The Cat's Meow

A whoopee time was had by all on Sunday at the Edogawa Japanese Gardens in Gosford. It was a golden autumn afternoon and the contingent of spiffily-dressed friends were gathered by the koi pond before the ceremony. Penny Dreadful was resplendent in a red vintage dress that was graced with prancing pre-Raphaelite nymphets; Sir Giles looked handsome and dapper in his newly tailored black Chinese coat, while I, Miss Ember, donned a silk, tea-coloured gown decorated with burgundy blossoms, and edged with black silk cuffs and collar.

While the groom, Matthew-san, nervously mingled with guests awaiting the magic hour of 4pm, the league of gentlemen and ladies pondered the leaping koi fish in the pond, the serenity of the arched bridge and the still life of the pebble garden. Photos were snapped by the stream and in front of the wooden tea house. I admired the stone lanterns that lined the paths and wondered what Miyazakiesque landscape would be revealed by their illumination at night.

At 4 the guests gathered in front of the pagoda where Matthew-san waited for his bride, slightly pale. He twitched at his coat-sleeve regularly to glimpse his watch. He was sleekly dressed in a sharp black coat with vest and orchid adornment. Most spiff. Sweet refrains of the Cocteau Twins flowed over the gathering, and with suspense the guests stood on tippytoe, eagerly peeking at the bride - Tamara-san - who was waiting with her father beyond the trees. All took a deep breath as she steadily emerged into the light wearing the fanciest frock out of flapperdom. Pure cocktail chic, the dress was flowing white and soft pink and beaded with pink star details on the lower back and front. The shoes were dainty with pink bows and the headpiece was astonishingly grand: a fringe of beads along the forehead with strings of pink and pearly beads hanging down against the cheekbones, evoking images of wisteria-like kanzashi. Tamara-san's hair was decadently styled in looped ribbon-like kiss curls at the back of her head, with charming fingerwaves at the front. The bride and groom kissed (thrice) and even Miss Ember had to dab away a tear as the sunlight-bursting tune of The Cure's "Just Like Heaven" began. Put simply, there was more elegance here than one could poke an extremely elegant cigarette holder at (studded with diamonds, at that)!

More decadence followed at the reception in the Garden's art gallery where Japanese sushi and tempura nibblets were served at orchid-adorned tables, the ladies were invited to take up a fan and flutter it about fabulously and the men were urged to nibble a choccie or two from the gents' pendulous confectionary bowl.There were displays of iridiscent peacock feathers and ostentatious orchids, and bubbles were blown beatifically from butterfly bottles over the bride and groom. A toast to the happy couple and a glass of fizz - bottoms up - and then came the highlight of the day: the bridal dance ... none other than the Charleston! The sight of Tamara-san and Matthew-san kickin' and flappin' and swingin' like it was 1929 was such a treat that it made everyone flaphappy and willing to shoe-shuffle about the room to songs of the 20s, 80s and Roaring Noughties. By the end of the night everyone wore smiles as big as the Ritz (same goes for certain hangovers the next day)!

Bravo! First class! A most splendiferous event. Between myself and Penny Dreadful, the wedding will be (almost) recounted down to the last champagne (and butterfly) bubble!

The Listmaker

As an avid listmaker, I'm inspired by the poetic lists of Sei Shonagon in The Pillow Book. For fun, I'll jot down a few of these lists now and then on my blog. Here's a start:

Exciting Things
Brown paper packages. The twine that binds them.
Battered envelopes with foreign stamps and spidery handwriting.
Fireworks. Fairgrounds. Lucky dips.
The thrill of the airport's arrivals lounge. The wait for a familiar face.
Christmas.
Reading the last pages of a book, knowing there's a new one waiting to be read.
Departures. Getting lost.
Sherbert fizzing on the tongue.
Indian breakfasts.
Remembered things.

Calf Corrosion and Confetti Capers

Soccer season has commenced and I'm finding that, despite weekly cycles and wanderings to my inner city office, my muscles have developed "summer rust". During last Sunday's game we huff-puffled around the pitch under the glarey one o'clock sun, sweated profusely over the players we were marking, and when we were subbed we collapsed in the shade, nearly flattening the opposition's mascot (a poncey chihuahua with a penchant for orange slices). My calf muscles have corroded in post-game agony, causing an unfortunate hobble that gives the impression I'm dashing to the lavatory wherever I go (even when I'm dashing from the lavatory).

A novel happening that is scheduled for this weekend is that of a friend's wedding: the first ever someone-I-know-well to get married. I've only ever attended three weddings in my life so far, accounted for as follows:

Wedding 1: At the age of 8, I nearly wet the bed when it was announced that my fave cuz and I would be the bridesmaids for my aunt's wedding. The joy! The glamour! The puff-ball dress with frillery and ribbonage! Every night I fantasised about a hot pink bubble dress, with puffed sleeves, excessive foamings of lace down the front and frills galore around the skirt. The perfect 80s princess! But, alack, how my dreams were dashed cruelly, and most terribly, when the bridesmaids dresses were unveiled and were revealed to be ... Laura Ashley sailor dresses! So unromantic, so plain, and so, well, white. The posies were blue. Not a bloom of pink in sight. As can be expected, I cried for an Age and have boycotted Laura Ashley ever since.

Wedding 2: The wedding of my ex-boyfriend's ex-friend's ex-girlfriend. The bride and groom were both Christian, needless to say they were really only getting hitched for the copious amounts of guiltless sex that marriage provided. Six months later, the groom had bolted ... with his wife's best friend.

Wedding 3: A stinking hot day in the wine district of SA provoked a cloud of blowflies to descend on the wedding of an aunt. The flies were attracted to the bride's hairsprayed do and could not resist swarming all over the wedding cake, like a black plague, throughout the entire reception . By evening, guests were swatting away at imaginary insects and whistling the jingle "Louie the Fly".

This weekend's wedding will be held in some glorious Japanese gardens with the bride and groom dressing in 1920s-meets-oriental theme, of which I highly approve. I wonder if the wedding dance will be the Charlston? To a soundtrack of Ladytron or Lamb, perchance? A full report of this glamourous affair will be blogged in due course.

Adieu,
Miss Ember