My cousin's wedding approaches; three o'clock is the hour. Incidentally, Jesus Christ was crucified at the third hour. I'm quite sure there are no similarities between the two events.
My father is still working on his speech. He is a very chilled out man; if he were any more laid back he'd fall off the face of the Earth. My mother and I, on the other hand, prefer to plan ahead - to have things at least rehearsed. You can imagine, then, the tension in our house as the hour draws closer and my father insists that the speech needs the bounce and the banter that comes from having bare bones notes. A large part of me has faith that he'll pull it off, and with panache, but that doesn't quite drown out the other part, which is imagining horrible scenarios in which he forgets everything and just stares goofily around the room.
My mother has made a cake for the wedding, and I'd like to share it with you. Perhaps it's because I'm related, but I think this cake looks - well, you tell me.
EDIT: My editor has told me that these photos are not to be made available to the general public until after the event.
We apologise for this break in the usual programming. A description follows, for those with imagination.
The flowers on the top are individually hand made and edible. The cake itself is a fruit base with two sponge layers on top. The cake is dressed in lace, which is rolled out on a mould and fitted to the cake.
The box and the lace mould came from Cake Craft World in Sevenoaks, but the work is pretty much all down to my mother, with a little help from a friend who came over for a cup of tea and ended up adding icing pearls to this amazing cake.
Bear in mind that as she did this, she also cooked a lasagne for fix people.
The cake is incredibly heavy and has a seat to itself on the coach we've booked to take us to the wedding. It is the second most important guest of honour and at the moment is dressed a lot better than I am - no lace for me, just a charcoal three-piece.
Yesterday's riddle was a little easy, I suspect, especially for anyone who like Harry Potter. Mundungus is a lovely word that means stinky old tobacco. Interestingly he's also a Fletcher, which is an old word for someone who put the barbs on arrows.
Most of my lawyer student friends spend a lot of time in bars - probably too much. But they're also studying to be a bar-rister. What's the connection?
It looks like it's time to get ready. My darling sister is trying to convince me to have a haircut. I had one less than six months ago, I surely don't need another.
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