B. and I weekended at a vicarage in Oxford in order to attend the awrc-brightybot wedding, which was very fine.
Saturday started in a bit of a panic, as I'd discovered the night before that absolutely all my posh clothes had been bought originally for a substantially fatter man, including my own wedding suit (which it had at one point been a goal of my diet to be able to fit into again). This meant that our route to Oxford had to take in the Cribbs Causeway shopping mall, in search of an outfit that wouldn't look like it'd been borrowed from an unusually tasteful and stylish clown. I now own a surprisingly outspoken purple-striped shirt, an ironic black corduroy jacket, and a pair of black denim jeans identical to my other pairs of black denim jeans, but designated for partywear. Hurrah.
The service, when we got there, was traditional Anglican, enlivened by well-chosen hymns and some very impressive readings read by their authors. It was the first wedding I'd attended where the officiating priest (our host at the aforementioned vicarage) was a friend of my own generation, which made the event a bit more special... although the fact that both he and the bride had been in our comedy troupe, Cruel and Unusual Punishment, kept giving me the fleeting and surreal impression that I was watching my friends perform a wedding sketch. This was seemingly confirmed when the bride and groom finally processed out to Sousa's "Liberty Bell", better known as the theme from Monty Python's Flying Circus.
There were plenty of people there who I hadn't seen for ages, including two very good friends who vanished off to California a couple of years years ago and appear to have acquired a daughter while out there, whom it was really lovely to see again.
I had a lovely time generally, in fact, although foolishly I got drunk too early at the reception and ended up having to take some time out during it -- apologies to anyone I therefore didn't get to see enough of. It was the first time I'd drunk wine in any quantity since managing to shed nearly a quarter of my body-weight (which I guess is probably an even higher proportion of my squishy-wine-absorbing-bits-weight), and it seems I'm not as familiar with my alcohol capacity as I once was (oh yes I was). I wonder now, vaguely, if this is a problem amputees have as well.
Thoroughly decent wine, though (plus some good beer if I'd only had been able to face it by that point), and the meal was also very nice. Sunday morning was spent pleasantly with various friends at the venerable Oxford institution of George and Davis's Ice Cream Café, progressing to a wander on Port Meadow and a pint in the Perch before coming home.
I'm wearing a black shirt today. I haven't been able to fit into it since 1996.