Categories: uncategorized
Date: 03 January 2007 05:03:25
To Greenwich on New Year's Eve (yes, I know it was three days ago but we're only just recovering today - a Certain Person got out of bed for the first time today just after midnight, and no, it wasn't me, I was up by 4) to "celebrate a civil partnership" as the URC liturgy put it. You can imagine Basil Fawlty stage-whispering "whatever you do, don't mention weddings!" while it was being drafted. I found myself sitting next to Alison Adam, who I vaguely recognised from Greenbelt and other places, though I don't think I've ever actually talked to her before. And surprise surprise she led the singing. Rather well as usual. So that was alright.
Great service, if just possibly a teensy-weensy bit long-winded - Meaningful Poems and three or four Bible readings and stuff with loving cups passed round (I only got the non--alcoholic Methodist grape-juice, though it was just as Symbolic, the minister assured us) and hand-holdings, and rings, and some stage-business with the minister's stole, and signings of things, and having their new wills witnessed (that was a first from my point of view) and various vows and promises. No symbolism left unturned. And pink fizzy wine at the end. I like pink fizzy wine.
And then off to the reception - sorry, party, how can it be a reception without a wedding? and a civil partnership is not a wedding, is it? - which was in a CofE church where the ceremony couldn't have been for reasons too tedious to go into here, but anyone who has been paying attention will know far too much about already, and which the vicar explained rather well over the meal. Which was a sort of Nepalese buffet and very good too, though it took a long long while to serve as there were rather more people than the room could comfortably hold. Which was just as well - the long while I mean - as I was late, because although I knew the way I made a sort of detour through a council estate I'd not walked through before and then round the corner by the railway so I could walk up Humber Road which has one of the best views in South London. Not quite as good as the view from Nunhead Station of course. So I pottered around taking photos in the dark and the pouring rain. River, Dome, Canary Wharf, more or less the entire London Borough of Newham. Or as my mate Mike insists, "New Ham" - an invented name when East Ham and West Ham were merged and they couldn't call it "Borough of Ham" could they?
The little device wot copies pictures from my camera is at work, where I amn't. So maybe some photos get posted here tomorrow or the day after.
Twelve tables in the church, with turned-round pews for seats, and each labeled for one of the twelve days of Christmas from the Partridge-in-a-pear-tree song and all of us sitting where were were planned for. I was slow on the uptake. It took me an hour or so to realise that the table with all the fit-looking women labeled "Ladies Dancing" was the one where all the lesbians were... so then I tried to work out what the others meant. OK, maybe the labels didn't mean anything, maybe I was making it up. I always was a natural-born conspiracy theorist. "Swans-a-swimming" seemed to be mostly married couples with young kids. "Maids-a-milking" had some older children. We were at "Calling birds" and mostly seemed to be vicars and preachers and religious folk. So is that how I'm seen? Or it could be even more subtle than that of course - according to one widely circulated and totally stringy and almost certainly completely untrue theory of the text of the song each verse refers to some Symbolical Thingy to do with the Church, and Calling Birds are the Four Gospels, which fits with preachers. Or is that going too far? Maybe I am making it up after all.
First time I've ever seen belly-dancing in an Anglican church.
Then walking back over Blackheath in the misty rain and smell of dead fireworks, vaguely losing my way, though its hard to tell whether you are lost or not on Blackheath, and I did exit the heath at the right place more or less, though it took about half an hour longer than it should have. For some reason the dodgy knees that are so troubling when going to work on a normal morning, and cause me to wait for a bus rather than walking even the half mile to the station, don't seem of any moment at all at 1am in the rain tramping back the long way round from Greenwich.
The pub was sort of open when I passed so I popped in. Probably only the third time in my life I've been there in a suit, and the other two were after funerals. Bad idea of course. I usually haven't had anything to drink before I get there, or if I have its just a pint or two from the college bar. On New Year's night I'd been sipping the wine - mostly pink fizz - since about 5pm. I bowled in, had a pint or two, had some fags, started talking to Simon. No idea what about. Probably made all sorts of fool of myself.
And then challenged B. at pool. And when I went up to play after his break I cued a yellow ball instead of the white. I hadn't realised quite how worse for the drink I was till that moment. Of course I graciously lost the match (as if I had any choice!) and went back to my stool and witterd on about something else. But later ended up playing Simon the pool captain till the bitter end. And did in fact beat him at one point. I know this because Someone has a mobile phone voicemail from me sent at about 4am that goes something like this: "Bugger. Bugger. Its four in the morning. I feel funny. I've just beaten Simon at Pool. Ha ha ha ha ha ha. Bugger bugger bugger" except at greater length and with less coherence.