chime with how it played out, or has time earned them a detached wry smile?

How about you two over there – what, five years since you strut back down from the same altar thoroughly delighted with yourselves? What are your thought bubbles saying to each other now two children on? They steal a joke between them, their vibrating shoulders suggesting all is well. I eventually avert my thought bubble away from the couple nearby them who have hit a kink on the road, hopeful that their pooled silence will form a landing plain for a reminder on love that could matter for the better.

No couple on the brink of commitment is going to feel the true weight of these spoken-worded warnings on marriage. How it requires minding if it is to go the distance of our silver-haired role models up front, and the dangers of leaving it to fend for itself. It is the private thoughts of onlookers that suspend belief in the fairy-tale for those few minutes, however wide the grins of the newly-weds to be. The test of a marriage is to sit through another couple’s wedding ceremony. An opportunity to invigilate your own re-sit on the vows you pledged.

I hone in on the man next to me, whom I took for better or worse three years ago this month. Just the two of us, and a pair of witnesses picked up along the way. And still, I managed to mess up the brief responses required of me, mixing “I do” with “I will”. Looking sideways at him now, having failed to escape the guilt trowelled on by St. Paul (himself a bit of a misogynist shit by all accounts), I want to tell him I definitely will. I will try a bit better, be less of a wanker. He looks back, inscrutable at first, then looks at me in that way when he’s fearful I’m about to go off on one about the Catholic Church. Or he suddenly realises he is married to a drag queen after she let herself go.

So, I take the fancy order of service and tickle him under the chin with the feather attached. He does his Ken Dodd laugh, and I crack up. We later join the procession of couples yawning out of the church into the rain, scurrying in different directions.