The Navigator Is Drunk

I would have liked to tell my stepdaughter how beautiful she looked, in her wedding gown, no surface gloss beauty: the real glow. I think she knew, anyway: Little Grandson had run to the unfenced edge of the high church wall to wave at Mum in the wedding charabanc. And his shirt was untucked, so there were two Granma jobs to keep my mind from crying. People do cry at weddings, I know, but I might not be able to stop. This confident, quirky boy stands on a grave and smiles. Life prevails. Celebration prevails. Love is worth the risk of loss.

Bunting aplenty at the marquee: handmade, yards and yards of candy prints, hours and hours of fine work. Cupcakes, homemade, iced and glittered, place names, all hand written. It all comes down to love.

The groom stole the speech show. He floored us all: no showboating: only how he misses his father, how he loves his wife. He proposed to her in a gondola: he's that sort of chap. Every napkin holds a mascara blot. Little Granddaughter appears to save me this time, demanding a cuddle and a cake.

I am feeling better, for being here, even if my napkin is blotched.

Mr, the Father of the Bride, is feeling deeply emotional, and also the effects of liberal wine pouring. As the evening commences I have dog-minding duties, so Mr is swept along in the car.

Bouncy Beagle and Dog make use of the garden facilities. Medicinal strength espresso bubbles on the stove. The hounds are bribed back inside. Mr smiles. He says he's fine now. We get back in the car.

'I don't have the sat-nav, so can you give me directions?'

'Yeah, no problem.' Mr has a confident, caffeinated air. 

First junction, I look for guidance.

He says: 'Do you want to go right or left?'

'I don't know, honey, I was hoping you could give me directions?'

'You can go any way you want.'

'Any way?'

'Yes, you'll get there, you can go any way you want.'

'Er, left?'

'Yes, that's fine. You can go any way you want.'

Every junction: variations on the same. Eventually I look for a patch of unlit sky (over the ocean) so I can locate the seafront and the marquee.

'See?' He says. 'Any way you want. All roads lead to here.'

I don't think they do. I think our roads lead to here though, and while we're here we should dance.

The next morning I drive me, Mr, Boy, two dogs to the beach. Mr says 'Take the next left.' I say: 'I can go any way I want.'

Laughter in the car, a light breeze in a bright sky.