Alice-Azania Jarvis: The perils of a free bar

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When I said that my bathroom would be fixed sometime next decade, it was meant to be a joke. The insurers seem to be taking it as an instruction. It's not helped by the convoluted agent-broker-decision-maker communications chain, which sees me kept abreast of developments only once they have been conveyed to several dozen other pairs of ears.

Nor by the lack of enthusiasm on the part of certain individuals (who shall – for now – remain nameless). Anyway, I've spent the overwhelming majority of the week on the phone repeating the same question: "Any news?"

It has become a kind of game, working out how often I can check on the situation. Is morning and afternoon okay? Morning, midday and afternoon? Will my enthusiasm speed the process up, or will it arouse such a sense of irritation among everyone involved that they end up performing every task even slower than they already do? If that's possible.

At least the wedding was good. More than good – it was lovely, and absolutely ideal as a First Wedding Experience Ever. Amazingly, the bride and groom had done a lot of the work themselves. The flowers were picked by them the day before (wild flowers from the surrounding Somerset countryside).

The bunting which lent such a festive atmosphere was home-made. Even the wedding cake had a personal touch – a relative of the bride had baked it. Gratifyingly, this was all done without the guests' knowledge. I only know of their efforts because one of the bridesmaids told me the next day, in a hungover moment of transparency.

Speaking of which: Ah, the perils of a free bar. Despite all my best intentions, it all went to my head. And so the night ended with me and a former flatmate serenading a quietened dance floor with Beatles classics: "All You Need Is Love", "When I'm 64", "Can't Buy Me Love". Dignified? Ah well. There's always next time.