Debriefing
Where I was the weekend before last? Who wants to know? Because I could have been anywhere. Could have been back in Ireland, for example. Could even have been at a wedding. It’s all possible, you know. Look, if you want to ask me if I was at my sister’s wedding in a big house in County Monaghan, why don’t you come right out and ask? It’s not like I’ve got anything to hide.
How did my sister look? Well, just imagine, for the sake of argument, that Sofia Coppola was making a movie about the life of Marie Antoinette, and that she leavened the ancien regime opulence with a dose of New Wave spikiness and panache, and cast Kirsten Dunst in the lead role. Can you imagine that? Well, that’s pretty much how my sister looked.
Did the two families click? From the moment they met. Were the speeches actually touching and funny, portraying the bride and groom as a couple you’d actually enjoy spending time with, rather than congratulating them wildly for fulfilling the basic requirements of a functioning human being? You betcha. Was there murder on the dancefloor? There were massacres. Did the groom crack open a Nebuchadnezzar, the world’s largest bottle of champagne? Did the bride and groom appear together in the afterparty in fancy dress as shepherd and shepherdess? Did the groom present his bride with a diamond necklace- a necklace that would seal the course of a dynasty? Dude, you’re thinking of that movie again. Apart from the champagne. That was one good Neb, my friend.
Didn’t the bridesmaids look lovely? Didn’t they just.
Did E. cause a stir among my relations, most of whom she was meeting for the first time, and did, at certain hours of the night, various uncles and aunts take me to one side to deliver admiring remarks about her beauty or ask searching questions about her eyesight? Undoubtedly. Were my relatives more impressed by how stunning she looked or by the fact that she was the tallest person to ever go out with a member of the family? It broke down about 50:50, truth be told.
Were there moments when I was seduced by the glamour of the occasion? Did I, for instance, stand at the window of our bedroom, looking out at the early morning mist lifting off the lawn, a solitary rowboat braving the waves out on the lake, the sparrows flitting in and out of box limes as if they were cities in the air, and, despite having at least three generations of ardent nationalism in my background, did I think: well, I can kinda see the point of this landlordism lark after all? Possibly. Did I promptly tell my dad about my reverie? Uh-huh. Was this, in retrospect, a bit of a mistake? Abso-fucking-lutely.
Did I nonetheless get accustomed to the smell of peat smoke, the raised bathtubs in the middle of the room, drinks in the library by candle and gas-light, everyday talk of ghosts in the corridors, the fantastic food, the banging pipes in the night, the click of nails on stone as elderly dogs patrolled the entrance hall? A little. Would I have regretted the weekend of high-living if the sans culottes had tumbled into our room on Sunday afternoon, demanding fresh flesh for Madame la Guillotine? Not for one moment.
Were there pictures? What is this, the inquisition? I’m sure you’ll find some photos on the net if you look hard enough. I’m not saying the girl with the red hair posing on the jetty is any relation, or that the cheerful guy with the cheerful goatie has just become a relation, or that one of those blurry figures in the background might just well be me. I’ll let you figure things out for yourself, if you don’t mind.
Was this, all told, pretty much one of the best weekends of my life? You’re getting a little personal now here. Do you really think I’d give you an answer to that question? On the internet? You must be crazy, dude. But yes, of course it was.
How did my sister look? Well, just imagine, for the sake of argument, that Sofia Coppola was making a movie about the life of Marie Antoinette, and that she leavened the ancien regime opulence with a dose of New Wave spikiness and panache, and cast Kirsten Dunst in the lead role. Can you imagine that? Well, that’s pretty much how my sister looked.
Did the two families click? From the moment they met. Were the speeches actually touching and funny, portraying the bride and groom as a couple you’d actually enjoy spending time with, rather than congratulating them wildly for fulfilling the basic requirements of a functioning human being? You betcha. Was there murder on the dancefloor? There were massacres. Did the groom crack open a Nebuchadnezzar, the world’s largest bottle of champagne? Did the bride and groom appear together in the afterparty in fancy dress as shepherd and shepherdess? Did the groom present his bride with a diamond necklace- a necklace that would seal the course of a dynasty? Dude, you’re thinking of that movie again. Apart from the champagne. That was one good Neb, my friend.
Didn’t the bridesmaids look lovely? Didn’t they just.
Did E. cause a stir among my relations, most of whom she was meeting for the first time, and did, at certain hours of the night, various uncles and aunts take me to one side to deliver admiring remarks about her beauty or ask searching questions about her eyesight? Undoubtedly. Were my relatives more impressed by how stunning she looked or by the fact that she was the tallest person to ever go out with a member of the family? It broke down about 50:50, truth be told.
Were there moments when I was seduced by the glamour of the occasion? Did I, for instance, stand at the window of our bedroom, looking out at the early morning mist lifting off the lawn, a solitary rowboat braving the waves out on the lake, the sparrows flitting in and out of box limes as if they were cities in the air, and, despite having at least three generations of ardent nationalism in my background, did I think: well, I can kinda see the point of this landlordism lark after all? Possibly. Did I promptly tell my dad about my reverie? Uh-huh. Was this, in retrospect, a bit of a mistake? Abso-fucking-lutely.
Did I nonetheless get accustomed to the smell of peat smoke, the raised bathtubs in the middle of the room, drinks in the library by candle and gas-light, everyday talk of ghosts in the corridors, the fantastic food, the banging pipes in the night, the click of nails on stone as elderly dogs patrolled the entrance hall? A little. Would I have regretted the weekend of high-living if the sans culottes had tumbled into our room on Sunday afternoon, demanding fresh flesh for Madame la Guillotine? Not for one moment.
Were there pictures? What is this, the inquisition? I’m sure you’ll find some photos on the net if you look hard enough. I’m not saying the girl with the red hair posing on the jetty is any relation, or that the cheerful guy with the cheerful goatie has just become a relation, or that one of those blurry figures in the background might just well be me. I’ll let you figure things out for yourself, if you don’t mind.
Was this, all told, pretty much one of the best weekends of my life? You’re getting a little personal now here. Do you really think I’d give you an answer to that question? On the internet? You must be crazy, dude. But yes, of course it was.
posted by Ben Good at 7:24 pm
7 Comments:
I see you!
Claire looks lovely!
And you did well to cast Sofia Coppola as the director, that way you can ensure that the sans culottes will stay out of the picture.
Dick, I'm ridiculously easy to spot; I must have the most identifiable hairline on the net.
Diana, it was a toss-up between Sofia and her dad to do the wedding, but he kept wanting to intercut with scenes from the War of Independence..
excellent. i look forward to reading your book!
Cheers Dermot. Thanks for popping round.
:)brought a tear to the eye, it did!
love the blog
X
Sinead
I so wanted to be there. That description of you standing at the window, hell yeah. Give me the big country house anytime and forget the peasants. You can kind of understand how they wanted to hold on to that, can't you?
Damn it.
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