A Spring Wedding

The church, it glowed with radiant flowers

Roses, climbing up in towers

Whispered to each other as

They counted the remaining hours

The marquee also was in bloom

Fairy lights around round the room

Like jewels among the flowers as

They waited for the bride and groom

The dress it hung in ghostly state

The rings anxious to know their fate

Rattled gently in their box

Not much longer now to wait.

The cake in ivory pieces lay

The nightlights gleamed to show the way

And all together held their breath

To welcome in the Special Day.

Finally, the dawn it breaks

The bride from fitful sleep awakes

Runs swiftly to the window, but

Instead of fields are ponds and lakes!

                                            No sun shines bright to warm the ground

No blue sky is there to be found

Instead, as she gazes out

Dark clouds gather all around.

The little bride, she sheds no tear

Her wedding can still happen here

And as she runs around the house

All who see her feel her cheer

The wedding feast is brought inside

By the family of the bride

It will be cosy, but there is

Room for all, and more beside

Wellingtons, for her feet

Her dress hitched up, to keep it neat

A pretty umbrella for her hair

And through it all, her smile so sweet.

Our bride sets out, with her band

Not in style as she had planned

No pony trap to church for her

The local taxi lent a hand!

                                                     The church itself just overflows

With wet umbrellas, soggy toes

The organ can hardly be heard

Over rasping throat and streaming nose

Now our patiently waiting groom

Turns and looks around the room

The door at last it opens and

A ray appears to break the gloom

For looking at the joy and pride

On the faces of both groom and bride

It feels as though the sun has thrown

Open the door and come inside

A smile appears on every face

To see such tender love and grace

There’s nowhere they would rather be

Than right there in that happy place.

Husband and wife united stand

Their wedding hasn’t gone as planned

But family and friends are there

To see them standing hand in hand.

Family (Bow) Ties

I went to a Wedding Fayre (yes, Fayre, that's how it's spelt in the wedding industry, ok?) yesterday. I admit that when I arrived I was utterly, teeth rattlingly terrified. Surrounded by brisk, intimidatingly efficient ladies stabbing teazles into oasis, and towering wedding cake confections the size of a ten year old, I felt a total fraud as I laid my table; 1 sample book, 1 bowl of sugared almonds, 1 pile of pens, all lying haphazardly on top of my unironed sheet that I had pressed into service as a table cloth.

However once I had finished being sick behind the rhododendrons - I blame the nerves, but honestly it could just as easily have been the pasty on the train - I rather enjoyed myself. Once people had recovered from their shock at the paucity of my display, they were absolutely lovely to me. I was encouraged, petted, flattered and fed with pheasant paté and wedding cake until it all rather went to my head. Fortunately my feet were kept firmly on the ground by the hordes of small children, angry at being dressed in their best and marched around a marquee when the sun was shining, who kept sneaking sugared almonds when they thought my back was turned and then, with awful inevitability and horrified face, regurgitating the pastel remains over my feet.

While there, just out of interest, I did a little survey. I am always interested in the motives of people who buy my products. Are they just being sensible and avoiding a last minute panic? Are they in the throes of a last minute panic now? Have they been pressured into using my services by someone who doesn't quite trust them? I very rarely get to learn these things, but I would love to know.
So, my survey asked, are you concerned about the speeches at your wedding? And if so, can you give details?

Over the course of the day, although very few people were prepared to actually admit it in black and white, it became very clear that there was one universal concern when it came to the speeches, and indeed every other aspect of the wedding preparations, and that was Family.
"My father needs your help!" shouted one bride immediately she saw the sign. "When he did a speech at my sister's wedding, it was all about me and how he'd never get shot of me because I'm un-marryable! God knows what he's going to come out with now I'm actually getting married!"
"The best man's a twonk." declared one resigned looking young man. When I pressed him as to why he had chosen a twonk as his best man, he shrugged. "He's my brother isn't he? What can you do? I'm not sure he'll even show up, to be honest." His bride to be nodded vehemently, her eyes bulging with the strain of keeping things unsaid. Because it's Family.

Other, horrifying stories came out through the day. Tales of alcoholic uncles, wicked stepmothers, and second cousins who could kill a room stone dead with a single anecdote were alternately yelled at me, or muttered furtively out of the corner of the mouth.

It got me thinking. Your wedding is supposed to be Your Special Day. Absolutely everything is supposed to be exactly as you want it. Your every need, whim and tantrum should be catered to. And overall, it is. The tasty delicacy is shipped in especially from Sri Lanka. The flowers are rejected over and over until they match perfectly the lilac hue of the bridesmaids dresses. And the Rolls Royce hire is cancelled (though not refunded) three days before the wedding when you discover that there's a man in the village who runs the most darling little pony and trap. Even the groom is allowed to have a screaming breakdown over his buttonhole if he wants to. All this is as it should be.

And yet, so many couples are prepared to jeopardise their wedding day for Family. They grimly pore over seating plans as though they were war maps, trying to make sure that Auntie Mabel and Auntie Fleur won't get even a glimpse of each other for the whole day. They reluctantly but dutifully invite people who haven't been invited anywhere since 1986, for very good reason. They organise special rubber chair covers for Grandpa George, and detail someone to watch Evie like a hawk for signs of a hip flask.

Why do they do this, do you think? In my opinion, it's because secretly, deep down inside, they know that your wedding isn't all about you. In fact, it's not even mainly about you. It's about your family. It's about your friends. It's about making sure that everybody has the best day they could possibly have on your wedding day. And it's about making sure that nobody, even somebody who may have deliberately knitted you bad jumpers and made you wear them in the past, feels left out.

So, there you go. It can all be summed up with a shrug, a weary smile, and the words "It's Family."
However, there is one thing you can do to reduce the peril just a little. If the Loose Cannon is going to be making a speech, send them to me. I'll make sure they don't embarrass you, I promise.

The Language of Diplomacy

Absolutely seething over ridiculous article in the Telegraph that I read whilst I was eating lunch. Unusual this; whilst the Daily Mail regularly reduces me to impotent, frothy mouthed rage, I'm normally fairly safe with the good old ploddy Telegraph. Hence the choice to read it over lunch; fury tends to be bad for the digestion. I'm going to regret those olives later, I just know it.

Anyway, digestive inconveniences aside, this article is certainly going to repeat on me for the rest of the day. The title itself was inflammatory enough; 'One in 40 UK diplomats fluent in language of country in which they work' it bugled, causing me to drop my fork. For one moment I wasn't entirely sure if they were criticising, or boasting. Such are the delicate nuances of our language. But no, reading on I was reassured to see that they were indeed decrying the lack of linguistic skills posessed by our representatives abroad. Just one in 40 British diplomats is fluent in the language of the country where they work with the majority lacking even basic grasp sufficient for day-to-day exchanges. Then came a more detailed, horrifying break-down of the numbers. Snorting, I read on, eager to learn what the Telegraph proposed we do about this terrible situation. But no, the Telegraph was too busy playing the Blame Game to come up with a solution. So then, who or what is to blame for this travesty? Why, Gordon Brown of course. For he it was who closed down the Foreign Office Language school. Without a Foreign Office language school, how on earth can we expect Foreign Officers to speak foreign languages?

I don't mind telling you I choked on my fusilli. Steam came out of my ears, and I became seriously empurpled. My vision of the world rocked, and awfully, horribly, all of our moronic Foreign Policy decisions started to make sense.

For a start, I would like to ask a very basic question; what qualifications does one need to become a diplomat? I freely admit that, not having met any diplomats, I genuinely don't know. However I have always assumed that, at the very least, a firm grasp of the language of your country of choice would be a pre-requisite. For me personally, it would be at the top of the list. In letters of fire. Honestly, I am staggered. What extraordinarily wonderful qualities must a candidate possess for them to be selected despite not knowing more of the required language than "Where is the station?" and the numbers from one to ten? Or maybe they are relying on International Man Language to get them by. "David Beckham! Yessss! Ver' gooooood!" Looking at the statistics, we have in this country a true plethora of linguists, some of them are even involved in politics too. So why are we resorting to people who need the "At the Diplomatic Meeting" section of their pocket guide just to do their job properly?

I hate to jump to conclusions, and I promise I am not one for sweeping generalisations, but I can't shut out the niggling voice at the back of my mind that says it might be a question of Who You Know. How else to explain it? Imagine there was a job going as a plumber. Ten candidates turn up, nine of whom were qualified in plumbing, and one of whom was not. If the unqualified person got the job, don't you think there would be raised eyebrows, possibly even questions asked?

Maybe I'm overly suspicious. Maybe it is simply that our politicians, in that typically British way, completely underestimate the importance of speaking foreign language. Maybe they truly do believe that by pointing, smiling,and speaking slowly and clearly, they will be able to communicate the subtleties and nuances of the political policies they are trying to promote. How they hope to understand their counterpart though is beyond me. The Telegraph quotes Charles Crawford, former British ambassador to Poland as saying "You are always going to be more efficient if you can speak the language". Really, Charles? What masterly understatement. It's rather like saying that you will be a more effective literary critic if you can read. Although, to be fair to Mr Crawford, he does apparently speak five languages so clearly practices what he preaches.

The thing is, you see, almost everybody undervalues the power of language. In these days of soundbite and image, of slash and slang, people have forgotten the power of sentences and phrases, quips, and speeches. And yet they forget to their cost, because we are still wholly in the power of language. Language helps a teacher to motivate us, or our mothers to comfort us. It allows authority figures to intimidate us, and of course politicians to persuade us. But, as with any weapon, in the wrong hands it can be dangerous. When wielded with precision and dexterity it confers upon the bearer a tremendous power, however used clumsily it is just as likely to turn upon the speaker and inflict irreparable damage. Viz: Jimmy Carter attempting to convince the people of Poland that he wished to know their desires for the future. What he actually said to the surprised and frightened Poles, via a bungling translator, was that he desired them carnally. Political disaster.

So when I say that diplomats and ambassadors should speak the language of the country in which they are based, I do not just mean a working knowledge. It is not enough to be able to hold a stilted conversation about the weather, or to make a joke about food for the reporters. Language is the key to understanding the psyche and history of its people, and surely it is understanding and communication which are the most important aspects of an ambassador's job. Nuance, dialect, trends; all are paramount. Heaven knows how many ghastly blunders have already been made by our well-meaning, uncomprehending representatives. And how many more will be made before the government realises the importance of actually being able to talk to the people you work with every day?

Do I think the Foreign Office Langauge School is a good thing? Am I glad that the Conservatives have re-opened it? Yes, and yes. Of course. Anything that promotes better communication and understanding between nations can only be a good thing. I just hope that the Foreign Office makes good use of it, and doesn't dismiss it as a PR stunt. However I also believe that fluency in the required language should be a pre-requisite for any ambassador or diplomat worth their salt before they are even offered the post, and that it is not only shameful, but detrimental for Britain if that is not the case.

Right. I can stop breathing fire now. Unless those olives have other ideas.

To read the full article go to http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/9194006/One-in-40-UK-diplomats-fluent-in-language-of-country-in-which-they-work.html

Twitter Fear

I always knew it would be scary starting up my own company.

Quite apart from the crippling fear of failure, and the possibility of losing my little all, there is the unholy terror that is the Trade Fair. Or Fayre, if you are slightly connected with the wedding business. That is a dragon I have yet to slay - 22nd April is looming ahead like a monstrous storm cloud, I'll tell you all about it afterwards.

Funnily enough though, I was quite looking forward to promoting the business online. "That's the fun bit!" said everyone cheerily, and like a muppet, I believed them.
After all, I'm quite a confident, outgoing person. I like parties, and socialising, and I could chat for Britain. For heaven's sake, my day job is in Sales! I even met my amazing boyfriend through an online dating agency. What could possibly be scary about Social Media?

The other thing that is wonderful about online self promotion is that it is faceless. No need to worry about spots, spare tyres, unfashionable clothes. It can be done whilst wearing a soup stained Betty Boop dressing gown and milk-bottle spectacles if desired. And frequently is. After all, the internet is the greatest self-reinvention tool ever created. So that was settled; from now on I was a six foot, blonde, groomed, uber business woman. With a mole, like Cindy Crawford's. What fun!

Well, no. The one thing nobody tells you, and that I never could have guessed, is this; Twitter Is Scary. No really, it is. And I'm not talking about the racist cretins, or the haters, or the trolls that slither about on our social media sites everyday, I'm talking about normal, everyday people. People like me, promoting their businesses, chatting about what they are watching on television. Terrifying.

The thing is, I was expecting it to be rather like Facebook. But of course, if you're like me, then the big difference is that everybody you "Friend" on Facebook is actually a friend in real life too. Or at least a member of your family, which isn't always the same thing, but at least it usually means you've known them for ever. Whereas I know about 4 "real" people on Twitter. The other 14 Followers I have managed to amass - I know, I'm not doing terribly well - are Professionals; Wedding Planners, Bridal Magazines, Word Lovers, Event Organisers and so on. Even setting aside my slavish gratitude for them Following me, they all seem to be genuinely nice people. They are enthusiastic about their work, they support and promote other people in their work, they don't bitch about people (well, unless they really, really deserve it) and all in all they are all round decent folk. So, why so scary? I hear you cry. Simple; they all seem to have known each other for absolutely ever. They tease each other, encourage each other in their diets, ask about their pets, laugh at in-jokes, and even occasionally meet up in the actual real world. And there I am, the new girl, trying hard to fit in and be accepted, whilst at the same time panicking that I am coming accross as really needy and desperate.

I don't know if you ever changed schools when you were young, but if you did you will recognise this feeling immediately. The feeling that everybody apart from you is in on the joke. The feeling that, try as you might, your rucksack will never be cool enough, your hair never tousled enough, your accent never quite right. The conviction that everybody is always two steps ahead of you, and that there's nothing you can do about it.

Well, that's what happened to me on Twitter. The minute I metaphorically stepped into the cyber playground, I was suddenly 13 years old again, tongue-tied and scared to smile for fear people would see my braces and judge me. I feel that all those strong, loud, intelligent, funny women out there in the 'Twittersphere' can see right through me and my tentative Tweets that take me so long to create. I feel as though I'm an imposter, a Twitter virgin. They can't possibly know this, and yet I feel that they do. I feel that I'm interrupting if I join in a conversation, that I'm Following the wrong people, that I'm pretending to know all about the cool things I only heard of last week. At this rate, within a week I'll be hanging out in the science lab at breaktime with the child who smells of eggs.

Oh, the worry, the worry. If anyone has any suggestions for boosting my coolness rating they would be gratefully received. You can even have my yoghurt at lunchtime.