Friday, 02.10.9, morning

Roo and Stacey's wedding was in Broughty Ferry on Friday past, so a number of us had the day off work to attend.  We gathered at Maginnis's flat.  I must say, shorn of the jeans and trainers, she scrubbed up remarkably well in make-up, floaty grey dress and pink heels.  I may even have gone so far as to say so.  Cramming five, three of whom were ca. six feet tall into Elizabeth, as I am told the car is named, was difficult and not without a certain creasing of wedding finery. However, Broughty Ferry it was with seconds to spare before the arrival of the bride. 

I'm not religious so much of the flummery of church weddings passes me by, but it was good to see the couple plainly in touch with the ceremony and even to note a budding tear in Roo's eye as they made their way past us.  Under all that bluff exterior he's a sensitive soul.

Friday, 02.10.09, afternoon

The ceremony over, what was now required was food as breakfast seemed an age away and a champagne reception beckoned in Scone at 2.30.  A pint and an excellent pannini in The Fisherman's followed.  This was a great bar down at the harbour in Broughty Ferry with a fine selection of beers and a ceiling low enough that even Maginnis, with the aid of heels, could nearly touch it.  After lunch and it was off to our hotel, the extravagantly named Skylodge.

So how many of you knew that Perth had an airport?  Thought not. It resembles, in fact, an RAF fighter station from the Battle of Britain with a collection of single storey shacks one of which turned out to be the Skylodge.  I can't accuse them of a breach of the Trades Descriptions Act; the booking form clearly said "basic" room and so it proved. It had all the luxury of a monastic cell. The bed cover and pillows seemed to have been cut from the same piece of thin duvet, the heating said on but the the air temperature said off, the en suite shower room had one tiny wee piece of soap, there was no wardrobe to hang up coats, a strange assemblage of mis-matching mug, waste-paper bin and general decor and the view from the window was of an unrelieved area of tarmac.  Still, it was clean and at £22 a night, I should be complaining? 

Part of this wartime complex was advertised as "The Hangar", Perthshire's special function suite available for the usual slew of weddings, conferences, parties, etc, etc.  Its unique selling point (USP) according to the glossy leaflet was: where else could you fly to your function and step straight out of your private plane into the venue?  It had clearly escaped the attention of the authors of this drivel that no-one who actually owned a private plane would consider stopping at Perth International Airport unless they'd had an airborne emergency, let alone book a function at The Hangar. Sorry, I added the International bit.

All of this fitting in of lunch, driving from Broughty Ferry half way across Perthshire to Scone, booking in at the Sky Lodge and getting sorted for the night ahead meant we missed the champagne reception by about two hours.  Bummer. This was more than compensated by an excellent wedding breakfast (see how up with the terminology I am?) and some emotional rather than amusing speeches though Roo did come out with a cracker when he observed, "At the end of the ceremony when the minister said I could kiss the bride I was bit shocked that Stacey slipped me the tongue."

Friday, 02.10.09, evening

A brilliant ceilidh with a fantastic band of fiddle, guitar, bass and drums, not afraid of sticking a bit gain on the amps and throwing some RAWK on top of traditional tunes.  Maginnis proved an excellent dance partner though she has complained today of great stiffness in her legs.  There was the usual general clumping around and I was surprised at the large number of kilt-wearing men of my generation who were plainly clueless about Scottish Country dancing.  I was taught it at school in the '50s and '60s and assumed everyone else had been too.  The result of this was my sustaining a seriously crushed and bruised little toe, I'm sure it's broken, from one of these tartan trampers.

Despite continual nagging from Roo I did not wear a kilt.  Simply, I have an English name and, as far as I can determine, no historic Scottish roots, consequently I'm not entitled.  Anyway the plaid itches like buggery.  I decided on a restrained black suit, black tee shirt and loosely draped purple scarf and had the satisfaction that everybody said I looked just like an architect, which was exactly the look I was aiming for. It also meant that simply by removing the jacket I was stripped for action on the dance floor, unencumbered by tie, waistcoat, braces and all that unneccesary shit. 

As a brief note I should record that the day's activities at the hotel were conducted by a Master of Ceremonies who sounded and looked like the product of an awful miscegenation between Basil Fawlty and Manuel.

Saturday, 03.10.09, morning and afternoon 

By taxi back to the Skylodge and bed only to be woken far too early in the morning by what sounded like a squadron of Spitfires revving up on the apron ready to take to the skies and give the Bosch a damned good thrashing. I struggled out of bed and pulled back the curtain expecting to be met by the spectacle of white silk scarves and handlebar moustaches fluttering in the prop-wash from the 24 cylinder Merlin engines only to be confronted by a doleful learner on a 125cc motorbike disconsolately doing repeated circuits of the tarmac.

Of the previous day's packed car only Maginnis, Audrey and myself were left so, eschewing the culinary delights of the Skylodge, we headed in to Perth and breakfast at Poppies, my favourite Polish cafe.  Reviving coffee, hot croissants and jam and we ready for lunch at The Foundry. Strangely, we all almost simultaneously remarked as we left Perth how we couldn't possibly live there and I wondered why I had always found it a peculiar town.  I had no evidence for its peculiarity, much as I had no evidence for Prague's familiarity before I went there, but somehow this sense of strangeness and smallness abides. Perhaps it was finding that each of our destinations, Poppies and the Foundry, were within two minutes walking-distance of where we had fortuitously parked that did it. I talk of spending a day there, but even this eludes me. And then it was back to Edinburgh and time to review battle scars and to chill out on Sunday.

Sunday, 04.10.09, afternoon

A Sunday footnote:  At great expense we bought proper feathered shuttlecocks to play badminton with rather than the poor plastic things we'd been using and which we had destroyed.  How professional Ben and I felt as we literally, figuratively and actually thrashed the cork and goose feathers to within an inch of their life. At £2.50 each, we simply can't continue to go through one an hour: that's £130-worth of shuttlecocks in a year!