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