An alternative ending to yesterday's tragedy might read as follows:
It's 5.30pm, and the wedding ceremony is beginning in Sorrento, two hours drive from where I am sitting at my kitchen table, looking dejectedly at the clock. I have abandoned all hope of attending. I am expending ridiculous amounts of energy trying not to cry. Because I am tough like that.
And then.
A miracle.
The Lovely Girl who rents out my spare room arrives home from Nepal, completely out of the blue. This is Quite a Surprise. She's not expected home until the end of the month.
Now, it just so happens that Lovely Girl is studying to be an ambulance officer, and so is one of the few people in the Universe that I can safely leave a sick child in the care of. In fact, it could be argued that Sick Child is considerably safer under her care than mine.
Lovely Girl, in classic Fairy Godmother Fashion, points to the door, yelling, "Go! Go! If you hurry, you can still make the reception!". Sick Child joins in for added support.
I throw on some mascara and my (not terribly clean, but who cares) German paratrooper boots, kiss Sick Child, jump in The Great Black Pumpkin (now with kickass bullbar) and hit the highway. I manage the entire trip without speeding, which is remarkable, but intelligent, as people are being booked left, right and centre, all the way down. I chant 108 Gayatri mantras as the sun sets behind me. I feel it's the least I can do.
I arrive just in time for the main course.
I am given a Position of Honour, as reward for my miraculous appearance, at the Bridal Table.
I have a Fucken Great Time. The grief of the day melts away at the sight of The Bride, looking happier, and more beautiful, than I have ever seen her.
I drive home, at midnight, exhausted, but happy.
Yep.
Much better ending.
And Sick Child is on the mend. I think.
