My decision to leave the Christmas decorations up is now vindicated as tomorrow the clocks go back and we are yet again plunged into the long, dark night of the soul. Winter not my favourite season you’re guessing but at least I won’t be wobbling about on a ladder with the tinsel.

Before I retreat under the duvet with the sloe gin (No concession for the change of season, you’ll note) I had hoped to delight you with the shenanigans at a wedding I went to last week.  Nothing like a family occasion for a rich source of copy in my experience.  I once arrived at my local to find the doors bolted because all out war was happening inside at a christening party.

Excellent!  So it was with a spring in my step that I set off for the nuptials which had all the elements in place for a complete disaster.  Plenty of ex husbands and lovers, accompanied by suspiciously attractive new partners with Rent-a-Date written all over them,  squabbling siblings, unwelcome guests and lashings of booze.  There was even a steep set of stairs down to the dining room with a surface slippery enough for ice skating.  Bring on the broken bones!  And the father of the bride was overweight and scarlet faced.  Fingers crossed for a defibrillator incident for a grand finale.

The mother of the bride had not touched, not been in the room with, solid food for months and two weeks before the wedding had still not decided on an outfit.  There was even an especially low moment when she floated the idea of a perm.  She swept in looking so amazing that there was a clang as our jaws met the glassy floor.

In fact everything was perfect.  It stopped raining so we could drink champagne in the garden.  The photographs didn’t take hours.  The bridesmaids had beautiful dresses.

My last chance for a story was the bride and groom but nothing doing.  She had organised everything with terrifying precision, even providing dozens of pairs of flip flops for when we failed to squeeze back into our new shoes after dinner but did she look haggard and stressed? No readers, she looked radiant and calm and the groom clearly adores her.  They may just live happily ever after.  I hope so.

It would be foolish to visit the Lake District at any time of year and not expect rain.  That is how God fills up the valleys to make the Lakes in the first place and in yet another fruitless attempt to convert us, no less than 8 inches fell in one single day. To put that into context for those whose meteorological knowledge is minimal, and I do mean you, Junior Nurse, London gets about 30 inches A YEAR.  My thanks to all of you who sent messages of concern, mostly not read because the wi-fi at the Cottage was set at a level of parental control that barred access to anything more controversial than the weather forecast, something we were well able to do without, what with having eyes and windows.

There were expressions of concern that we may have acquired trench foot but given the level of alcohol and cigarette consumption of the party we were far more likely to succumb to trench lungs and trench livers.

There are photographs of  the ash tray (bucket) and the bottle recycling mountain but both are too disgusting for a dainty blog like this.  I did send  copies to Mr R. D. Davies of this parish together with the information that I had completed the Telegraph prize crossword in record time. Clearly green with envy he replied as follows:

“Not surprised – those photographs suggest a first class mind fuelled and supercharged by booze and fags.  Well done.”

There was to be little danger of foot related injuries.  Junior Nurse whined constantly about wanting to do more walking, or wading as it turned out, but as Staff Nurse somewhat tartly rebuked her,  “In order to hike you have to firstly get out of your bed and secondly remain awake once you have done so.” neither of which seemed within her grasp.  However using our well honed mathematical skills we were able to estimate that she was doing a good 10 k a day going backwards and forwards to the Co-op for essential supplies, a needlessly long distance when the prettily named‘Bargain Booze’ emporium, stockist of all our daily requirements, was at least 50 metres closer.

Somebody – possibly not Harvey Weinstein – once said “Keep a diary and eventually it will keep you” and I can assure you that further details and pictures are in a safe place.  Forward the usual postal order if you would like the full story of ‘The Incident at Rhydal Bridge’ – definitely a Bridge Too Far in more ways than one.  It involves cake.