Wedding Of The Year

(Or, It's A Long Way To Go for a Chocolate Paddle Pop).

So, you know, it’s getting really close to being a whole year since I’ve been away (and since this blog was born). Before I get to the actual official Oh My God, Has It Been A Year Already, How Can That Be Possible? anniversary post, however, I have something of a hopelessly self-indulgent preview for you.

As you know, a couple of weeks ago I visited Sydney for four days. It’s been fun to blow the minds of the poor English folk around me with casual references to having gone ‘home for the weekend’, but it’s been hard to write about the actual trip itself. It was certainly fun, and funny – and I was, as you would expect, utterly hilarious the entire time. But for some reason I can barely remember any of the good jokes and stories – as soon as I start to write about it I descend into mush. Also, corn. (Mmm, corn mush.) I do want to have a record of it here, though, so I hope you will forgive me. I’ll find the funny again as soon as possible.

And I would also like to say to those of you that I didn’t get to see on the Whirlwind Tour 2006? I’m sorry, and I miss you. The corn mush is for everybody.

***

They day I left London, they’d salted the footpaths in anticipation of snowfall. The wheels on my suitcase crunched against the grit as I walked to the Heathrow train.

I don’t think it’s possible to have any real conception of that kind of distance covered by that flight. You walk onto the plane and sit in one place for so many tired, cramped and cranky hours that time is no longer real. Then you walk off the plane and you’re on the other side of the world.

When I emerged the air was warm and heavy and the light had that sort of metallic-edged brightness that you only get in Oz. I was filthy and stinking and had spent the last twenty minutes fretting quietly about how I was going to explain the many (many) litres of alcohol in my suitcase (happily, no-one asked). Then there were warm smiling faces in front of me and hugs so hard it was as if we were trying to cram a year’s worth of affection into one gesture. It felt good.

I’ve never felt much of an attachment to Sydney before – but the sights and smells and street signs were so comfortably familiar on the drive into town that the grin on my face was a mile wide.

The whole weekend was a heady mix of the absolutely normal and the head-spinningly surreal. I remember chatting happily to my parents and J,The as we drove to Kate and Andy’s place and being suddenly struck dumb as we came around the headland and I caught my first glimpse of Bondi spread out below me. It’s visceral and physical, my reaction to the landscape – winding me like a punch to the chest. For a girl who is as far from the outdoor type as it is possible to be, the beauty of my home geography moves me in a way that is always unexpected.

Later, sitting on the couch at Poundster HQ, I marvelled at how ordinary it felt. It could have been last weekend that I had been there, surrounded by my people. Throughout the afternoon and evening I busily catalogued the differences to myself: a fetching new hairstyle, funky new trousers, a highly promising new boyfriend, a gorgeous little boy toddling about and charming everyone. Nothing about the way we all fit together perfectly had changed even a little bit.

Every part of the wedding weekend was most excellent fun. The barbecue on Big Day Eve at Vaucluse, overlooking the harbour filled with sailboats, was quiet and lovely and tinged with anticipation. I ate salad and drank mid-strength beer (which I had totally forgotten about, by the way. Mid-strength beer!) and chatted happily with everyone as I felt my head swim with jetlag in an not-altogether-unpleasant fashion.

The next day, we descended upon Kate in her hotel room as she was getting all brided up and were, quite simply, blown away. Our Kate is always smoking hot, and on her wedding day she was breathtaking. Everything about her was just right: the dress, the hair, the shoes, the jewellery. I’ve never seen anyone look so much the best version of themselves. She glowed.

She was uncharacteristically nervous, however – so I busted out the lame wisecracks (as is my role) and opened the bottle of Agua de Valencia that I had brought with me - a little piece of Spain to share with my girlfriends who really should have been there with me (how can I possibly have had that much fun without them?). We left her to go and have her photo taken with the soon-to-be-future Mr Poundster and the rest of us got ready – with, not to put too fine a point on it, spectacular results. As soon as I get my act into gear and put the photos up you’ll be able to see what I mean.

The wedding was magnificent. There’s no other word for it. The location was stunning, with an endless view of the ocean from the balcony of the restaurant. Everywhere I turned there was a welcome face and I buzzed around the room madly soaking up as many of everyone’s stories as I could hear.

I had been quietly confident that the Poundsters were going to give good wedding ceremony and they did not disappoint. I don’t remember specifics (except who else manages to get a pointed reference to same-sex marriage into their vows?) but for the rest of my life I will remember watching Andy’s face shine with delight as he married my good friend. I may or may not have shed a wee tear myself.

It’s always hard to pinpoint exactly what makes a wedding a success – whatever it is, though, this party had in spades. The closest I can get to a description that seems to fit is that there was a current of joy positively crackling throughout the room. Kate and Andy are well loved and it felt like everyone was so happy they were perilously close to bursting. The food was outstanding, the speeches brilliant (people were even kind enough to laugh during mine. At the jokes, not at me. I think). We drank and laughed and danced like crazy people and it was the most fun of ever.

When it ended, we unstrapped our shoes and wandered down to the beach – soothing our sore feet in the sand, letting the spray hit our faces and the surf crash all over our fancy dresses. The smell of salt and the moonlit sky was the perfect end to one of the best nights of my life.

The next day was bittersweet. An early morning swim in the ocean, a flat white (oh god, so good), a surprise birthday bagel from my favourite St Kilda bakery and then the delicious post-wedding yum cha brunch with the gleeful and still-glowing newlyweds, everyone merrily swapping stories, still high on the buzz from the night before. Throughout the morning, my stomach twisted itself steadily into a sad, quiet knot.

The leaving was hard – Part I of my weekend was over almost as soon as it began. I was angry with myself for presuming that it would be enough. What on earth had I been thinking? How could I possibly leave? It got harder and harder to hold myself together and eventually I had to bolt. I hugged everyone hard, and J,The and Mazza walked me out to the street.

I’m not proud of how I handled my departure – the panic took over and I approached hysteria in a tearful and most uncool fashion. Logically I know that if the weekend proved nothing else it’s that time and space mean nothing and my friends will always be there and it will always be that good – but in that moment I felt stricken and utterly dumbfounded that I could be so stupid as to choose to live a world away.

I love you guys.

Once J,The and Mazza made their lucky escapes from the crazy woman, scurrying gratefully back down the steps back towards brunch, I pulled myself together and headed off to hang out with my family.

One of the best things about my family is the way their presence comforts me, whatever the situation. It didn't fail this time either, and we had ourselves a time, my folks and I. My brother (the famous Captain Kloss) and his girlfriend came to Sydney too, and we wandered through the city for the rest of the day – shopping and chatting and eating and arguing about which streets were no-right-turn. Later, back at the hotel, we watched the cricket and listened to the roar of the crowd watching Glenn McGrath’s last home innings waft over from the SCG.

Captain Kloss has a favourite seafood restaurant on the wharf at Woolloomooloo, and that night we dressed up and went to have an utterly spectacular meal. We toasted each other (and the absent TPC) with cocktails, bantered with our very charming waiter and debated whether or not it was actually possible to taste the difference between rock oysters from various parts of the greater Sydney region (it is). We got drunk and talked shite and solved the problems of the world and patted ourselves very heartily on the back and it was just what being with my family is always like. I was elated all over again. Later, we adjourned to a pub in Surry Hills and watched England win the one-day trophy. My presence was (not unreasonably) blamed.

CK and Leah had to leave early the next morning, and my parents and I had a long, lovely, lazy day just hanging out. We shopped some more – you'll be pleased to know I bought what can only be described as a metric fuckload of Bonds underwear (there just isn’t anything like it anywhere else). We ate and wandered aimlessly and talked. We went for a long drive along the beaches and I soaked up the sunshine and the stunning views – storing up images of home to flick through in my mind for the rest of the London winter.

That tight painful knot in my belly emerged again and before long I was hugging my parents goodbye at the airport. They are very understanding of my wanderlust, but nothing brings me undone faster than watching my mother try to be brave. I realised that I do understand what all those miles actually feel like - it’s in those moments that the vastness of the distance is absolutely real.

***

Here’s what I learned: there’s a reason why one can’t do trips like that too often. It’s not the expense, or the physical impact – it’s that it is too damn good. It hurts too much to leave again.

It was nice to get home to London – I had a pang of excited affection when I saw the lights of the city, and the warm comfort of our lovely flat, The Pickle, was very welcome at the end of many hours of travel. I’ve spent the last fortnight a little bit introspective and a little bit sad, however – this jaunt has made me question why the hell I’m here, what I’m doing and why. I don’t want to move back to Australia, but the fact that the people I love are so freaking far away has never been so present in my mind.

You know what, though? It was totally worth it.

Thanks for a lovely weekend, you guys.

I’m going to write to Richard Branson this week – I have a proposition for him. I’m sure space travel is fun, but my friendly local neighbourhood billionaire entrepreneur needs to be investing resources into what we really need: a teleport. Wouldn’t that be the awesome? Anyone could pop back and forth whenever, go see their favourite band play Wembley or their newborn niece in Guatemala or go mountain-climbing or ice-skating or on a safari for the weekend. And I could have a flat white and make my friends laugh anytime I want.