Sunday, August 16

How long have I been in London? Three weeks? Something like that. I already need a vacation. As soon as we've recovered from last night, Clarissa and I are driving to the Lake District for a few days.



Clarissa slept on the bathroom floor all night--poor baby is sick, sick, sick. Something about England makes people drink like a dehydrated runner locked in a distillery.

I've tucked her in with a pillow and comforter. She says the cold tile floor helps with her nausea, and there's the added benefit of having the toilet right there when she needs it. As long as I'm propped up by pillows, I can sit here in bed and type.

I know we're adults, but I really blame outside forces for last night. Force number one: Penni Penniwether, who insisted we come to her friend Beryl's wedding yesterday. Force number two: a free-flowing drinks bar. Free drinks turn people into insatiable drunkards.

Let me roll back the clock to 4 pm yesterday. Clarissa and I both looked fantastic. We both had hats, which you can only wear to weddings in England. It felt like a costume party.

Penni and her husband Neville picked us up in his Bentley. I was trying hard not to judge, but it's kind of a car for jackasses. I've always suffered from an unbecoming disdain for expensive cars. Neville is at the London office of the company from which I got laid off--he's Vice President of Something Something. He spends a lot of money on everything, and always makes sure people know.

We stepped into the car, smooches and hugs all around, and settled in for the drive to St. Martin-in-the-Fields. The wedding was in the church, and the reception was in the Crypt under the church.

Penni, bless her uptight but well-meaning soul, was giving us the lowdown. John Spaht, the groom, did p.r. for some politicians, names omitted (mostly because I can't remember them, and don't care). He's a respected and up-and-coming professional. A reputation for womanizing. Beryl Tuddick, the bride, didn't need a job--she was the daughter of Lady so-and-so, and an heir to her father's condiment fortune. Pickles and sauces galore.

They were going to combine forces to have a double-barrelled last name. You know, like Helena Bonham Carter. Or Sasha Baron Cohen. They'd be the Tuddick Spaht family.

The wedding was lovely. Clarissa and I were checking out hot men, trying to see who they were with, and if they had wedding rings. I reminded her she was still married until her divorce was official in a another month or so. When the ceremony was done, we bounced down the aisle with Rondeau by Jean Joseph Mouret crashing from the organ.

Neville was saying "Thank Gaaaaawd the reception is under the church, because there's nothing I love more then a short walk to the bar after an arduous wedding ceremony." Short walk indeed. After we got our drinks, we got right back in line, on the assumption that our first drink would be done by the time we made it up to the bar again. I could tell this was going to be a crazy night.

Chatting with Clarissa, I suddenly felt a hand on my ass and turned around to see Gerald. Of course. He was friends with Penni and Nev. I downed the rest of my wine. For a few seconds all the wedding noise seemed to recede, and the Crypt became a setting for a Noel Coward play:

Monica (coyly, and moving away from Gerald's hand): "Gerald, how aaaare you? No hard feelings about my leaving the restaurant the other night?"

Gerald (pervy eyes, reaching in for a kiss, which lands on Monica's cheek when she turns her head in alarm): "Of course not. I was being naughty. Very much so. Introduce me to your friend."

Monica (with a clever look in her eyes): This is my dearest friend, Clarissa. (sotto voce to Gerald): "She's going through a divorce--I hope we can cheer her up tonight."

Clarissa looks mildly interested, Gerald looks pervy. Monica's work here is done.

The wedding took the usual route. First, dinner, toasts (touching, funny, embarrassing), the cake. Dancing to boring music. More toasts and drinks. A better DJ comes on with 100 times better dance music and the fun part of the evening begins. More drinking and dancing. Me talking to strangers about God knows what. Eventually eyeing Clarissa and Gerald making out in the line to the bar, realizing I was an excellent matchmaker. This wouldn't last, but at least Clarissa could have fun while she was visiting London.

Hours passed. I finally peeled Clarissa away from Gerald and dragged her back to our table to see what Penni and Nev were up to. Clarissa was waaaaasted. Beryl and John walked over. Penni and Nev were hugging up a storm with the couple, and, I'm pretty sure, trying to hide us from the newlyweds. Clarissa reached out and put her hand on Beryl's arm and just started running at the mouth.

"You know, Beryl...my marriage is a shambles. It's fallen apart. Raleigh--that's my husband--well, my almost ex--he's a pig. I hope you have better luck, I really do. He's a pig. But you just never know until after the wedding..." At this point, Beryl's eyes were wide and she was starting to pull her arm away. John kind of snorted and winked at Nev.

Then Clarissa completely changed lanes: "And I love that you're keeping both last names, but instead of Tuddick-Spaht, you should do Spaht-Tuddick. Get it? Spotted Dick, like that nasty dessert...get it? Spotted Dick...get it..." Penni started pushing Beryl and John away from us, and turned around to give us the evil eye.

I love dumb jokes and terrible puns. I wish I didn't, but I do. I was dying laughing. Clarissa, though, started bawling. BAWLING. "Raleigh...pig...PIG...never married..should have..." Huge heaving gasps and a vale of tears that was washing her mascara down her cheeks. I was hugging and consoling her. It was after 3 a.m., and I knew it was time to go home.