Saturday night...

Well ladies, I very almost didn't make it this morning.  You know that particular moment on a Big Night Out, when your sister says, 'Just stay at mine, and have a bloody drink'?  Well that happened at around 6.00 last night in the FA Cup Final half time.

Luckily for me, and all the others at the table, I remained on the road of sobriety, and was able to scoop the husband up at the end of the evening and transport his broken weeping body back home from the pub.  He's a Manchester United fan, which explained the moaning and wailing across the county border as we drove home.  He'll probably sulk till at least Tuesday.

But of course, we had the wedding to watch for the first part of Saturday.  As a complete traditionalist, I was glued to the television and sat there so long, that two meals were necessary.  I didn't want to miss a second of it, so deployed daughter number one to make the bacon rolls.  It was the least she could do having brought round a 4" tall sausage dog to 'play' with the boys.  Who would have thought such a small creature would create so much havoc in a relatively short space of time.  Over the course of the two hours he was here he managed the following:

'Christened' every room downstairs

Humped Reg's head

Moved on upstairs where a refilled water tank was put to use around the bedrooms

Got humped by Percy (that boy is often confused)

But the most impressive thing he did was to be able to jump up and down off the sofa....many, many times.  To see this four legged chipolata spring like a gazelle to get to Reg (who thought the height would give him a small advantage and deter the head-humping) was hilarious, and almost made the post-visit clear up worthwhile.  You'll see I used the word 'almost' here...

Anyway, the wedding was fabulous, bride looked beautiful, crowds happy, sun shone.  A perfect start to a very special lifetime of Saturdays.

If only those eleven overpaid divas in red could have remembered what they were paid to do yesterday afternoon, instead of prancing around the field like a group of middle aged Morris Dancers, my day would have been complete.

Unfortunately, Miss R and Woody were heavily supporting Chelsea (and the wine growing area of Alsace) so there was a lot of ribbing through the match.  As the second half droned on, Miss R had switched alliance and was shouting, 'Come on Tottenham!' much to Woody's disgust, and when the game finally drew to an end, Miss R had resorted to talking to anyone in the pub who would listen and wasn't even watching the television.

Woody turned to Miss R and told her how disappointed he was that she hadn't even congratulated him on winning.

Men are strange creatures, aren't they?  Especially when football is concerned.

Luckily, the husband won't be mentioning it at all today, in case it starts his weeping off again...