Recovering 2/6/08

Dear Kell,

Well here it is 1:40 PM Monday overcast and drizzling. Just back from a luncheon of grilled fish, chips and salad at The Duke and almost ready to announce the completion of the hangover I earned on Saturday night though some doubt does linger. There’s probably some biology boffin out there who has completed the thesis, done the graph and published the tables that define the relationship between age and recovery, I’d hate to read it. One of Jacks best mates, Liam, got hitched to the beautiful Charlotte on Saturday evening and by now typewriters across town are clattering out the story of this period romance and it’s tragic consequences based solely on their names. I’m one step ahead though, in negotiation for the film rights, and in talks with Brad’s and Scarlet’s peoples.

Honestly though you’d think someone could have a night out, at a wedding no less, and not have to suffer such awful consequences. The wedding scheduled for 2:00 PM in the delightfully English style Hollis Park, Newtown, got under way no later than 2:40 and proceeded without objection (they weren’t even solicited, can this favourite part of the ceremony have been dropped?) or hitch which, given the scale of the cast, two flower girls, matron of honour, four brides maids, best man and four groomsmen, must have required considerable rehearsal. The tanned and brunet bride looked, well, ravishing in pearl studded, dust cream, bare shouldered, fitted to the hip gown that from there gathered weight and flounce ending with a short full train to dust the paths of Newtown. The Groom in rented black formal with his just that morning, super glued false front tooth back in place, showed no sign of the urea headache that process had caused. Best man and groomsmen were united in their decreasing grades of formality by matching ties, bridesmaids by their sugar plum fairy cross wood elf gowns.

The reception at the nearby Carriage Works (converted railway workshops) was remarkable for the contrast of nineteenth century industrial age scale to the sumptuous intimacy of superb catering and exquisitely simple ham and cheese based cuisine. Greeted with champagne by waiting staff at the door the party flowed, speeches were spoke, conversations were converse and drinks drunk in an early evening haze of bonhomie. This would probably been enough, and probably was for most folk. It probably wasn’t necessary to accept the invitation of Alice and Jack to join them and others at a nearby pub but I’m certain that it was most chivalrous of me to volunteer to accompany Jacks sister through the racially tense streets of Redfern to the nearby Block for some sort of spiritual gathering for which along with heroin dealing, drug addiction, riots and general mayhem this place has become famous.

Back at the pub it was easy to be led when taxis were summoned to take us to the inner city high rise hotel where the newlyweds were commencing their honeymoon, as you do, with a gang of their reprobate friends. With a tenth floor view of George Street from the patio, more wine, red? white? who knows who cares life is short, especially mine, someone gave me a little iridescent blue pill at least I think it was so as I didn’t have the opportunity to examine it after so quickly swallowing. Thankfully the spa bath in the bedroom wasn’t primed. Sometime about now the more mature among us like Alice and Jack left for their homes while we ragers carried on until noticing we were keeping the hosts up we decamped, as you do, to The Different Drummer in Glebe. With Kara and Hugh (not HOK, rather a satin vested, cane carrying, top hatted dandy) we joined with many like minded souls intent on loosing their memories till at last after much rehearsal of her seduction techniques Kara remembered what it was she had set out to do and disappeared into the night leaving Hugh, who was so impressed that I remembered his name (though I remember little else), and I to sop up the spills and share a cab to our homes.

It’s a wonder what we must talk about on occasions such as these and very fortunate I think that we forget otherwise we would have become bored with our repetitions half way through the night and gone home a lot sooner. I know there are those wowsers who would regard going home sooner as a good thing but I firmly believe that these are cathartic experiences, rather like those indulged by primitive tribes, that leave us with a sense of rebirth or at the least a post experience similar to the pain there entailed.

Hope your all well.
Lots of love,

Ainty R