Fly Me To The Moon

...was Sara and Stashers first dance at their wedding. We're flying to Glasgow with them tomorrow for Craig and Nina's wedding at the rather splendid Ardanaiseig Hotel on Loch Awe. Whilst I'm viewing the flight as just a quick bus ride north, Vicster's fear of flying started to kick in last night, and she asked me if 10 o'clock in the morning was too early for a gin and tonic. It will be interesting to see if her summer visit into the cockpit - secured with tears - on our way back from Portugal has any positive effect.


A Windy Miller Moment

Last night before bedtime I checked myself in the bathroom mirror for blackheads, pimples, grey hairs and in-growing beard hairs. I also had a pluck at my nasal hairs and bushy eyebrows. All preparation for the wedding.

Whilst extracting a particularly wiry specimen, I had a dizzying "Windy Miller Moment": I was overcome with a fear of what presents might await me on Christmas morning. The fear comes from genuine trauma suffered two years ago:

Mum had gone on and on about how she had found the "perfect gift" for me. As we left for Vic's mum & dad's, she presented me with the gift-wrapped package and the words "and this is your main present... it's very special... I think you'll love it!". She was really excited at the thought of her son opening it, and was disappointed that she wouldn't see my face as the gift was unwrapped. She kept going on and on about it.

I left the box until last on Christmas morning, in the anticipation that it was going to be a special and treasured gift.

It was a "collectable" ceramic Windy Miller figure on his tricycle.

I was gutted.

Not because it was a) crap and b) clutter and c) had no meaning for me. But because it showed how out of touch my mum had become from me.

I'm an ungrateful sod.