My last post was in June, and here we are, well into September. Willma has been just a runaround until recently: for reasons I can’t quite fathom, I didn’t go away in the summer, despite promising the grandson we’d have an expedition. It all got a bit overwhelming; and with the planning for Jennie’s wedding, I didn’t want to be far away, though that’s just a pretext, I suspect. Plus there were health issues, which demanded a certain attention and trips to the Respiratory surgeon. And I’d decided too to get the hall decorated, and since I’m not allowed up ladders, or doing anything remotely hazardous, I got my former neighbour Iain in to do it. What with the making good after, that accounted for a good fortnight or so. Which led up to the wedding itself, where Willma transported the bride to the venue, and provided my accommodation.

The wedding was wonderful. I’d never seen the bride look so beautiful; I had a tear in my eye when I first saw her in the dress, which I thinks the intended reaction – despite the garment being in my house for a fortnight, I was sworn not to peak. And I finally got to walk my daughter down the aisle – not to ‘give her away’ because that’s old fashioned and patriarchal, which neither of us would want. The wedding venue was a 14th century manor house near Meopham, with a marquee in the garden for the reception.

As the groom is by profession a music promoter, the playlists were carefully curated; a friend sang a an acoustic set in the garden after the service, and more friends played a medley of music during the course of the evening event. I was able to pogo dance with Lily to one punk number.

The speeches were great. Jennie led off, and had a moment or two mentioning her mum. I followed; made a complete hash of using the microphone again, which got a laugh. Hayley, the best man, who’d been a nervous wreck just before, absolutely smashed it with some wonderful stories about the groom, including a joint confession about rescuing pasta that nearly went down the drain. This was, of course, news to the friends in the room who’d unknowingly eaten it. Paul went off script, and proved a natural raconteur; he gave me a jolt when he proposed a toast to Rosie. She was, of course, present in everyone’s mind; at least those who knew her. In many ways, this was closure on a chapter in that history. Although there’s a hole, and a feeling of sadness that will never go away, at least we can accept now, and recognise the passing of generations.

By 10:30, like my granddaughter, I was ready for bed, so took my hearing aids out and put may head down. I’d forgotten how well I sleep in the van. I gather the celebrations went on into the early hours: I woke up own the morning to see bottles and glasses all over; the other camper (a T2 handed down from grandparents) showed no sign of life for another hour or two.

of course, the other use for a camper is carrying a load of wedding gear to and from the venue, which was duly done. We met at the Growler in Dartford, as a wind-down: Paul’s dad Steve played a set too. Then families said farewell and adieu. And with a clear conscience I can start planning my autumn trip