Through scheduling and personal commitments, this week was meant to be somewhat of a week off. That’s why I ended up in a rock pool, butt-naked and surrounded by stinging jellyfish. Later I found myself base-jumping off the tallest tower in the southern hemisphere. Both events were unplanned, unscripted, and left my nerves as tangled as a dancing pair of lovesick giant squid.
Returning to Sydney an honorary Tasmanian, I was fortunate to crash-by-invitation a wedding of an old school friend, taking place in the New South Wales southern highlands. The two-hour drive was tedious, lacking significant road kill for enlightened reportage. Now it’s difficult not to justify getting absolutely walloped at a wedding, the merriest of merry occasions. Doosh and Erin’s matrimonial bliss was a delicate affair, taking place amongst the manicured garden of one of those country estates where the Illuminati meet on cool September nights to negotiate oil treaties with space aliens. Milford Park has rotated ownership from one upper crust blueblood family to another, finally mutating into an elite hotel-spa just perfect for weddings (and corporate plots of inter-world domination). Just before she made her way down the aisle, Erin, a soprano who now sings the cause of Amnesty International, let loose with a stunning rendition of Eva Cassidy’s version of Sting’s Fields of Gold, leaving the minister in tears and the guests’ collective goosebumps standing to ovation. I recall that at our high school prom night, my date Lori (whose perfume, it must be said, chemically disagreed with her) ditched me as soon as we’d got through the ballroom door, and Doosh’s date Jessica, the slut, seemed to hit on everyone else except him. Doosh and I made a perfect loser couple, drunk in his beat-up Toyota. Back to the present, I watched this beautiful bride walk down a red carpet of pink petals, proving, once and for all, that every Doosh has his day.
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