On our return home yesterday, we fell asleep. The night before had been a long one, getting everything ready, the drive hadn’t been particularly relaxing, and we are getting older. Julia went to bed for a while, I fell asleep in my chair. I woke up and went to bed around 11.00 and Julia woke up to make herself a drink. Then we slept again.
Having slept well, I rose at 6.00. At 6.48 Julia had a text from Number Two Son, who had landed at Heathrow. He will be here at around ten, with partner and The Grandson. It’s all happening.
Did you know it’s possible to have a wedding on a Tuesday and then another service and a reception on a Saturday? I didn’t. I do now.
I just checked. In my early morning stupor I seem to have forgotten to mention that the wedding in question was that of Number One Son. Number Two is flying in to be best man at the second ceremony. These modern concepts are all a bit too new and hectic for me. It used to be so much simpler . . .
You used to get married in church. If you didn’t go to church you got married in a Registry Office. We got married in a Registry Office. It was a simple ceremony for a simple man and it seems to have worked as we are still married.
There was a pause in my day here as we went down to pick the family up from the station and do thinsg like eat lunch, take the Grandson to see the ducks and generally chat about how tired everyone was. Flying overnight and changing time zones is nearly as tiring as being old and decrepit. It’s nice to see. For part of the afternoon Julia and I looked after the Grandson as the other went out shopping with my sister. They had things to buy you can’t get in Canada. With the soothing help of Zog (a cartoon dragon), stitching, and some crooning from Julia I soon fell asleep before she woke me to tell me I was supposed to stay awake and do grandfatherly things.
I’m hemming a pair of trousers as the only ones I have that are deemed suitable for a smart wedding are too long for me. It comes to something when a man’s wardrobe decisions are discussed by the whole family. I can only wait with bated breath for the discussions which will surround their decision to put me in a home. The stitching is poor and erratic, and slow, and my needle threading antics are pitiful (involving a threader, cotton, needle and jeweller’s eyeglass) but I thought I should make the effort, both sartorially, and to save Julia a job as she is already racing round organising lots of other stuff.
You would never guess from my efforts that the Gregson side of my family were haberdashers and dressmakers.






































