...there's a strong chance I would be wearing this.

Sadly, however, I am not invited to the Other Royal Wedding,

although that may not stop me loitering around the streets of Edinburgh

trying to catch a glimpse of Zara and Mike Will and Kate tomorrow.

So, can anyone come up with another reason why I simply have to have it?

(I have no weddings

no garden parties

no christenings

and no Mad Men reenactments

in my diary at present.)

If you can't help me, I'll just have to buy one of these 

amazing, ethical, handmade Dig For Victory ones instead.

I *suppose* that would be ok...

They really should have invited me though.

I mean, my granny got married in the exact same church, 

for one thing. And I totally would have got them this:

Mainly because it would have matched my dress.

I think it's important to coordinate one's present with one's outfit, don't you?

Happy weekend, peeps. May it be filled with vintage dresses, presents and booze.

Vintage dress, $320, Traven7

Cushion, $89, Alexandra Ferguson

You can find lots of useful information about Maggie O'Farrell here. Awards she's won, authors she admires, rave reviews, et cetera. But I'm not in the business of useful information. I'm in the business of random fascinating  factoids. As follows.

♥ She's from North Berwick, as all the best people are.

♥ She has amazing hair. (Why am I so obsessed with curly ginger hair??)

♥ Her first book made me cry. Proper, gutteral, wonderful sobs.

♥ Her inspirational, life-changing high school English teacher once said to her, "One thing I hope you'll never have to find out is that a broken heart hurts physically." Isn't that poetic? Some years later, when that same bespectacled, betweeded, deceptively poetic teacher asked me what books I'd read recently, I said I'd just finished a novel by Maggie O'Farrell. How strange that must have been for him, and how encouraging.





♥ Her writing is intoxicating. Behold:

♥ My mum knows her mum. (See: being from North Berwick. There's a line in O'Farrell's first book about not being able to skive off school there, because within ten minutes your mum will have heard about it from four separate sources. This is horribly true.)

♥ She inspires me the way that that high school English teacher never did. And not only in the hair stakes.

♥ Most importantly, she will be appearing at Fringe by the Sea on Wednesday 11 August at 3.30pm. I'll be there, clutching my collection of Maggie O'Farrell books and gibbering senselessly at her until I have to be led gently away by a volunteer. Oh, wait, I am a volunteer. This could get messy...

Every day I get more and more excited about the idea of The Great Decluttering. (Note the use of the word "idea" - obviously, I am yet to put any of my plans into action. The excitement may be short-lived.) There are just so many amazing benefits that hadn't even occurred to me!

Key benefits include:

1. Dramatic reduction in number of emotional meltdowns triggered by opening the hall cupboard. (*shudder*)

2. Excuse to spend more quality time with the Hubster. Sorting piles of my stuff into new, different piles counts as quality time, right?

3. Real possibility that I might find in obscure and improbable places things that I had long written off as lost. Like my cookbook. Or my ability to remain fresh-faced after ten drinks and four hours' sleep.

4. Let's be honest, a rich and varied source of blog material. It's already been two posts in two days, and there's plenty more where that came from. It even has a tag of its very own. Be warned.

5. Lastly, and most excitingly, MORE SPACE. And do you know what more space means?

MORE STUFF.

Oh yes, I am already mentally filling those soon-to-be-empty shelves and cupboards with lots of lovely goodies. But fear not, I have learned my lesson: no more useless cheap crap for me! (Except those, erm, £10 Asda shoes I bought the other day. But that was before I started The Great Decluttering, so they totally don't count.) From now on, I am channelling William Morris and choosing only that which I know to be useful or believe to be beautiful. And because I am now an adult, and have therefore developed the ability to exercise restraint and self-discipline and all that sort of adulty stuff, I have made a list (did I mention I love lists?) of said lovely goodies so I can weigh up the pros and cons, maybe even save up a little money first, instead of just rushing out and buying them. Go me.

So! Key lovely goodies include:

1. A wedding album from Lillian and Leonard

I knew revisiting all of our wedding photos last week would be a bad idea. Now I am lusting after these beautiful albums and wishing I could have one of my own in my hands so I could smell it. Yes, that's right, smell it. Soft leather and pristine pages all wrapped up in one pretty parcel - yum.

2. A fancypants camera

For our wedding anniversary, Fin and I gave each other gift vouchers (not the most imaginative interpretation of "paper anniversary", especially when they actually turned out to be gift cards, but never mind). His present to me was a voucher for a camera shop. The budget we set ourselves was small, and the little card is a long way short of being enough for a proper camera of my own, but it is a start, a first step towards bringing a little bit more creativity into my life. 

Besides, I'm going to need to take some decent pictures of my soon-to-be empty shelves to show you. Lucky you!

3. A Catbird ring

The story of my engagement ring is a whole saga in itself. Maybe one day I'll find a way to tell it to you that won't end up in me offending anyone. Suffice to say, I love it because it is my engagement ring, and no other ring could replace it, but occasionally I like to dabble in a wee game I call fantasy ring shopping. Some days I lust after huge diamond whoppers; other days, dainty vintage pieces. But the ring that always makes my heart the happiest is this little heart ring from the uber-cool Catbird NYC. One day it will be mine. Oh yes. It will be mine.

4. A book about writing

Some of you have been kind enough to say that you like my writing. A couple of you have even urged me to write a book (most memorably Fin, who cannot be accused of underestimating my writing skillz). Well, there isn't much prospect of that happening any time soon, but I do love writing. Working to get better at something you love can never be a waste of time, so if anyone has any book recommendations for a language-loving grammar geek, please let me know.

5. A puppy!!

Via Coton de Tuléar facebook group

This, too, is a whooooole other post. And we haven't made any decisions yet. Fin and I have spent the evening vaccilating between cooing over pedigree puppies and welling up at tales of lop-eared rescue dogs who just want to be loved. We may not even get one at all (if you are my landlord, don't worry, we are definitely not getting ANY type of pet. Honest) but, secretly, I really hope we do. I will, of course, keep you posted.


What's on your lust list?

Now I like an aspirational shoe as much as the next girl, and while there is a definite dark pleasure in lusting after such beauty, such glamour, such balls-out decadence, it does leave me feeling a little... inadequate. So what, you may wonder, has prompted this little departure from my usual reading matter? Well, the Hubster and I are eyeing some potential changes to our current living arrangements in the not-too-distant future, and when even the distant prospect of maybe one day having to pack up all of our belongings made me want to break down and cry, I realised it was time to take a cold, hard look at the contents of our flat.

Let me tell you, it was not a pretty sight.

Wardrobes bulging with clothes I don't wear, bookcases crammed with books we never read, God-knows-what lurking in the shadowy underbelly of our spare room... it's depressing. And, more importantly, it's unsustainable. I cannot keep topping up my wardrobe with yellow skirts and jelly shoes without releasing pressure somewhere else. There's no more room. This thing's about to blow.

And so begins the event that I have solemnly christened as: The Great Decluttering of 2011. 

Okay, so it's not super catchy, but you get the idea. Essentially, our aim is to rid ourselves of as much (for want of a better word) crap as we possibly can by the end of the year. Ebay, charity shops, clothing swaps, giveaways, recycling, freecycling - we will need every weapon at our disposal if Light and Space are to triumph over Darkness and Squalor. 

So if anyone has any top tips for ridding ourselves of the trappings of modern consumerist society, or maybe just knows a better way to store shoes than piled up on a flipping bookshelf (or, let's be honest, scattered in heaps on the floor), I'd love to know. This weekend, we're tackling The Clothes. Wish us luck... 

Thought you might like to see some of our honeymoon photos.

In the end, the general vibe of wedding week turned out to be less, "Look at these pretty pictures!", and more, "WHOA we got married! And it's brilliant!"*. However, lest you should think that once the wedding was over the Hubster and I simply sailed off into a lifetime of harmonious matrimonial bliss, I have one last little tale for you. A wedding week coda, if you will. Otherwise known as the Threshold Story, or, The First Time I Wanted to Punch My New Husband in the Face. It's pretty romantic.

After ten, long, luxurious days of sleeping, eating and marinating in the Mediterranean sun, Fin and I reluctantly emerged from our post-wedding cocoon and headed towards home. The long trek back to Scotland required a two-hour coach journey, a five-hour flight, a twenty-minute bus journey, a forty-five-minute train journey, a ten-minute-taxi ride, and the lugging (by Fin) of two extremely heavy bags up two flights of stairs. Suffice to say, by the time we arrived back at the flat, we were knackered. And, possibly, a tiny bit tetchy.

Fin unlocked the door and heaved our bulging suitcases into the hallway. Stepping over them, he stumbled exhausted into the living room and presumably flopped in a heap onto the couch. I say "presumably", because I couldn't actually see him. I was still standing at the door. Waiting. Patiently.

I am by no means a "heavy" girl (hateful euphemism), but I am a tall girl, and I'm not skinny. You know those little pixie-type girls with teeny waists and snappable wrists and eyes too big for their tiny little heads? The ones who are always perching daintily on boys' knees, or getting lifted onto shoulders at gigs and blocking your view with their minuscule arse? Well, I am not and have never been one of those girls.

When Fin used to work at a nursery and spent his days scooping up toddlers, he would occasionally forget I was a fully-grown adult and try to pick me up by putting his hands under my armpits and lifting. Let's just say it was not an effective technique. He now avoids having to lift me at all costs. The bastard probably wouldn't even give me a piggyback if I broke my leg; I'm just too damn heavy.  So the one time in my life when I can insist that he *has* to lift me up, whether he likes it or not? No way I'm missing out on that, my friends. No way.

"Forbidden Love"?? Erm, there's a reason why love between a woman and an elephant is generally frowned upon.

I'm still standing at the door. Waiting. Less patiently. "Fin? I think you've forgotten something...?"

A muffled, "What?" from the living room.

"You've got to carry me over the threshold, remember? I'm still standing here!"

Silence. Then, "Are you joking?"

Okay, I know he's tired from our million-hour journey and humping my admittedly cumbersome bag up two flights of stairs, but come on. It's not like I'm going to make him carry me every time we enter the house. You only get to do this once.

I'm still waiting. Not very patiently at all.

"No, I'm not joking! Come and carry me over this threshold right now!"

More silence. Then with an almighty huff, I hear my darling husband heave himself up off the couch and stomp towards the door, muttering all the while about stupid traditions and fucking knackered and this is ridiculous and some other things I'm glad I couldn't make out. He takes huge exaggerated steps over the suitcases in the hall as if they are giant obstacles, to make sure I fully appreciate the extent of the sacrifice he is making to satisfy my whim. He charges through the door, says, "Come on, then", and reaches down to get a good hold on my legs.

In that instant, two things happen.

Fin swings me up into his arms like a sack of tatties. And the door swings shut behind him like, well, a door. Swinging shut. And locking itself.

There is a brief moment of horror, quickly plunging into despair as we realise our keys are on the other side of that door, along with our spare keys, our car keys and our money. We stare at the door, unable to process what has just happened. At this point Fin seems to notice he is still holding me, so he plonks me down with an ungraceful thud.

Obviously, it is Fin's fault, because he clearly pulled the door shut behind him as he harrumphed down the hall.

Obviously, it is my fault, because I insisted on taking part in this stupid, out-dated, pointless ritual.

Let's just say the atmosphere as we waited for the locksmith was... tense.

Several phone calls, one altercation with a neighbour and sixty quid later, the door was once again open. Once again, Fin marched forward into the flat and, once again, I hovered expectantly at the threshold.

Yes, even after all that, I still made him carry me over the threshold into our little flat. To his credit, he did it. He didn't so much put me down as drop me on the other side, but, still.


*Ok, not strictly true. There were more than a few pretty pictures as well.

{Images via Beach Bunny Swimwear}

So, it turns out that weddings are fun.

But marriage is better.

(So far.)

Love you Finster.

Despite this, the getting married part is often the part that is glossed over, which seems odd to me, since it's the only thing that separates a wedding from, say, a graduation or a 21st birthday party. And I should know, because Fin and I were at each other's graduations and 21st birthday parties and we certainly didn't come away from any of those events feeling like we felt on the 24th of July last year.

I think part of the reason why we don't hear this part of the wedding story is that it's so very difficult to put into words. Meg had a good go at it, but the closest description to how I personally found the experience of getting married has to be this:

"...all of sudden you'll be like .... fucking hell this is horrible! And it'll just hit you like WOAHHH and it'll be ARGGGG and then all of a sudden she'll be there and you'll be so relieved and it's like THANK GOD..... but that's when everything starts happening all at once and it's like a montage and it all rushes by LIKE A MONTAGE..."

As accurate and as eloquent as this description is, though, it doesn't quite do justice to exactly what I'm trying to convey. I'm thinking about more than just the moment itself, more than just the ceremony, or even just the wedding day. I'm thinking about the whole act of getting married, from the moment you make the decision, together, that yes, you are actually going to do this thing, you are going to bind yourselves to each other for as long as you both shall live, to the moment you say your vows to each other, and mean them, and walk out into the sun as husband and wife (or into the rain as wife and wife, or into the snow as husband and husband. You get the picture).

I was racking my brains trying to think of something I could compare it to, a way of somehow putting into words what is fundamentally an indescribable experience. 'Tis tricky. The best I can come up with is an extended and slightly tortuous metaphor. This is going to sound incredibly lame, but please, please, go with me on this.

Getting married is like getting on a roller coaster.

I did warn you. Bear with me. I beg you.

Note that I didn't say it's like being on a roller coaster. It's like getting on a roller coaster. Which is, clearly, quite different.

When Fin and I were in Santa Cruz, we went to the boardwalk, home of the mighty Giant Dipper. We were at the boardwalk, we knew we were going to go on the Giant Dipper at some point; we just didn't know exactly when. When we first arrived, I was ready to go straight there, but Fin was hesitant, a little nervous. He didn't see the hurry. So we went on a gentle ride first. We rode slowly through the sky and watched as other people entered the Giant Dipper, as they waited in the queue, jumped on the ride and were whisked off into the great unknown. Sigh.

Our meandering little ride was fun too, though. We huddled together, admired the view across the bay, pointed out giggling teenagers on awkward dates and stands selling strange American snacks. It was a lovely little ride; but the Giant Dipper was beckoning.

When we eventually alighted, we agreed that the time was finally right for the big one. The behemoth. The Giant Dipper. We were, quite rightly, crapping ourselves at this point, but together we went through the turnstile and joined the queue. We were committed; we were going to do it. And so commenced the hard part: the long wait, the frustration, the slow and painful progress that we hoped would all be worth it, in the end. Sometimes the wait was boring. Sometimes it was uncomfortable. Sometimes the chatter of all the people around us was funny, sometimes it was distracting, sometimes it was utterly overwhelming. 

But the wait was fun too; we could prepare ourselves for what we were about to do, there were stories to read and pictures to keep us entertained, and we peered ahead, craning our necks to see round the corner, wondering what the ride would be like when it was finally our turn to get on.

We get closer. The excitement and the terror increase exponentially with every step. Then, almost unexpectedly, we find ourselves at the head of the queue. The moment has come. Suddenly it's all moving so fast. We're being ushered through, taking our places, everyone is already there, waiting, expectant, and the empty cars rush up and jerk to a shuddering halt before us.

This is it; last chance to back out. I know that I can still turn away. It will be embarrassing, no doubt, but once I'm in that thing there's no getting out of it. Who knows what lies beyond that dark tunnel? From the safety of our little ride it looked exciting and terrifying and wonderful, the best ride in the world, but now it is here in front of me it all suddenly seems so unknown, so rickety and dangerous and old-fashioned. How can I trust it, how can I put my faith in its fragile timbers?

But then Fin steps into the car. And he turns to me, and reaches for my hand. And suddenly, my path is clear. My choice melts away; I don't need to choose. I a chose long time ago. I place my hand in his outstretched palm, and together we let ourselves be clamped in. No going back. With a hiss of breaks and a clanging bell, the train moves forward, more smoothly than I had imagined, then, gathering speed, whips us round the corner and into the darkness.

I don't know what comes next.

If the act of getting married is like getting on a rollercoaster, then we are just at the beginning of our ride. Soaring peaks and stomach-lurching drops lie ahead, all the way. 

I am reminded of a friend of my parents', a warm, funny Scottish bloke who was a great skier. He died of cancer when I was 9 or 10, and his wife and young family placed a bench in his memory at a ski resort in the Scottish Highlands. The inscription read, "The moguls were great, but the run too short." That's the kind of epitaph that in my heart I wish for our marriage; one day, hopefully a very long time from now, to be able to look back at all those ups and downs and think, "Wow, that was fun. I wish we could just stay on this ride forever".

See? The metaphor wasn't that bad, was it?

P.S. Hands up if you now have Ronan Keating stuck in your head.

P.P.S. I have a little extra special bonus post for you this afternoon, so make sure you come back after lunch...

You know what you don't ever seem to hear about on wedding blogs? Wedding FOOD. I don't know why that is. I mean, it's weddings and food. TOGETHER. Seriously, what's not to love? Maybe it's because it's usually the bride who's telling the story and, apparently, brides do not eat at their weddings (was I the only one who actually ate something at mine??), or maybe it's just because wedding food is so often criminally dull.

My friend Kristen has a lovely boyfriend who just happens to be a professional chef. If my boyfriend were a professional chef, I can tell you right now that I'd be a big giant fatty, but not Kristen - damn her and her skinny genes. Anyway, as head chef of an exclusive country hotel and with plenty of weddings under his belt, he could tell you a thing or two about wedding food, and has been known to express his horror at much of the cookie-cutter fare that is served up at wedding after wedding after wedding.

Your average Scottish hotel wedding menu might consist of some kind of smoked salmon starter situation, or maybe some haggis if we're being *really* Scottish. This will invariably be followed by chicken that is so dry you have to slug copious amounts of wine just to force it down (well, that's always been my excuse), accompanied by a dribble of salty gravy and some rock solid potatoes. For pudding, you're usually talking (yawn) cranachan. Much as I love cranachan - a deliciously fattening confection, consisting of masses of cream, oats and raspberries - it does get rather tiresome after the seventh wedding of the summer. Finally, the meal will be put out of its misery with a splash of coffee in a cup so small you can't actually fit your finger through the handle (tea, always go for the tea! Big cups!) and maybe, if it's a very posh affair, a wee sliver of shortbread. Oh, the excitement.

The best bit though, is the vegetables. Specifically, the seemingly exclusively wedding-related trend of Vegetables Wrapped In Other Vegetables. 

One tipsy evening, Fin and I were regaling Kristen and her boyfriend with tales of a wedding we had recently attended, and the first thing he asked was, "Were the vegetables wrapped in other vegetables?". Erm... yes, as a matter of fact, they were. "Let me guess, let me guess. Was it... a courgette with carrots sticking through the middle?" No, actually, it was a carrot with mange touts sticking through the middle. "Ah! A new development in the Vegetables Wrapped In Other Vegetables phenomenon!"

Apparently, Vegetables Wrapped In Other Vegetables are the height of culinary tackiness. They're like the food equivalent of selective colouring. In other words, just don't do it.

When it came to our wedding food, I hoped it wouldn't be yet another bland meal to be endured rather than enjoyed, a way to kill time between the ceremony and the drink-fuelled dance-fest. The golf club where we held our reception was at the end of the street where I grew up, and we chose it for all sorts of reasons - convenience, nostalgia, subsidised booze - but when it came to the food, we took a leap of faith; the most I had ever eaten there was fish and chips. But they assured us they could pull it off, and we had no choice but to trust them. 

A few weeks before the wedding, we trooped nervously along for our scheduled tasting. Oh my word, it was delicious. Beyond delicious. What's more, it was beautiful. Each trial dish had been prepared twice, in two different presentation styles, so we could pick and choose how the food would look as well as taste. Tower or stack? (Stack.) Rocket or micro-herbs? (Micro-herbs.) Chocolate sauce squiggle or chocolate sauce heart? (Heart, obvio.) We left delighted and relieved, and every day until the wedding we hummed and hawed over what we would choose on the day (that's right, we had actual choices on the day. Three choices! For each course! For 140 people! Winner!). And of course, of utmost importance, there wasn't a vegetable-wrapped vegetable in sight. 

Or so we thought.

Until the moment on our wedding day when the waiting staff streamed out of the kitchen and, with a flourish, placed steaming dishes before us. Moist, melt-in the mouth beef, creamy mashed potatoes, a rich, unctuous, gleaming sauce, and... oh god. What is that. Is that... yes it is. Oh no. It's Vegetables Wrapped in Other Vegetables.

CRINGE!!

As the guests of honour, Fin and I came face-to-face with this monstrosity before anyone else. We wolfed down our food, watching nervously as plates arrived at table after table, edging ever closer to where Kristen and her boyfriend were sitting. The tension was unbearable, the mortification almost too much. Finally, the moment arrived.

The plate is set down. He looks at it. He looks at Kristen. Then the two of them look at us. And we all dissolve into utter hysterics.



Now, dish (pun only a little bit intended). What is the best/worst wedding meal you've ever encountered? What about your own - barbeque, food truck, four-course banquet? Mmmm, food...


P.S. Remember when Kristen and her boyfriend treated us to a night in the swanky hotel where he works? Guess what the waitress brought to our table for dessert? Two huge plates, covered in delicate whorls of caramel sauce, and bang in the middle: carrots wrapped in a courgette. I'm pretty sure the other diners thought Fin and I were having a synchronised fit when that arrived.

{All images, yet again, by the utterly-amazing-in-every-way Lillian and Leonard. Apart from the vegetable ones, clearly.}

Although this week is unashamedly dedicated to all things wedding-related, I haven't forgotten that we are also now less than three weeks away from Fringe by the Sea, and I still have more of my favourite acts to share with you from this year's programme. I had intended to run this post later in the week, but my lovely mum (who, in case you missed them, left some particularly brilliant comments here yesterday) is enduring yet another round of the dreaded scanxiety today, so as well as loading you up on wedding goodness and shamelessly promoting Fringe by the Sea, I also wanted to do a wee something special for her. Fortunately, I can kill three birds with one stone, thanks to the big bundle of folky awesomeness that is Kris Drever.

But first, I need to backtrack a little. As you know by now, the Hubster is really into music. Specifically, new music. Aside from a handful of beloved favourites (Morrissey and Bruce Springsteen are with him - and, by default, me - for life), few artists will outlast his limited attention span. He will happily wipe half the albums from his iPod and replace them without a second thought.

I, on the other hand, suffer from the unfortunate and somewhat self-defeating belief that if I don't know it, then I won't like it. I find new music exhausting; you have to listen to a new song sooo many times before it actually starts to mean something. Frankly, if I can't sing along to it, I fail to see the point. But once a song has worked its way into my consciousness, once its comforting melody has settled over me like a soft blanket, once its lyrics trip effortlessly off my tongue... well. Then it is mine for life.

Songs, for me, are memories. As soon as the first familiar chord trembles across the airwaves, I am instantly transported to a different place, a distant moment. There is one song in particular that is relatively new to me, but which in the last eighteen months or so (that counts as new, right?) has rocketed to the top of my charts and become inextricably linked in my mind with our wedding, with family, with simple pleasures. And, fortunately for me, the man who performs it the best is appearing at Fringe by the Sea. Squeeeeeal!

I'm not normally a fan of music in blogs; I'm yet to be convinced that the written word and the sung one sit comfortably together, at least not when you're *ahem* reading them at work (autoplay is the enemy of surreptitiousness). However, in the case of the lovely Kris Drever and one of my favourite songs, Shining Star, I will make an exception, because I want to share with you not only the song that I love but the memories that abide with it, the reasons why I love it. This little ditty means a lot not only to me, but also to Fin, and to my family. It immediately fills me with images of a waltz. A long drive home. A wedding. Joy.

It has been a long day. A day of words written in the sand, a lone balloon waving in the breeze, one sandy knee, and a question. The question. An old ring on a new finger, champagne popping, hugs and grins and long-distance phone calls. It's my birthday, but that's not why we've been celebrating.

Mum can waltz! Mum, teach us, please, go on. Mum, we need your help.

Perhaps it's the peculiar mix of excitement and terror that I'm experiencing. Perhaps it's the gentle one-two-three-one-two-three of the song that's playing. Perhaps it's just the bubbles. But when Fin declines to dance, I bounce up and my mother and I begin to waltz. Round and round, socks slipping on the carpet, avoiding the couch and the Christmas tree, laughing with the sheer silly joy of it all.

Some weeks later, and a long drive home. Ugh. My calves ache, my thighs ache, my shoulders ache, my arms ache, even my eyeballs ache. Such are the perils of skiing in Scotland. Fin and my dad are both snoozing in the back of the car as we rumble towards home, eerily similar in their salopettes, sleepy little snuffs and puffles occasionally escaping their mouths. My mum navigates the long road south as I recline in the front seat, weary and content.

For as long as I can remember, my mum and I have sung in the car together. From The Beatles to The Lion King, Guys 'n' Dolls to Diana Ross; if it's got a chorus, we'll be warbling away. I have even been known to bust out a few harmonies. Just call me Liesl Von Trapp.

Kris Drever is doing his best, bless him, but he is no match for my mother and me. We hit our stride and the familiar chorus rises to meet us. Side by side we sing, joyful and unembarrassed, as the men sleep on.

The gravelly rush of our tyres on the road quickly fades as we pass by. Around us the wild hills are silent. In this moment, all is well with the world.

And finally. A wedding.

That is why I love this song.