Robyn’s Nest

Well, my Easter extravaganza was not so extravagant. After a couple of days of bridesmaid bliss - eating cake, drinking coffee and girly chatter, I headed over to Birmingham for a night on the tiles.

What’s so extravagent about Brum I hear you cry? Exactly. We ditched the idea of the seaside or car journey/day trip further afield ‘cos of the bloomin’ freezin’ weather and plumped for free accommodation and an easy night out. But it was pants. The first bottle of wine tasted like vinegar, I could barely walk in my high heels (due to six weeks of wearing flats and trainers), the club we chose was not up to much and there was no hot totty to be seen. The highlight of the night was a conversation with Alan the bouncer, who wore a very fetching furry hat, and kebab meat and chips courtesy of Mr Egg.

Mr Egg is a fastfood takeaway in Chinatown, but I used to think he was a real person. My old buddy once dashed out of a club protesting she had to see Mr Egg and that she was going to be too late. Who is this Mr Egg I wondered? She’d never mentioned him before! What was the urgency? When I finally caught up with her she was scoffing chips and mayo - and that was my first introduction to Mr Egg.

Us trio of girlies remained in brum the following day and had the laziest Easter Sunday ever. We pulled on our jeans around midday and tucked into gourmet burgers and chips and then retired to the sofas and watched three films back to back, getting up only for toilet breaks, coffee refills or to fetch crisps from the cupboard. I did miss a fair chunk of the Wizard of Oz though ‘cos I needed to rest my eyes. Sheer laziness, sheer pleasure. 

This Friday is officially Good Friday but for me it will be Great Friday. And here’s why…

I’m trekking back home to the shire Friday am (not home to the folks, an hour further north west) to Shrewsbury to catch up with two wicked mates and ex journo work buddies. I haven’t seen them since way before Christmas and the day will be dedicated to girly gossip, eating, laughing, and more girly gossip.

Mate number one, let’s call her Bloater (my nickname for her for the last five years), has just moved into her first home with her fiance and as she’s getting married in October and I’m a bridesmaid, there’ll be lots of wedding news to catch up on, plus a guided tour of her new pad. And what I love about Bloats the most? She’s a very intelligent woman but she says some really daft things, such as: “Venison? Is that a very big bird?”

Then there’s Sambo who’s a wee bit older than me and Bloats (she’ll hate me for saying that) and my former editor on The Tizer. Sam’s brill. You can’t shock her with anything you tell her (she’ll have probably done it already), she gives great advice - work and personal - and she holds down a stressy job while caring for three children. Well, two children and a husband actually. Soz Nige. And she also knows about grown-up stuff like buying vacuum cleaners, mortgages and sewing buttons onto clothes. Clever woman!

So, the three of us will catch up on four months of gossip and put the world to rights. Can’t bloomin’ wait. I also get the honour of staying at Bloater’s new gaff - in butterfly sheets no less. How very fancy.

Right, onto Saturday and Bridesmaids Wot Brunch. Bloater and her four bridesmaids, me being one of them, are gonna hook up for cake and cwaffee (to be said in American accent) to talk weddings, dresses (the four bridesmaid outfits are pictured above) and shoes. And then we plan to ditch Bloats and get down to the nitty gritty - the hen night. With four of us trying to organise it - all living at opposite sides of the country - it has the potential to get messy. I just hope my bossy-ness/control freakism doesn’t seep out when we’re talking L plates, veils and water pistol willies.

Anyways, it’s all good. And then there’s my Easter extravaganza to look forward to. Don’t you just love Bank Holidays?!

On Saturday I indulged in a day of utter girlyness. The day began like any other - rubbing the sleep from my eyes and wishing it wasn’t time to get up yet - and ended around a dinner table, supping wine (lemondade for me, I was driving) and lots of laughter.

The reason for the gathering is ‘cos my mate Bloater (her name’s Laura but that’s what I call her, long story) is getting married and I have the honour of being one of her four bridesmaids.

On Saturday the five of us (plus a straggler who just loves all things wedding) went to a shop called Fairytale Dreams (barf!) to see Bloater in her wedding dress. Ah, she looks so pretty and all grown up. Even though she’s three years younger than me.

Then we headed off for the most important part of the day - the bridesmaid dress hunt. We trekked to Walsall ( God awful place) and found haven in the bridal shop where, amazingly, the four of us found dresses we liked - and Bloater loves them too.

Now, the four of us are all different shapes and sizes - two tall-ies, two shorties, two olive-skinned, two a little more pasty, bla bla bla. Yet, we managed to find dresses (which came in two different styles, straps or no straps) to suit us all. We’re taking two of each style and the dress woman practically had to pull them off us before we left. Jeans just don’t compare when you’re floating around in a pretty frock.

The only bit I didn’t like was the measuring. The nice lady made comments like “you’re in complete proportion” and “haven’t you got a tiny waist” to the others. Resounding silence when she came to me and I have the biggest hips of the lot - I sneaked a peak at her scribblings. Does that make me the fat bridesmaid? No, it’s all muscle anyway and I am the tallest! And I managed get in the size 12 and do the zip up all the way to the top, so I’m happy.

After a gossip over a tiramisu latte (heavenly) we straightened our hair, topped up the lip gloss and headed to a posh pub for grub where we scoffed, sipped and nattered the night away.

We covered the usual girly topics - the day of the wedding, the hen night, boyfriends, men’s rude parts and the joys of dating.

And, no pre-wedding gathering would be complete without a mention of the bride’s new surname - she’s going to be Mrs Hoare! Laura Hoare! It’s the source of much amusement. I reckon she should pronounce it Hoe-are-ay, kinda like Mrs Bucket/Bouquet. Her hubby to be is very good  humoured about the whole thing. He answers the home phone: “Hello, Hoare house.” Classic.

 For more wedding chat see http://ckrandom.wordpress.com/2007/11/26/alls-well-in-wedding-la-la-land/