Another wedding down, another broken Radge, writing a post-mortem borne of lashings and lashings of ambrosia creamed gargle.
Ah here, you all know the drill. Frocks and suits, speeches and stout. Clappings and jeerings and a personalised greeting from Take That. Actually, that one's new. The rest was as you'd expect, teeming with good will and old men from Leixlip never to be met again.
The wonderings. Wonder if the bridesmaids are game? No. Maybe some of the guests.
Scanning the tables for possible encounters. Be clever about it. The middle of three consecutively seated females is likely single. Maybe have a pop at her later... Or her... Or oh she's a looker that one. I definitely will. Or would.
Or I'm not even fooling myself. Instead I'll get drunk and far too emotional, back in the room and altogether crap. That most jolting of changes.
But we don't like to talk about that.