On Thursday last me and wor lass rode our bikes into town and went into a soul-less beige room in Manchester town hall, where and overly chatty lady told us all about the registry office and what we’d arranged to do in it. A ponytail man who looked a bit sinister entered and told us that anything coming out of our mouths in the next ten minutes was legally binding. He then told us a ‘humorous’ story about another man who had second thoughts, ran away and was hunted down market street with the paperwork by ninja trained civil servants. From the look in his eyes it didn’t matter if we were getting happily married, or unhappily married, he had a job to do and was damned if our emotional state was going to have any bearing on it at all. Good job we’re happy.
Sunday was the proper wedding. I prepared as much as I could, but it was still mental looking at about 80% of all the people I know and have kept in touch with, all in the same place at the same time. The new suit arrived, the vows were written and the whole day was just one big rollercoaster, even the multitudinous photo’s don’t do it justice.
So I wear a ring now. It feels a bit odd. I take it off when I’m Danny Pensive, he doesn’t mind. Betty wouldn’t have it.
I need a waist coast, and some replacement cravats. I’ve got the waistcoat, which is not the MacDonalds issue charity shop one I threatened to get, but a proper one. No joy on the cravats though, and they’re expensive. I dislike ‘fashion’ shopping intensely. Just poking my head into to a Moss Bros or a Boss shop I’m not even looking at the clothes, but instead the predatory slightly camp shiny faced salesmen that slink around the place being ‘helpful’. I don’t really want their help to work out the size of a shirt in a packet I cant really see. This is not for me. Finally got the waistcoat after asking a man in the shop where the fitting rooms were. He didn’t work there. I know this is a highly unoriginal comic misunderstanding, but it did actually happen.

We turn up at the civic theatre on time but it is locked. When we are let in by one the tech’s I take a look around and see a very old theatre looking the worse for wear. It does though come as a surprise that we will be one of the last (if not the last) production put on here, as everthing gets moved over the road to the new corn exchange venue. The staff are really nice, but it does feel a bit odd when the three of us are left alone in the old church hall style venue. If not somewhat of a safety hazard. Poking around the old theatre I reveals it’s age with overly officious signage, faded posters the 1920′s and a broken piano with all the guts and springs showing. I imagine the home guard meeting in here like in Dad’s Army. I wander in the town of Bedford which is uneventful but for purchasing this months Doctor Who magazine. We are given a rider! It is mostly cakes and crisps, which I munch on, ignoring the bananas. I think I’m the heaviest I’ve been since the beginning of the year. Healthy eating on tour eating is so hard, much harder than Edinburgh. The show is surprisingly good, like gang show entertainment.

It’s quiet, not much is open and getting dinner is a chore as we go into the pub next to the Kings Theatre. Seeing someone eating a Sunday lunch I try to work out how they knew to order it being that there are no menus on the tables, and no specials board. On asking for a menu we get a single piece of A4 paper, with no mention of Sunday lunch on it. I go to the bar and ask if they do Sunday lunch. There’s is a noticeable pause before the girl replies ‘We do a Sunday roast?’ Bless. She brings a friend of over to help with the sentence ‘We’ve got Chicken, Beef or Pork, but no Chicken’. Charlie notices seating upstairs and tests them further. ‘Yes you can sit upstairs, but there’s no table service upstairs’ came the seemingly adequate reply until we realise the kitchen is upstairs and the serving waitresses have to go upstairs in order to fetch the food down.
The theatre is gorgeous, another ageing beauty. The show is great too, and after we to the Phoenix for a pint where I get uncharacteristically shirty, then calm down (I’m just tired). The walls are awesomely covered with signed photo’s and I get snap happy on pictures of Bernard Horsfall, David Yip, Sue Pollard, Tom O’Conner, Bernard Breslaw, Spike Milligan and the pub dog.



