Farewell Pixies! This Is Your Bus...

If only Eamonn were still alive.
Posting early (for me) this week as Seminar Monday, Library Induction Tuesday and Workshop Wednesday next week. There's a poem in that.

Now, the Bus driver is actually Argent at Delusions of Adequacy, here http://argent-delusionsofadequacy.blogspot.com/
but it is the late, lamented Don't Feed The Pixies, nowhere to be found now, who is psychically steering. I hope all is well in magic land.
The prompt was a poem for a non-denominational wedding, with the not-unimportant riders nothing too cheesy, tacky or ott sentimental. Which I followed, though I forgot to read the bit that said we're looking for a gentle warming of the cockles of the heart here. Still, I'm a bit closer than Dave King...

All the other important riders can be found at Argent's.



Romford Handfasting

I will love you
black and blue.
I will.
I will.
I do.
I do.


And on a side, albeit pretty intrinsic, issue the poem is obviously connected to a certain wedding sixty years ago.
For the boys' first Christmas, their presents to their surviving grandparents were "A Grandparent's Book - Our Story, Our Life". I presume this idea came to our shores from America, as at the time such books were a new thing over here. I think. Anyway, I diligently purchased four copies (husband has a stepmum and a mum) as they were significantly reduced in price in Past Times and wrapped and presented them, thinking they would be good for the children to look at as they grew up. Only my mother, ever conscious of her own mortality, completed the thing, and she did a very good job of it - a lot of her usual honesty and a lot of things I didn't know. Plus stuck-in photographs and old coins and stuff.

Here's the bit of the wedding page I could fit on the scanner.


Why does my mother always write in capitals? I have no idea; she's done it for as long as I can remember.
The "Silver Threaded Medieval Gown" blown up below. Get the wimple - and the bridesmaids' dresses, which were the bane of my primary school Christmases. The bodices were purple velvet, and at some point got converted into a purple cloak for an unspecified elder brother whilst small to be a King in the Nativity Play. Said cloak condemned me to be a King each year, every year. Even tomboys actually covet the Virgin Mary role.


Eldest brother is also present, unseen, in the wedding photos. Something I didn't work out until I was reading through the book with the boys about a year ago, and having just looked at the wedding date I suddenly noticed the date of his birth.



27, Main Rd in the background, which was the hotel Nan owned and ran. Specialised in functions and wedding parties and the like. Sadly demolished. Romford Police Station occupies its space now.
These are obviously just snaps; Mum has the Wedding Album at home. It makes me sad to think one day it will be mine.