At the risk of sounding like actor Steve Martin in Father of the Bride, a cake is just flour and water.
On Saturday I take my eldest daughter Ali down the aisle at St Bride’s, the journalists’ church in Fleet Street (a word of advice to the squeamish, no phones were tapped in the writing of my speech.) While my daughter is stressed, I am not far behind her. My specially ordered Italian wool suit is still in Milan or, probably more accurate, on the back of a sheep. So I am in the attic looking out that old tuxedo. I am sure, as Steve Martin imagined, it will fit.
Worse has followed. My dear mother found that the hotel in Hampstead north London where she is booked had no record of her existence. Even though I had personally gone to the hotel myself to make the booking.
I now realise why the Premier Inn, a British chain owned by Whitbread hired a funnyman, Lenny Henry to be the public face of their organisation. It’s obvious; because they are a joke. Hopeless, hapless and certainly not worthy of the name Premier. More accurately Conference league, the lowest league in the English soccer tournament.
After being relegated from, in soccer parlance, a non-league hotel, what else could go wrong?
Well, as I write, the weatherman is forecasting torrential rain and 50 mile an hour winds.
Let’s just hope the confetti stays dry. My only hope -- there is not a dry eye in the house after I have finished talking about my darling daughter.