Torquay, again. This time for Tanya’s wedding.
These past 4 weekends have seen me driving to and from Cornwall, Torquay (twice now), and having a migraine. The migraine weekend was meant to see me in Cornwall but the migraine made me housebound.
With all these long journeys behind me and the one ahead, and with how these journeys promote migraines, and of course the migraine I had itself, made me want to do something this weekend that wouldn’t get me a migraine, before I drove long distance and got one. Now don’t get me wrong, I like the drive it’s just that the drive doesn’t like me. I can’t help it, I can’t be loved by everyone.
On Friday, I got invited paddle-boarding by Myles and Shaun. The little man was well excited, and I thought this kind’a ticked the box so I rescheduled the pick-up time. I pushed it back by 3 hours, with the option of extending that to 5.
Unfortunately, this reschedule to paddle-board caused such issue that it couldn’t be. Instead, I collected Jackie, her son and girlfriend, and took the car-full to Torquay at the original time.
The drive was as I’ve grown to expect when travelling west — long and shit. About an hour after I’d finished driving, mini-migraine. It wasn’t that bad, just a weekender a little worse than how I feel all the fucking time.
Having now this evening not long returned from paddle-boarding, I remain convinced that the benefit it could’ve given me last Friday would’ve done wonders. I can see how these hours would’ve been a selfish act since we were heading to Tanya’s night-before-the-wedding-family-gathering. But, I didn’t really want to go and I wasn’t really aware of the details and so a discussion, as opposed to an issue, would’ve smoothed the whole thing like an iron.
There are times, and these are all the time, when understanding should be sought from both sides. Understanding brings about compromise and compromise brings about harmony, at least that’s how it’s meant to work. You’ve only got to turn on the news and see that it doesn’t.
Saturday started early for me with a dummy-run to the wedding venue. Jules (I believe, Tanya’s friend’s mother) took a couple of wrong turns and wasn’t heading in the direction I would have to go, so I didn’t pay particular attention until we got to the car-park.
Cockington Court car-park: If you don’t know where it is, you ain’t finding it.
At 11, I decided to take a dummy-run of my own to the wedding venue. I am now very accustomed to driving through Torquay town centre. A couple of wrong turns in their oneway system gets you in circles. I partially blame the sat-nav for not being 100% clear on the road I needed, but I mostly blame Torquay for their road layout. It is a horrible place to drive. I don’t like it. It’s all hills, hidden junctions, and blind corners.
Just as I was leaving for the wedding with Jackie’s son and girlfriend, Tanya’s dad arrived and saved me from picking him up. We all piled in and the drive to the venue was event-free — I’d got all my getting lost out of my system.
Cockington Court (it sounds a bit rude) is in the village of Cockington. A chocolate-box village. Beautiful. Tranquil. Proper Miss Marple England.
As per usual, I didn’t think to take photos. The service hall was bright and white — intimate with woven hearts hanging in the sun-drenched windows. Tanya radiated as she entered in tears, and the groom was clearly bricking it.
I would say unlike the last wedding I went to, but I spent the whole service taking Myles back and forth to the toilet. So, unlike the few before that I’ve been to, the Registrar this time was a softly spoken lady whose voice carried. It was either because her soft-spokenness was an illusion, or the room’s acoustics, or it was because I was sat near the front. Either way, it turns out they say stuff. There are actual words to hear. I didn’t know this.
The love of two people cannot be questioned because we do not feel that love. We only see its veneer, we don’t experience the marrow. What I saw were two people obviously nervous, understanding in their caught eyes, and willing. Despite the veneer, the marrow showed through.
We were out, pictures taken, and I drove my passengers to the reception venue. Red-something-or-other. It was a red building with an indoor swimming pool.
For the first half of the reception, I was the designated driver. It transpires that I’m not a good-hearted designated driver. I don’t much like it. I like it much less when I’ve met a nice bloke called Mick whose taken my fancy. I told his girlfriend (Chelsea) that I wouldn’t mind him for a ride, and she said I could as long as he was willing. And all this was happening while I was sober! Alas, I had to pretend I was fine with it. I was gutted.
Once I could, I did. I did. I couldn’t go too mad because alcohol promotes a migraine, but I got up to that level — that narrow ledge — and had switched to water before the party was over.
For entertainment, we had a DJ and Cassandra (her name has been changed to reflect the Emmy). Apparently, she offended me at one point but I hadn’t noticed because I’ve come across people like her as a nightclub manager. Drunk and a little trying. I don’t really mind them. They yadda-yadda-bullshit and I’m only politely engaging.
Now I hope I get this right, but she’s suing us and that Red-place for the emotional turmoil suffered for being caught shagging her mate’s baby-daddy ex by his new missus. I missed all this, and narrowly missed the glass she threw out of the first-floor window. She was a nice lass. Misunderstood. At least that’s what she was telling me not 10 minutes before.
After a 50-minute wait for a taxi (which for Torquay is quick ?!?!?!), Jackie and I got back to Tanya’s and died.
On Sunday, we rose from the dead and I reunited Oscar with his car. Oscar is the type of uncle you want in a family, no-mess, salt of the earth, very funny. And once the bride and groom were home, we finished packing the car and went home with more than we came. A pram, a thing, and something else — Ryan and his girlfriend had to be packed in amongst it. Well, it’s only right, the additional shit was theirs.
And so I got home and had myself a mini-migraine. I like one with a cup of tea. Some people like their tea with digestives. Well, they’re not living.
Yesterday, without all the extra weight, Bertie was much happier driving about. It certainly changed the handling of the car having 2 expecting parents, a Jackie, and a boot full of what-have-you. It’s given me a good understanding of what it might be like when I have to take that damn grandfather clock and lamp to my mothers. For fuck’s sake. Why did I have to remind myself of that?
Before I digress too far and make sleep even harder, all the ups and downs level off to an enjoyable weekend. Mick. I will say, Mick is a good lad. It raises the question, why are the best always taken? Being straight isn’t much of a bother, it just brings out the artist in me.