I would like to dedicate this post to Oakley Alderman. He popped into the world on 2nd July 2011.
One day maybe - just maybe - he might read this blog. If he does and if he reads my previous story (right here) he'll need to be told that it's really his story. Not mine. Or Dale's.
Dale hadn't had a miscarriage. In very rare cases a pregnant woman can bleed profusely. The bleeding is actually from outside the womb. The best medical minds don't really know the cause - they think it's got something to do with scar tissue. Perhaps from previous births. It's painful, but relatively harmless. When it happens everyone thinks it's a miscarriage. We did. So did the paramedics. Poor old Tony, Dale's husband, still did!
It wasn't. I've never in my entire 42 years of inexperience witnessed a complete reversal of emotions quite like it. When the specialist said that the baby - Oakley - was just fine, Dale and I went from utter despair to unbridled joy. In two seconds flat. We hugged each other and cried. Everyone thought we were married. Again.
Dale had lost a fair bit of blood, but she was 100% OK too. She called Tony in Florida. We both thought it was best to let him know the good news quite quickly.
It wasn't. I've never in my entire 42 years of inexperience witnessed a complete reversal of emotions quite like it. When the specialist said that the baby - Oakley - was just fine, Dale and I went from utter despair to unbridled joy. In two seconds flat. We hugged each other and cried. Everyone thought we were married. Again.
Dale had lost a fair bit of blood, but she was 100% OK too. She called Tony in Florida. We both thought it was best to let him know the good news quite quickly.
We walked out of the hospital arm in arm. Dale was covered in blood, but she was still pregnant. And I had a wedding to prepare for. Mine. It was 6pm on the night before my wedding. And as we jumped into a taxi it was snowing. Heavily.
Back at 'the building site' another minor miracle had occurred. The manager of the hotel obviously realised that this wedding was shaping up to be 'the worst event known to man' and she had taken pity on me and Picky. We were upgraded to the Presidential Suite.
It was the best hotel room I've ever stayed in. Or ever seen. I didn't even know that hotel rooms like it existed. I do now. But I'll never be staying in one again. Not if I'm paying.
It was the best hotel room I've ever stayed in. Or ever seen. I didn't even know that hotel rooms like it existed. I do now. But I'll never be staying in one again. Not if I'm paying.
That evening - the night before our wedding - we had fish and chips in newspaper around the banquet table in the Dining Room, in the West Wing of the Presidential Suite. We invited Dale, Dale's mum and dad Sylvia and Adrian, Picky's mum and dad (and Pearl) to join us. We washed it down with a few bottles of bubbly.
Picky hadn't had her hair done, or her nails, she was exhausted and stressed. I hadn't done any of the things I'd planned to do that afternoon. I hadn't written my speech or even thought about it. But no matter. Oakley was safe and well ... and inside Dale. And Dale was fine. It was all good. Things were looking up.
Picky hadn't had her hair done, or her nails, she was exhausted and stressed. I hadn't done any of the things I'd planned to do that afternoon. I hadn't written my speech or even thought about it. But no matter. Oakley was safe and well ... and inside Dale. And Dale was fine. It was all good. Things were looking up.
Metaphorically speaking at least, there was a little chink of light on the horizon of our wedding.
Not for long there wasn't.
When I woke up and opened the curtains on Saturday 18th December 2010 - the day of our wedding - I saw nothing. Nothing. Only whiteness. I expected to see Hyde Park. It had gone. Poof. Just like that. Overnight someone had nicked Hyde Park. Someone had also turned the whole of London white. Snow white.
I turned white. Snow white. And then I turned grumpy.
It had snowed all night. It had snowed for every single minute of the night before our wedding. In fact, it had snowed so much that it was impossible to differentiate between the streets of London and the 'anything else' of London. There were very few cars. Or taxis. In Central London. It was odd and eery. For as far as the eye could see there was nothing. Nothing except fields of snow. Nothing. If a penguin or a walrus had appeared it would have looked completely at home. Global Warming? Not on the day of my marriage to Picky.
It had snowed so much that the people responsible for putting salt on the roads had clearly woken up that morning and thought 'bugger this'. And they had promptly rolled over and gone back to sleep. Salting the roads could wait.
But we couldn't. We were getting married at 2pm.
O no we weren't!
The first person to cancel was Kelly. She was gutted. She was also snowed in. Then my oldest mate in the whole wide world - Chris - let me know that he was going to struggle too. And then there were Picky's friends from Germany. Most had already arrived in London. Emily hadn't. She called to say that she was stuck in Germany. Her flight was delayed. Probably cancelled.
We spent most of the morning of our wedding day on the phone to various guests in various parts of Europe with various tales of winter snow woe. When we were finally ready to go to the Registry Office I hadn't even had time to shave. Picky hadn't had her hair done or her nails. Princess for a day? Yeah, right!
We all crammed into a black London Taxi. We'd left ourselves 90minutes to get to Islington. On a normal day it would take 20mins. Naturally we thought that 90 minutes was cool.
It wasn't.
When we said we were getting married in Islington in 90minutes the London Cabbie laughed. At us.
When a London Cabby laughs at your travel plans you know you're in trouble. Real trouble. Deep trouble. The trouble we were in was as deep as the snow. And believe me, the snow was deep.
We were more than an hour late for our own wedding. The bride is traditionally a few minutes late. The bride and groom rocking up more than an hour late might well be something of a first.
By the time we got to Islington Registry Office I was ready to throttle anyone and everyone. It was no-one's fault. The poor cabbie had tried everything. He'd driven up main streets and turned around due to the snow. He'd driven down backstreets and then turned around due to the snow. He'd used every cabbie trick in the book. It was a complete and utter nightmare. The streets of London weren't paved with gold. They were icy carnage. It took so long that Picky had to hitch up her wedding gear to breastfeed Pearl in the back of a black cab. That was a certainly a first for the lucky London Cabby!
When we walked into the beautiful Gothic-style Registry Office - the scene of numerous famous weddings down the years - we thought we'd walked into a wedding convention. There were brides and grooms everywhere.
EVERYWHERE!
Ours was supposed to be the last wedding of the day. We had planned it like that so that we would have the place to ourselves.
EVERYWHERE!
Ours was supposed to be the last wedding of the day. We had planned it like that so that we would have the place to ourselves.
The place to ourselves? You've got to be kidding. It was busier than Harrods on the first day of the January sales.
The weather meant that all the day's weddings were backed up! People were bloody well queuing to get married. Queuing. It was like Vegas. We'd arrived in Las Vegas, London. All I needed was an Elvis outfit.
At this point I need to say a few words about Picky - my soon-to-be-wife. Over time brides have developed a reputation - perhaps unfairly - for being a right bloody nightmare on their wedding day. I've heard of brides flipping their lid if the napkins aren't folded absolutely perfectly on the table. Or if a guest sneezes during the service. Not Picky. She was right there in a whole world of white wedding hell and yet she kept smiling the whole time. Her wedding was an unmitigated disaster from start to finish - from pre-start to post-finish - but she didn't complain, or cry, or smack me around the head with anything resembling a bouquet. Not once. She did tell me that, after this saga, she thought we'd 'earned' a decent honeymoon.
Instead of the two of us making a majestic entrance into the beautiful marble atrium of Islington Registry Office and up the stunning gothic staircase as we'd planned, Picky and I waited in a tiny meeting room on the 1st floor with our guests - the ones who had managed to make it through the driving snow - for the backlog of weddings to clear. Tick tock, tick tock, chit chat, chat chat. It wasn't the most romantic hour we'd ever had spent. Stressful yes. Romantic, no.
Eventually, finally, at long last, it was our 'turn'. Better late than never.
The guests wandered out of the small meeting room and into Room 99. Picky and I stayed back. We wanted to make a little bit of 'an entrance'.
We only had a couple of minutes. Ours was the last wedding of the day, things were miles behind schedule and they wanted to mop the floor and close the Town Hall for the weekend. I sat and held Picky's hand. I kissed her and told her that I loved her.
Forever and a day.
She told me that the only way was up after this wedding. I agreed. It was impossible not to.
& then we started laughing. What else can you do? When you've had the worst wedding experience ever ... but you're marrying the person you love. What else can you do? It's best to laugh it all off and just get on with it.
So we did. We stood up, walked into Room 99 and got on with getting married.
Look out for the final instalment next week.
Pip pip
At this point I need to say a few words about Picky - my soon-to-be-wife. Over time brides have developed a reputation - perhaps unfairly - for being a right bloody nightmare on their wedding day. I've heard of brides flipping their lid if the napkins aren't folded absolutely perfectly on the table. Or if a guest sneezes during the service. Not Picky. She was right there in a whole world of white wedding hell and yet she kept smiling the whole time. Her wedding was an unmitigated disaster from start to finish - from pre-start to post-finish - but she didn't complain, or cry, or smack me around the head with anything resembling a bouquet. Not once. She did tell me that, after this saga, she thought we'd 'earned' a decent honeymoon.
Instead of the two of us making a majestic entrance into the beautiful marble atrium of Islington Registry Office and up the stunning gothic staircase as we'd planned, Picky and I waited in a tiny meeting room on the 1st floor with our guests - the ones who had managed to make it through the driving snow - for the backlog of weddings to clear. Tick tock, tick tock, chit chat, chat chat. It wasn't the most romantic hour we'd ever had spent. Stressful yes. Romantic, no.
Eventually, finally, at long last, it was our 'turn'. Better late than never.
The guests wandered out of the small meeting room and into Room 99. Picky and I stayed back. We wanted to make a little bit of 'an entrance'.
We only had a couple of minutes. Ours was the last wedding of the day, things were miles behind schedule and they wanted to mop the floor and close the Town Hall for the weekend. I sat and held Picky's hand. I kissed her and told her that I loved her.
Forever and a day.
She told me that the only way was up after this wedding. I agreed. It was impossible not to.
& then we started laughing. What else can you do? When you've had the worst wedding experience ever ... but you're marrying the person you love. What else can you do? It's best to laugh it all off and just get on with it.
So we did. We stood up, walked into Room 99 and got on with getting married.
Look out for the final instalment next week.
Pip pip
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