Foster Runs

The weekend began, most unusually, after I got back from my Sunday run.

Cliff and Nessie threw a delightfully civilised garden party where the average age was closer to Cliff’s than to my tender years.  They had invited the senior Fosters too so we collected them en-route. 

Many people still remember the last time my Mum was at Cliff & Nessie’s, dancing and twirling in a gravity-defying, slightly alchohol-fuelled manner, down the random-sized steps that link the different levels.  At night.

The daylight presumably brought the danger into clearer focus as she instead decided to descend using the small retaining walls as large steps, and the large plant-pots as hand rails.

Food was typically in (over-)abundance and mouthwateringly delicious, whilst Nessie’s Dad Peter had mixed a bottomless jug of Pimms (with a vague hint of lemonade) that was not for the faint of heart.

The choice of weather was inspired and the sun shone down on the righteous… and on the rest of us too!

The senior Fosters overnighted with us and were surprisingly reluctant to wake up in the morning.  I knocked on the door, took in cups of tea, shook them gently, all with a running commentary designed to lessen the shock of waking up to see me.  All to no avail.  I returned to the door and knocked louder.  Still nothing.  In desperation I resorted to shaking them more firmly, at which point a pair of sleepy smiles finally spread across the faces in the bed.

We breakfasted and set out into the lightest Monday morning traffic that I can ever remember.  I know it’s the school holidays, but the absence of a few teachers surely cannot explain why the roads weren’t clogged and heaving.

The grand occasion was the wedding of my sister Deborah to my now Brother-in-law John and a fine affair it was too.  The forecast had been for thundery showers and instead we had the most perfectly glorious day since… well, since the day before.

Photos on the lawn were the usual confusing logistical conundrum, but none of that mattered as the prevailing mood was light and fun.  The ensemble retired to the hidden paradise which is their garden, this having been transformed by their close friends into a flowing series of tables in chairs that managed the impossible trick of augmenting (rather than detracting from) the riot of colour and texture around us.

With room for everyone to sit and chat and eat and drink, the aforementioned close friends swept effortlessly around like silver service staff on a customer satisfaction bonus.  Debbie had, in fact, prepared much of the food herself and this was typically mouthwateringly delicious (I sense deja vu here) and in uncharacteristic over-abundance… partially as a result of, for example, the fishmonger having supplied 36 salmon steaks of eight, rather than four, ounces.

The afternoon merged gently into the evening, (with the help of a much-admired Foster powernap) as conversation, wine and still more food flowed freely. 

We finally managed to drag the senior Fosters away from their wine glasses at late-o’clock, which did at least give us a really clear run home.

A wedding to remember and a weekend to cherish and, oh, I almost forgot the caption competition.  On account of the tireless work that had gone into preparing the garden for the big day, including a pond that had been enlarged and considerably improved, or some such spurious excuse, the Groom had managed to strain his, er, groin.  Do I say too much?  Be this as it may, I understand that John was inviting suggestions for gallant stories as to how this might have come to pass!