As suspected, the wedding was a roaringly good time, so much so in fact that I distinguished myself by falling over in a spectacular fashion on the dance floor. If only I could have pretended it was a break-dancing manouevre but the Nutbush is not really the occasion for experimental dance moves and the Frenchman was screeching with laughter (&#*@$*^).
I get very sentimental at weddings. I should carry a hanky tucked discreetly in my nether-regions but I always forget and have to search frantically for an old scabby tissue at the bottom of my bag in case my snorting and snuffling disrupts the ceremony. It was a Catholic ceremony too which is always fascinating, I love all the call and response stuff and the kneeling, the crossing and the candle-lighting. And the priest was a jolly fellow who wasn't too bossy and didn't preach fire and brimstone at the divorced members of the congregation. All in all it was splendid.
The next day we meandered our way around Bowen Mountain and Kurrajong exclaiming at the rampant green bushland and the trill of the bellbirds. I ate my body weight in puddings and we are now home sans enfants ready for a week of crafting and winery-visiting. xx