First Dance

Sally and James were a couple you would probably describe as bland. I wasn't quite sure what to make of them upon first meeting, but I quickly warmed to them for their ease and inoffensiveness. Easy-going to say the least and not particularly excited about their forthcoming event, we almost solemnly trudged through the systems and processes of their not-so-big day. No line-up, no top table thanks, no clapping in... Sigh. Ok. The excitement of last week's funeral tea was already overtaking this event on a scale of 1-10!

I was somewhat curious therefore to receive a phonecall from Sally some days before their wedding requesting another meeting to discuss a 'surprise' she and James were planning for their guests. Sipping a lonesome vodka, then two others that evening, I pondered what this could be.

Three vodkas found their way to five. I once again found myself dancing enthusiastically around the lounge to the nostalgic sounds of Glen Miller, pretending I was elsewhere and drowning in the gleeful vibes of another era altogether; a magical place where romance and chivalry, red roses and handkissing still existed. A place where rounded hips and dresses and plump breasts represented femininity and ladies smiled shyly as the gents walked them home under a sky filled with moonlight and stars. A world where an invitation upstairs for coffee (coffee/'kofi:/n. 1 a drink made from the roasted and ground beanlike seeds of a tropical shrub of the genus Coffea; a cup of this; these seeds; the shrub 2 v. sexual intercourse) was unheard of (unless of course you were Holly Golightly or a lady of such ilk) and you could bathe in the innocent anticipation of the next romantic date. Afternoon tea, supper, a stroll in the park, dancing?

Waking somewhat painfully the next morning, I concluded that I had watched way too much Disney as a child and made a mental note that, if I was to continue dancing around the front room in future, I MUST get a curtain up there as soon as possible

James and Sally met me at 5pm the following evening in the Banqueting Suite. Handing me a Norah Jones CD, they explained that for some weeks now, they had been rehearsing a waltz for their first dance. Would I mind possibly playing DJ to their choreography for a few minutes so they could find their way around the dancefloor? I felt like a peeping Tom to their awkward intimacy, as I hit 'play' over and over. It was like standing behind someone in the supermarket queue as they entered their pin number. I wasn't quite sure where to look. The dance went on and on and failed every time. Overstepped the dancefloor; Sally didn't turn; James turned the wrong way; Sally tripped forwards when she should have slid backwards and James wasn't leading properly. Oh God. I felt their nerves and just didn't know what to say. So I didn't. I stood there, patiently pressing the buttons wondering how this would ever work on the day. Surely 45 minutes must have passed by now? I so wanted to tell them to give up and not put this unnecessary pressure upon themselves.


One last time and they had nearly got it, so they decided to quit right there while they were a little way ahead. Neither bride nor groom had moved passionately to the rhythm of their chosen music - there was no letting down of hair, no fun, no laughter. In fact, the dance was uninspiring and possessed very little other than the determined persistence in getting it right. It suddenly dawned on me however, that maybe this was one marriage that could work. As they woodenly shuffled around the dance floor, smiling nervously each time they got it wrong, I was reminded of what must have been the virginal fumblings of weddings long ago. Neither James nor Sally had snapped at the other, nor had they lost their tempers or thrown tantrums. They worked peacefully and respectfully in their task, doing their best to ensure that neither trod on the other's toes. Smiling at them both, I admired their determination to get this right and their tolerance for each other's mistakes, and felt lucky that I had somehow found the wisdom to see through their seeming lack of joie de vivre and passion, to spot what was in fact a gentle and loving partnership. I secretly wished them all the best and much happiness for their future together, and silently prayed to someone up there that on their big day, they would get it just right.

Til Death Do Us Part

With beginnings must come endings, so it seems natural I suppose, if a little disappointing, that funeral teas should make the occasional appearance in my ever-expanding job description. Hmph, not what the freelance Wedding Planner would have to endure, I was quite sure about that!

Not surprisingly I was feeling a little apprehensive about my first funeral, so I ran through a few 'sympathetic facial expression' practice runs in the Ladies before setting up the buffet table in the Banqueting Suite. I was finding it quite difficult to perfect 'sympathy' however, without looking like a patrionising therapist, so abandoned the project promptly to focus on the tasks that lay ahead. Why was it that funeral teas always consisted of jam and cream scones? And fruit cake? And tea? Scribbling on my mental jotter, I noted that I would require lobster, pink champagne and a cheerful rendition of 'Ding Dong the Witch is Dead' at my send off! I shrugged with a mild excitement at the thought, but then realised I wouldn't actually be at the party, so maybe champagne was a bit of a waste. I crossed out champagne and scrawled 'Cava' in its place and filed it under 'Funeral' in the great, hopeless heap of an imaginery filing cabinet located somewhere in the depths of my head.

As the guests began to assemble at the tea station, I tried, casually, to spot the guest that looked the most grieved as I rocked the teapot back and forth filling grateful cups. I had no idea who had lost whom and more importantly, wasn't sure who would be paying the bill. All arrangements had taken place over the telephone. Darn it. All the musty, black uniforms seemed to be talking to everybody and all silver-topped faces wore polite yet inexpressive expressions. Not to worry, I'm sure the bill payer, a Mr Goodman, would make himself known at some point.

By now my right index finger was becoming a little numb. I had never poured so much tea in my life, and I quickly checked the 'bar' status to find just one gentleman ordering a pint of Guinness. I was reminded of my trip to the local supermarket just after Christmas when it was undergoing a refit and the heating had been turned off, and I had lost all feeling in my finger by the time I arrived home with the shopping. Sensation returned a good two hours and a hot bath later, and when chatting to my good friend Jane some days later, she diagnosed 'dead man's finger' and confirmed she had once suffered the same ailment. Always a comfort to know you are not alone in your suffering.

Finally, a Mrs Goodman sauntered up to the coffee urn, drained a cupful and asked who she should see about the bill. Mr Goodman it seemed was the deceased, which puzzled me somewhat as I had spoken to a gentleman claiming to be the same. A brother perhaps? I smiled with my practiced sympathy and told her that that would indeed be myself. "The thing is" she said, smiling sadly "I was wondering if you wouldn't mind me popping in next week to pay? It's a very difficult day for me and I just can't face having to deal with such formalities. I hope you understand". I returned the smile and stayed quiet for a second. What the hell was I supposed to do now? " The thing is Mrs Goodman..." As I began to reply, she pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at the corner of her eye. "That won't be a problem at all" I heard myself saying. "Don't you worry about it, next week will be absolutely fine Mrs Goodman". She faintly nodded her gratitude to me and slowly made her way to the buffet table and helped herself to another jam and cream scone. Oh Christ what was I going to do now? I could only hope and pray she would pay up next week otherwise I had a horrible feeling my job may well be undertaking a funeral of its own.

On and on the dreary party continued; scone after scone devoured; teapot after teapot drained dry. Barely a penny spent on the bar and had the poor soul who passed over popped in for a quick sec to see how it all was going (I've heard this can often be the case) I was quite sure he'd have died all over again from the sheer boredom of it.

Once the guests began trickling away, I made my way to reception to confess the non-payment of bill situation to Lisa Jenkins, and silently prayed for some sympathy of my own. "And to top it all off" I hissed with good humour, "I've got bloody 'dead man's finger' now from pouring 100 pots of bloody tea!" Lisa's eyes suddenly appeared to be popping out of her head! Hearing a quiet gasp just to my left, I turned just in time to see Mrs Goodman and a frowning friend reversing from the reception desk to make their way to the exit. Oh God. Oh Christ Almighty. 'Dead man's finger'. I felt the blood zoom from my toes right up to my hairline as I muttered a barely audible 'so sorry' to a hastily retreating audience.

Much later we laughed. And much later, the beautiful and haunting sounds of Welsh song rose from the bar. One or two had stayed on and dug deep into their pockets for an ale, and then another. I wondered how the other hotel residents would react to this tuneful disruption to their evening meals and hoped they would embrace, at last, the soulful sounds of a Welsh wake. Hastily blinking tears away I was suddenly filled with an immense pride for my heritage. Closing my eyes for a second, I allowed the voices to become those of my Grandfather, and his Grandfather, and his Grandfather before that. The hotel guests couldn't fail to be captivated, bound to their chairs with a respect and wonder at the ghosts of a singing nation filling the room.

Sighing bitter-sweetly to myself, I wondered if one of those ghosts might be my mother, singing away, eyes twinkling and clapping her hands with joy as she welcomed a Mr Goodman to the green, green grass of his new home in the sky.

June

June seems to have become rather hazy over the last few years. Working for just two days a week now, her pride is in tact, but sadly the same cannot be said for her memory. A lovely, elderly lady who has worked at the hotel for many years, June finds herself in the late autumn of her years and refuses point blank to step boldly into winter. And who can blame her? Winter is a chilly season to wander around in alone.

Having been the Maitre D of the busy hotel restaurant for the past 25 years, June's duties have now been reduced to polishing glasses, incorrectly totalling lunch bills and taking dessert orders, only to ensure they never arrive. "Yes Phillip" a customer recently said to the proprietor some weeks later, "we had a smashing meal, but sadly we're still waiting for dessert! Better for the waistline mind you!" he guffawed good-heartedly. Poor old June.

Of course, you can never tell when June will actually turn up for work. Tuesdays and Thursdays are her official days, however she often decides that, as it's Thursday and nearly the end of the week anyway, "there's not much point in coming in then 'is there love really?" Sometimes, on a Friday however, June turns up for work, beaming broadly with lippy freshly applied to her ageing teeth. I have to gently remind her that it's Friday and she shouldn't be in. "Why's that then?"

Most of the time, June does remember to polish some of the glasses in the restaurant; however, midway through her task, she decides her new false tooth could do with a polish too, so uses the same cloth and the same enthusiasm, regardless of whom she may be chatting to at the time. None of us can help but chide her in this task and she looks genuinely puzzled as to why we would mind as she hobbles back to the restaurant to finish off the glasses. I say 'hobble' not because June is becoming immobile but because June has recently discovered a verruca between her second and third toe and, 'hell it's sore'. Puzzled, I asked June one afternoon how on earth she had managed to contract a verruca, because you normally pick them up from swimming baths, and I was fairly certain she had never mentioned going swimming. "Swimming? I HATE the water! TERRIFIED of it! It's all you could ever do to get me into the bath". I laughed along with her until she then exclaimed "that's why you won't get me in the shower! I can't BEAR water on my face!"

We have a new Bar Manager now who has a degree in astro physics apparently. Work that one out. June has kindly taken Tom under her wing and likes to remind him every week that the ice machine is broken and doesn't wash dishes any more. One morning, after showing Tom the said machine for the 7th time, June spotted a foreign-looking bottle of Passoa on the shelf behind the bar. Quietly taking it down, she asked Tom what this was. "That's lovely June, it's a passion fruit liqueur. I think you'd like that". Unscrewing the bottle, June put it to both nostrils and inhaled deeply. "OOooooh HELL that smells nice" she grinned, her thick Welsh accent tinkling merrily towards the neck of the opened bottle. Glancing slyly over her left shoulder to see who might be watching, she turned quickly towards the corner of the bar and polished off a huge slug of the Passoa! Returning the bottle to its place on the shelf, June hobbled off back to the restaurant, only to return some 10 minutes later to explain to Tom that that useless machine doesn't seem to be washing the dishes any longer.

As June slurped her sweet coffee through smudged pink lips one cool, rainy, summer afternoon, I excitedly gossiped that I was hoping to visit a good friend in New York as soon as I could scrape the money together. I wasn't completely giving up on the cosmopolitan and glamour of life! "Hell" she said earnestly. "When are you going? I'll come with you!" Tricky one. I think I got out of it by trying to explain 5 attempts later into the same conversation that my friend had a very small apartment and I would be sleeping on the sofa!

Pouring at least the millionth glass of wine in my life that evening, I pondered June's sense of logic in thinking, much as I am fond of her, that I'd want to actually go on holiday with an elderly lady who cannot remember where she has been or where she is going from one minute to the next, with a verruca disabling her between the second and third toe. Thinking carefully about that, I wondered how different June was from the rest of us? Where have we been? Where are we going? Who knows?

One thing I was certain of was that I'd be visiting New York as soon as I possibly could. I'd find the money somehow, and I'd be off for my city-fix as quickly as you could say 'could all passengers on American Airlines flight 212 please go to gate 12'. Squirming with excitement at the thought of yellow cabs and champagne Sunday brunch I sighed. June. I like New York in June. How about you?

Tradition

To my utmost relief, the following Saturday's wedding ran very smoothly and brought with it the novelty of a traditional chimney sweep, which I had never seen at a wedding before. The jolly chap whiffed a little to say the least and I'm still pondering the pros of having a dirty, smelly little man at one's wedding! Apparently, it's good luck to be kissed by a sweep on your wedding day, but my advice would be to avoid this at all costs if possible. It's difficult enough having to embrace your incontinent grandfather on what should be the happiest day of your life, so I made a quick mental note to avoid anything unnecessary at my wedding that may involve grubby and/or smelly for the sake of tradition.

Apparently, the smiley, smutty-faced chap was also a window cleaner amongst other occupations, so Lisa Jenkins, the Reception Manager asked the next on-duty receptionist to write down his details for her and pin him down to one slot a month. Commercial window cleaners were proving very difficult to find. Helen's note to Lisa the following morning read as follows:

'Hi Lisa. Spoke to the chimney sweep and asked if he could do one day a month at the hotel. He said he could possibly do the first Tuesday or the second Wednesday depending if it’s blowing a gale, because he’s up a ten-foot ladder, which isn’t good in a gale. When I asked him which one was best for him, he said he wasn't sure but he said he might be able to do the first Monday, but all depends whether it’s blowing a gale. If it’s blowing a gale it’s no good being being up a 10 foot ladder. Cheers, Helen.'

I felt so much more relaxed climbing into my bed that Saturday night with nothing else to mull over, other than the very overweight bride's random choice of theme for her placecards. Huge cuddly elephants. Drifting off to sleep, I smiled, thinking how wonderful it was to be able to laugh at yourself on your 'Big' day. I sighed and hoped her sense of humour had indeed made that choice, or failing that, that her wedding day memories remained blissfully ignorant

New Beginnings

Two practice weddings and a two-hour admin session later, I began my new job in August. August. Mid-wedding season. I realised very quickly that romance had blinded me to the reality of this job. I knew nothing. Suddenly, several bridal mags and a wedding etiquette book, courtesy of Amazon, got lost in the fathoms of hard slog.

Lugging tables out onto the dance floor, ironing table cloths, folding napkins, polishing glasses, removing hand smears from patio windows and hoovering an acre of carpet all proved relatively easy in comparison with having to assemble a 3-tier cake topped with fragile glass-blown swans. All this dressed with the best my amateur dramatics could offer. Smiling fake confidence I was exhausted at the end of my first solo performance. ''John" I sighed, to the young chef, "I'm going home now to put my feet up! - large glass of wine and Sex and the City". "Too much information I think" he grinned, going scarlet. "Eh?" I retorted. Puzzled. "Sex and the City? It's a TV show!" "Oh!" he exclaimed. "I thought you said sex on the settee". How we laughed.

And, what a performance my first debut turned out to be. The couple were Jock and Sharon; a heavy-mouthed Scotsman and a polite, young, creative lady who had made her own cake and designed her own flower arrangements. Plastic ones. Our receptionist pointed out that Jock was Karaoke King in town and had stalked her some months earlier, so ducked below the high wooden wall of the reception desk every time Jock waddled past.

This was a Civil Ceremony and as Sharon handed me her 3-track CD, I realised with sheer horror that I would have to play DJ at this solemn affair. "Track one is my entrance, track two when we're signing the register and the final one is the Wedding March!" Feeling slightly light-headed I made my way to Bob, the friendly Canadian Assistant Manager. We quickly worked out a strategy involving nods and signals via the Registrar and off we went. All seemed to go quite well and I found myself blinking back tears as Jock and Sharon took turns to recite their chosen poem.

A good hour later, guests sipped at Pimms and slurped pints of Grolsh, when all of a sudden, an almighty racket broke loose in the pretty landscaped garden to the rear of the hotel. Jes*s Chr*st what the hell was going on?! Three terriers were locked in a viscious brawl surrounded by flailing suits attempting to pull them apart. I danced around them nervously not knowing what to do. One of the dogs was finally pulled off another, then two of them ran hell for leather into the Banqueting Suite. I continued to strut around like a headless chicken muttering 'is this your dog sir? Can you keep it under control please sir? Are you part of the wedding party sir?' Having denied he was part of the wedding party, I was somewhat surprised then to see him sitting at one of the tables later on enjoying the wedding breakfast, strangely accompanied by two youngsters donning bat-winged jumpers and stone-washed jeans.

Bob and I hovered behind the curtains huffing and puffing about the dog fight. All seemed to have calmed down now and the wedding breakfast had commenced. "Oh no! Oh no! The flowers!" Leaping onto the small, homemade stage, I grabbed a pedestal and desperately whispered through gritted teeth that these should have been on display about an hour ago either side of the top table! Bob instructed me to walk confidently to one side of the top table, and he would do the other. We had to make it look like we had planned all along for the flowers to appear right now and not a moment earlier. Picking the display up by its base, I lunged forward to catch it as it toppled over. A kind of slow, horror-like motion gripped me as I crouched to pick up the display. Bob was now sweating and I felt sick as we frantically stuffed the flowers back into the end of the stand. 'Ok. How's that?' I was thanking some God up there that this had happened behind the curtains. 'Yeeaah' he drawled, 'it's fine. No-one will notice' as I continued to fiddle with and shake the plastic stems. Just as we were about to march out with the thing, a waitress sauntered past and commented "there's no basket on that one". Stopping to study the pair of arrangements in front of me, I saw she was right. One had a basket on top containing the flowers, one didn't; the one I had dropped! "There it is" she pointed. "It's down there". The stand was upside down.

No-one seemed to notice the lop-sided slant of the left hand display, and all began to fade into the background as service began and the main course was served. Silver-served. I had never silver-served in my life and somehow, job title of 'Wedding Coordinator' had not conjured up images of waitressing when I had accepted the job. I grabbed what I thought was a carrying cloth to take the hot plates out, and approached a sultry, sexy-looking Indian lady at her table with a hot Turkey dinner in both hands. Turkey. In August? Bending down, I attempted to put the plate down in front of her and straightened to find I was attached via my cloth to a sequin on her dress. "I'm so sorry, I'm attached to you" I grimaced. Fake smiling she saw what I meant and attempted to unravel the thread, which had wrapped itself around her delicate sequin. I couldn't move as I was clutching a hot plate of Christmas aroma in both hands. Some seconds later we came apart and I retreated, bowing slightly as I departed, trying not to acknowledge the sparkle that hung a lot lower than the others that outlined her delicate cleavage. I remembered somewhere from my past retail management career that you should never accept responsibility. Or was that car crashes? Feeling slightly guilty I glanced over my shoulder and saw her trying to push it back into its place.

It was time to go home at last. As I approached Jock and Sharon to wish them a good night and a pleasant evening, I heard him shout loudly of his new bride, to his best man, 'that she'd bi gettin' wun tunnight!' Jock grinned and turned to me, expressing dismay that the bridal march had nearly given him a heart attack coming on 10 minutes early (Bob had kept that one quiet) and I slunk home with an invisible tail between my legs. Pouring a huge glass of cold Chablis and kicking off heels that seemed to pulsate chinese burns into my very soul, I relaxed to watch Carrie and the girls suffer their weekly embarrassments through laughter and tears. Wondering where the glamour had been that day, I giggled to myself, amused that Jock hadn't made enough Argos vouchers for that plasma TV he so wanted. A few Mr Big-indulgent episodes later, I hobbled off to the fridge for another glass of wine, wishing that I was indeed going to be having sex on the settee....

Dream

And so I bought bridal mags and enjoyed it with a kind of bashful abandon. Bashful because I wasn't getting married, but exciting because I had an excuse to buy some, and I had never had the opportunity to before. I began to feel a surge of optimism for this new career of mine and indulged in visions of glamour, direction and designer dresses. A world of colour and creativity. I could just picture myself in chic designer suits a la Lopez, panicking about the cake and the flowers and the rain. This could be it, at last. Something to sink my teeth into. Something creative. This was a girl's dream job wasn't it?

Waving goodbye to my office colleagues over shots of Limoncello at the local Italian, I skipped home sideways away from the sunset of my last job and into the wonderful sunrise of a new beginning. "Holy matrimony here I come!"

Promise

It had never been of much concern to me that I had reached my mid-thirties and had yet to make that solemn stroll down the aisle. I had always consoled myself with the sensibility that, should I desire a party, I would throw one! If I felt like donning a beautiful dress, I would simply buy one, and I would never need to sign a contract to prove my love to anybody! How rigid and pressurised the whole process of marriage. Diamonds? I should get a great thrill from picking out my own ring and paying for it myself should I want one. I didn't need a man for such things! My man and and I would need nothing more than frolicking freely together in our dirty Sunday bests, sharing cheap and cheesy picnics on cliff tops and having the confidence to believe the 'I love you's' when we chose to share them. Simple.

When my darling Mum, however, voiced her own genuine disappointment about a month before she died, sighing to some invisible soul outside her bedroom window that, 'every mother dreams of seeing their daughter in a wedding dress you know', I did feel something of a failure for an entire evening and was shocked by her never-mentioned-before revelation.

Once home, I snivelled quietly into the comforting fur of my dear dog, Johnson, whilst watching When Harry Met Sally for the umpteenth time. I found myself asking whether perhaps I needed to lower my standards (as Sally surely had done?) and try to fall for a short guy with fuzzy hair, a beard and white sneakers? Why indeed could I not see past his gamely yet repetitive and irritating mispronunciation of 'peeeeeken piiiyy' the way Sally had done? Why should a man's shoes matter? Searching my own relationship history I began to worry that somewhere along the line, I had shot a potential groom in both feet and balls with a gun of unfair discrimination and word had somehow got out. But no! Hang on! My first love had worn white sneakers for heaven's sake and our ridiculous teenage fumblings took place in the back of his Ford Cortina. My next love came many years later in the form of a closet heroin addict (yes really. I naively thought he was just a bit under the weather for much of the time); closely followed by a 4.5 year relationship with a 40 year-old closet gay man who was accompanied by a pair of demonic sons.

Mulling it all over that night, it seemed to me that I had been more than accommodating over the years and rather less discriminatory than perhaps I should have been! Snivelling onwards into the early hours of the morning and many slurpings of wine later, realisation depressingly dawned that actually, nobody with white sneakers and fuzzy hair had lowered their standards enough to rescue me on some lonely New Year's Eve.... or any other night of the year for that matter!

I had been proposed to once. I was 18 and the said boyfriend was 12 years older than me, with a mental age of a good 12 years younger. We'd been dating for a fortnight when he drunkenly popped the question, verified the next day at work with a dozen red roses and a card that read 'I meant it'. Even at that tender age, head and heart filled with the hopes and dreams of romance, I somehow found the wisdom to avoid answering the question. Luckily for me he didn't think to seek the answer, and two months later our 'romance' ground to a lucky halt. The man was a raving alcoholic lunatic it turns out with a penchant for hair pulling and a jealousy to rival that of a castrated Yorkshire Terrier having to accept that a fully-endowed Great Dane had just stolen Best in Show.

That evening, I managed a half-smile to the tune of self pity, fondly remembering that famous saying 'always the bridesemaid, never the bride', when suddenly it hit me like a tacky wedding limo that I had never actually been a bridesmaid either! Good Lord! Was I worthy of never stepping down the aisle in either capacity? Was there no man or dear friend out there who wanted ME beside them, behind them or in front of them at the altar? It seemed not. Heavy-hearted I slunk off to bed with Johnson, ready to face an office full of attached women at 9am.

I was a secretary at the time. Something I just tripped over on my way out of the City; not unlike any other job I'd found before really. I had never known what career path to follow - something else I just couldn't settle down to. So you can imagine that it's with a little wonder, a large pinch of irony and a handful of amusement that I find myself doing, just 6 months later, a job that I had never once planned to do. I find I have become a Wedding Coordinator! I'm really not sure how it happened, but the whole thing seemed to fall spontaneously at my feet like a gentle waft of just-thrown confetti.

I'm never the bridesmaid, and I'm never the bride. But I do find myself hovering regularly near that elusive aisle, smirking at the meringues and the self-importance of oversized hats; whincing at the overweight brides oozing up, over and out of their groaning strapless bodices. Week after week I try very hard to magic the conveyor belt away with my pristine white cloths, assuring each couple that they are indeed doing something very special and different with their choice of colour red, matching first dance to Chris de Burgh and clashing cocktails of Bucks Fizz. Who knows for how long this pantomime (she's BEHIND YOU!) will keep me amused, but Mum, for now, wherever you are, I assure you that although I may not be the one out front in the dress, I am the one on the sidelines having all the real fun. Promise....