Do you ever have that sudden rush of blood to your head that makes you think that you are far more skilled at something that you actually are? I did it last summer when I volunteered to be the photographer at my eldest daughter’s wedding.
At the time of agreement I felt sure that I could do it having dabbled a little with a camera whilst at college. As the wedding day grew nearer I began to feel a certain dread at the thought that so much relied on me. To give me comfort I arranged for my old pal Nigel to be available with his telephoto lens as a backup.
Suitably armed with a list of everyone who should be included in the after service snap session, and as many digital memory sticks as I could beg steal or borrow, I set up the tripod and camera in the grounds of the hotel that had become temporary home to the extended Molineaux clan.
I noted that several guests had not seen other family members for ‘over twenty years’; with such a lack of family commitment I wanted to ask them how they could justify costing me money by being present now. Instead I kept my thoughts to my self and set off on my mission to make everyone smile for long enough so that future generations would believe we were a fully functional family.
You would think that people would be sympathetic to the needs of an amateur photographer at his daughter’s wedding but I have to report that everyone (and by everyone I mean a few) were so busy enjoying themselves that they would often ignore my calls for attention.
People fell into five distinct camps that I am sure is typical for a wedding party:
There were those whose only aim was to ensure that they used all five of their disposable cameras standing in front of my more than expensive digital SLR. I tried to be polite but by now the sweat was starting to drip on to my lens as I developed a mild panic at the thought that I was out of my depth.
Then there were those who seemed to have temporarily forgotten their names; no matter how loud I shouted for them, or how near I stood to them, they were oblivious to the fact that I was actually addressing them.
Next there were those who could not remember which group they belonged to; no matter how many times I asked for ‘all the Brides school friends’ I would not end up with the correct group. I have eleven photographs of this group containing a selection of different people including an elderly female relative who thought she was joining a queue for food.
As with every wedding there were a few who had decided that there was far too much alcohol in the hotel and it was their mission in life to solve this problem. As soon as the ceremony was over they had loosened their ties and headed to find a position where they could simultaneously drink and complain at the prices.
There were, of course, those who happily joined in with my manic display of poor photography management. Aunties helping to throw confetti on the count of three. Children who did their best to not pull funny faces when I asked them to smile. Old men who didn’t feel offended when I suggested that they straightened their ties and combed what little hair they had.
As my time in charge grew to an end I was comforted in the fact that I had a digital camera and was sure that I had a good bunch of photographs to choose from. Fortunately I was reminded at the last moment that although I had included everyone that moved (and a few that didn’t) in my picture taking I didn’t have any with the Father-of-the bride on. I handed my camera to Nigel (everyone needs a Nigel) and stood proud, if not a little hot and bothered, with my precious family for a permanent reminder of our special day.
Wedding Pics
Toilet Signs
I know that nostalgia is not what it used to be but I am sure that there was a time when signs were easier to understand than they are today.
Take for example those found on toilet doors in any public building: gone are the days when we were presented with the choice between 'Ladies' and 'Gents'. It seems that 'Guys' and 'Gals' have a more modern feel. I even came across one set of doors that said 'Laddies' and 'Luvvies'.
Now please understand that I am not writing as one of those who wish the English language would remain the same forever. I just have a concern that one day I will be in such a hurry to 'pay a visit' that I will go in the wrong toilet.
As with most anxieties this concern is probably linked to an event in my youth that shaped my future thinking. I recall being in a youth choir during my school years and having to perform at Manchester's Free Trade Hall.
As 'artistes' we were ushered into the changing rooms somewhere below stage and told to wait until we were called. Just before we were due to appear in front of the expectant audience I must have had a touch of stage fright and urgently needed to find a toilet. I travelled around corridor after corridor until I eventually found a door with the word 'Gents' in big bold letters.
In I went and was happy to find that the toilets were empty; for a few moments at least. It wasn't long, however, before I heard voices which I soon realised were female. Sat in that lonely cubicle I had only two choices; I could make my excuses and leave red faced or I could wait it out until the crowd disappeared. Being the brave soul that I am I waited until the sound of ladies voices had faded. It appears that whilst I was 'engaged', so to speak, the caretaker had replaced the 'Gents' sign with a 'Ladies' one without checking if anyone was inside.
This experience has lead to the concern I have for the clarity of such signage. Now, it would seem that my worry is justified for we have started to move away from those containing words to pictorial representations. Most of them have simple block drawings of either a man or a woman which, in a bad light and on a full bladder, can seem a little unclear. Some establishments, in an attempt at being arty or clever, have engravings that seem designed to make you take a pause before entering whilst you take a closer look, thus slowing things down. This I don't need; at my time of life the whole process takes longer than I would like anyway.
Such things are not a problem on the continent where toilet boundaries are more ambiguous. I recall on one holiday to France stopping in a village only to find a communal loo where the females had to walk past the men's urinals to get to a cubicle. Added to this there was a distinct lack of seating facilities, offering no more than a hole in the ground with a chain hanging from the ceiling with which to hold oneself in a suitable position. Needless to say the daughters all refused to pay a visit on this occasion and thus waited cross legged until we happened upon a more up-to-date facility.
In this country, however, a 'privy' should be, by definition, relatively private. So come on Britain; I can cope with hand dryers that pump out cold air (that is why men wear jeans), I can deal with broken locks on cubicle doors (That is why we learn to whistle from an early age), I can even make do with over energetic flush systems on the urinals (that is why we hone our reactions on the gaming machines). I just need to be able to easily decipher what the sign means on the toilet door. If communication is to work it should do 'exactly what it says on the tin' (to borrow a phrase). Or should that be 'exactly what it says on the can'.
Tattoo
Much to my daughters dismay I have never been one for taking too many risks with my appearance; in fact I take comfort in the simple idea that weekends are about t-shirts, in direct contrast to my weekdays, which contain shirts and ties.
Even when I was younger I watched as other lads got curly perms (think Kevin Keegan) and ear rings (think the lads on the fairground who could make standing on a moving ride look easy).
I toyed with the idea of going blond in an attempt at looking like Sting until a rather too honest friend pointed out that they could change my hair but not my face.
So I was left to take pride in my handle-bar moustache (think The Village People). When I grew it in the seventies it was at the end of a fad for facial hair. I had quite light locks and so it took me months to produce anything that could be seen by the naked eye. Looking back at old photos now I can see that it just appears to be two faint clumps of fluff on either side of my chin with very little on my upper lip.
So it is that, as I approach half a century (not out), I have decided to get a tattoo. Not a big brash one, just a small discrete symbol of my wish to be different, by being the same as other people. I recall meeting one larger than life girl who had a tattoo of David Beckham complete with his own miniature Tattoos; this is surely commitment to the cause when even your tattoos have tattoos.
My father-in-law (who, at eighty seven, has fought in seven world wars for the likes of youngsters like me) rolled his eyes and chuckled as I announced the news of my intent to be permanently marked.
He has a rather impressive military shield on his left forearm so I asked him how he came about having such artistry on his body. He told me that during the Second World War, when he was stationed in India, he and a mate had too much time and money available for such young lads away from home.
They had been for a night out and had more than their fair share of rocket fuel and so were feeling very brave. They arrived at the Tattooist just as he was getting ready to close but managed to talk them into staying for just two more jobs.
He agreed and they both selected a large and intricate emblem to go on their chests. The proprietor, however, was unable to stay in order to do two difficult pieces. He suggested that one of the lads should have a chest tattoo and the other should have one on his arm.
They were both a little disappointed but agreed to toss a coin to see who should have the glory of the chosen design. My father in law lost and, in his lubricated state, unhappily had to make do with the lesser offering.
The next morning things were a little different, as his army pal woke in pain to face a day's duty with a stinging reminder of their drunken episode.
Hearing granddad’s tale has made me take time to reconsider the idea of body art. So what I am supposed to do to mark my journey through middle age.
My third daughter settled the matter by deciding that she wanted to get her own emblem carefully inked on her wrist and has accused me of wanting to copy her; then rest of the girls joined in to say that my idea of body art at my age was all wrong.
So I am left with choosing either blonde streaks or a curly perm; or perhaps, seeing I have a receding hairline, growing my hair long and wearing it in a ponytail, pulled back so that it looks like it has been caught in a lift door and is stretching my forehead back (think Francis Rossi from Status Quo).
