This mum could not be prouder
I’M still on a high two weeks on from one of the best days of my entire life. My first-born, Dan got married. In Cornwall. Under a blue, blue sky close to a sparkling sea.
Well, I say first-born – only just. Dan’s twin Tom was lifted out of my belly approximately two minutes after his brother. But these things matter – it’s important to register the first twin (or triplet, or whatever) out of the traps in case of inheritance issues down the line (not that either of my boys is in line to inherit a title, where primogeniture comes into play).
But back to the wedding. The weather forecasts all week had been glum, wind and rain promised. But the day dawned fine and warm and stayed that way. Our wedding guests assembled outside Looe’s pretty Guildhall, looking splendidly out of place in their smart summer frocks and suits among the seasiders in shorts and flip-flops.
Did I cry during the ceremony? Am I a mother? Of course I did. The expression of utter joy and contentment on my son’s face as he pledged himself to his beloved Jo – who looked as beautiful as a bride should – is a memory I shall A FEW decades ago when I was a reporter at Yorkshire TV, my mush was frequently compared to Leeds striker Alan “sniffer” Clarke’s. Admittedly, we did look a bit alike, and the local press had fun with it.
“You’ve got a lot of publicity off my back,” he told me grumpily and accusingly when we eventually met. Uhh?
Latterly it’s been Nigel Havers. Last month a woman I’d never met plonked herself down at a pavement café table in North London and addressed me in deeply personal terms as Havers until I managed, with some difficulty (“Stop being so silly, Nigel!” she kept saying, “We’re old friends!”) to cherish for ever. I have never seen him look so uncomplicatedly happy.
Then it was back to our lawn for the reception. Huge, teepee-style tents, long trestle tables and 150 guests. They were a lovely bunch and their happiness for the bride and groom was transparent. It rapidly became a joyous gathering; many said it was probably the happiest wedding they’d ever been to.
Richard had hired a magician to wander between the tables performing jaw-dropping feats of close magic.
He’s called Mark Williams and if you want to make your party go with an extra swing and watch your guests’ eyeballs pop out, Mark’s your man.
Eventually the sun sank into the sea, a huge silver-yellow full moon replaced it and, speeches over, the dancing began.
As I looked at my first and second born (Tom was, of course, best man) I could scarcely believe it was 40 years ago these two fine young(ish!) men emerged, mewing, into the world.
They say pride is a sin. If so, put me down as an unrepentant sinner. Because this mum couldn’t be any prouder.
IT’S LIKE LOOKING IN THE MIRROR...
disabuse her. Her response? “Oh, how absurd of me! I’m so sorry! You have a MUCH fatter face than him!” Sigh.
But the latest identity mismatch is too much. Way, way too much. A newlycommissioned (and rubbish) wax image of Theresa May for Madame Tussauds in London has been compared to yours truly.
Really? Oh, c’mon! Check out the photos!
The ’80s fringe, perhaps. The bags under the eyes, maybe. The somewhat prominent nose, possibly. The mouth, well… Oh S**t! I look like Theresa May! Or at least her latest waxwork. I’m traumatised.
I may need therapy.