Part 6b. Friday. The day before 'our big day'. The worst day in living memory.

When I got back to the hotel on the Thursday evening I was drunk. And alone. I was supposed to be sober and with Picky, Pearl and her parents.

I wasn't.

They were fighting their way through 4 feet of snow on a twelve hour trek across Germany.

I stumbled off the train at Kings Cross ... and right at that very moment the entire rail network was declared 'closed'. Just like that. If Picky did make it to Dusseldorf Airport and onto that flight to London the next morning, I wouldn't be taking the train to Stansted to meet her. I was effectively snowed in and London was effectively cut off from the outside world. I'm not sure that the outside world really cared too much, to be honest.

The 'hotel-cum-building-site' said that they could arrange a limousine to take me to Stansted Airport the next morning at 6am (the day before my wedding day). It needed to be a big one limo. If they all actually arrived from Germany there would be three fully grown Germans, Aussie / English bloke, a baby, a pram and heaps of wedding-related luggage.

400 quid.

$600!

That was the price for the massive hotel limo. Cash only. There was a 15% surcharge for credit cards.

Look, in some ways I could see why it was a tad pricey. It was a sort of luxury minibus. With blacked-out windows ... and a free newspaper. That's what you get for $600. Windows that you can't really see out of ... and a free copy of The Times. I hate The Times. Still, I booked it. Through gritted teeth and salty tears. I booked it. I had no choice. There were no trains.

When the four Pichs emerged from Immigration into Arrivals the next morning at 8.00am they looked like they'd just walked out of an all-night rave. They were utterly exhausted. They'd taken buses and trains, they'd waited on cold dark platforms in the middle of nowhere and they'd sat on freezing trains for hours and hours. All night, in fact. With a five month old baby. Picky hadn't slept a wink. She was getting married in just 24 hours.

At this point I need to pause for a second.

I know that you're thinking something along the lines of, 'Yeah, but they made it. So it's all good'.

I know for a fact that you're right on the verge of telling me to 'stop my moaning, suck it up and get that bloody girl to that bloody wedding'. To her wedding.

But you see, the thing is this; I haven't actually started the story yet. The nightmare hasn't actually begun to unfold. Not yet. It does. Very soon.

Right now in fact.

The nightmare starts here ...

When we finally got to the hotel Picky was too exhausted to notice that it looked like a bomb had hit it. She needed to sleep. So did her parents. Pearl didn't. Pearl was wide awake. I popped Picky to bed, let her parents grab some rest, and took Pearl in her pram on a wee walk around London.

Well, not really. By now the snow was 2-feet thick. We walked down to Harrods in Knightsbridge and I pushed her around Al-Fayed's 'corner shop' for a while.

Then I wandered back to The Intercontinental with my daughter. Reception told me that my best mate, Dale, had arrived. Dale had flown all the way from Florida for our wedding. She'd left her fella, Tony, at home with their two kids.

Tony is one of my favourite people in the whole world. We were both gutted that he couldn't make it to our wedding. But someone had to stay home and look after the kids. I couldn't wait to see Dale. We go back ages me and Daley. Plus she was 12-weeks pregnant with their 3rd kid. She hadn't met Pearl yet. We had heaps to talk about.

I knocked on Dale's door. No answer. I knocked again. I could hear something. Something. Something. The door opened. Slowly. Too slowly. Far too slowly. Dale never opened doors THAT slowly. Dale was lying on the floor trying to open the door from the inside. I managed to get into her room. Just.

The first thing I saw was blood. In the bathroom. Lots of blood. I panicked.

Dale looked terrible. She was lying on the floor bent over, curled up. In a ball. In agony. Clutching her stomach. A.G.O.N.Y. There were no words. None. We both knew. We knew. Shit, we knew. The one person who didn't know was Tony. He was in Florida with the kids.

A question. How do you call one of your favorite people in the world and tell him that his wife - your best mate - has miscarried. In a hotel in London. When he's in a house in Florida. On the day before you're due to get married?

I called 999. I screamed for an ambulance. An ambulance was on its way. I helped Dale from the floor to the bed. She was distraught. That made two of us. Two very distraught people were about to become three very distraught people.

& then I left Dale on the bed and walked out into the hotel corridor. I had Dale's phone in my hand. I called Tony in Florida. He answered. He thought it was Dale. It was her phone. Her number came up. He was sooo happy to hear her voice. It was my voice. I told him. That was when I really lost it. It was also when Picky turned up. Reception had called her, woken her and told her she'd better get to Dale's room. Quick.

Picky. My bride-to-be. My exhausted bride-to-be. She walked straight into Emotion Central, it was just up beyond Panic City. I'd just told Tony that his wife was covered in blood and had miscarried after her long flight to England and that an ambulance was on its way. I promised him that I would take care of Dale. Obviously I was going to keep my promise to Tony ... and not my pre-wedding hair appointment.

Picky. She was exhausted. She'd only had two hours sleep. This was supposed to be her time. Her day. She had an appointment to get her fingernails done. And her toes. Both were cancelled. I was supposed to mind Pearl. Now she had to look after Pearl. Pearl was only 5-months old. You can't just leave a 5-month old baby in the hotel lobby and go and get your fingernails done. Or your toes.

I went to Guys & St Thomas' Hospital with Dale.

I can tell you this right now. Never in a million years did I expect to be sitting in the back of an ambulance, with siren blaring and blue-lights on, shooting across London with my best mate lying next to me in agony. Never. And especially not on the day before my wedding day. Call me old-fashioned if you like. I just didn't.

Nor did I expect to be the person who had to call Dale's mum and dad to tell them that their daughter had miscarried on the floor of a hotel room in Central London. But I did. Poor Sylvia and Adrian. They live in Southampton on the south coast of England. As we whizzed through the streets of London in the ambulance they told me that they were on their way to London. Through the driving snow. I booked them a room at The Intercontinental. It had spare rooms. Course it did. No-one else was staying there. The place looked like a bomb had hit it.

At the hospital everyone assumed that I was Dale's husband. It was beautifully ironic. I was no-one's bloody husband. Yet. Give me a chance, please.

Just let me get married!

I did. Eventually. But sitting there in a cubicle in the Maternity Unit at one of London's leading hospital's, whilst my mate was off being scanned and tested, I seriously questioned whether I would. And whether I could. Whether we could. Especially after the day we'd all had. Friday. The worst day in (my) living memory.

Next came Saturday. Saturday was a big day. THE big day. My wedding day. Our wedding day. It couldn't be any worse than Friday could it? It couldn't. Surely not. Could it?

Of course it could.

Hope you're having a great week.

Pip pip x