La Poulette

Tastes like chicken.

Sunday, August 28, 2005

Celebrating Love in Leuven


If you're ever in the mood to while your Sunday afternoon away nursing a killer hangover, I suggest you spend most of your Saturday in the city of Leuven, drowning a mixture of champagne, wine and Duvel beer at a Belgo-Irish wedding. My recollections of the evening in question are dim - and I prefer to push the few memories that do come floating above the alcohol riddled fog back to the darkest depths of oblivion. Which would work if the Purebred had not had the lack of grace to remind me of a couple of shame-inducing souvenirs earlier. My antics on the dancefloor apparently included bottom slapping (my own and that of my girly friends) to the tune of "I like Big Butts" - I seriously hope I at least managed to keep the "yiiiii-haaaaaaaa!!!" that I just know was on the tip of my tongue the moment palm met bottom to myself. This was followed by a brief episode during which I decided to spice things up by picking up a microphone and mouthing along to the lyrics of "Ice Ice Baby" (rap moves included). The grand finale saw me (elegantly clad in black satin cocktail dress and killer heels - yes, heels!) laying my head on the table and sleeping like a baby as the party around me continued in full swing (a Poulette classic).
My only source of comfort is the fact that I was in good company: at some point the groom willingly had his toenails painted a vampish red by the bride; one single girl went so wild in her drunken pursuit of the bride's bouquet that she strategically positioned herself in a standing position on a chair 2 meters in front of her fellow competitors (yes, it worked); and the Purebred himself participated in the old "caterpillar" dance without complaint. 3 weddings this season down, 1 to go (next week-end). But after all this extertion, I suspect the funeral will be my own.

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