Take the mummy and run.

Last week, I gave my mum away.

Wait, that should be, we gave our mum away.

That seems a little obtuse.

Better still, our mum got married. My brothers and I had the absolute pleasure of giving her away. Not because it was nice to get her off our hands (which it obviously was and best of luck to him) but because she’s found a good man and it’s so nice to see her happy.

This is weird to write because it’s likely she will read it, and possible my dad will read it. Put it this way if you do happen across this, Simon. The stag do we threw you was a lot more hedonistic than the hen do we threw her.

A year ago, my partner (E) was asked to cater the wedding. We were honoured to be asked and it seemed like a lovely gift. Food being the music of love after all. What followed was one of the most stressful weeks as we fought against the clock to get everything in place for the event. Even with my partner’s incredible mum (also a chef) moving in to our apartment to help us, it was tight. But fuck me, did they pull off a buffet that we will be talking about still when my niece gets married.
Listen up Pixie, we aren’t going to be catering that!

All I had to do was pack up the food, drive the food and unpack the food, staying out of the way as they did their magic. That was enough to give me an ulcer on the inside and a hernia on the outside. I have no idea how anyone works in the service industry, catering or anything else where you have to deal with the disgusting public. I take off whatever hat I’m wearing to you.

It was only when I got a message that my mum and brothers were in a car on the way that I ran into the toilets to get changed. The worst Superman quick change you’ve ever seen in your life (although still very Jewish).

I rushed out to meet them and walk Trace in. She looked beautiful. After all the cacophany and the chaos, it dawned on me how much of a big deal it was. Not just because Dawn, our cousin, was taking photos as we pretended to share a joke so she could catch the magic faux-ment (faux moment) on camera. This was a big deal. This is what father’s do. Other than when it comes to Herb, our pomeranian, I am not a father. My brothers both are, to human children.
On my wrist, very loosely in fact, was a silver bracelet that had belonged to my grandfather. It was for him that I was named. Not Paul. That was because of Paul Newman, and someone that my mum was shtupping in her erstwhile twenties, but my middle name. Martin.

A man who used to call us his “three geniuses”.
A hero to few.
A grandpa who once told me that I should marry a woman with small hands because she’d be grateful and so would I.
A wry comedic genius who introduced me to The Goons, Marty Feldman and Jerry Seinfeld.
A weekday golfer who taught us how to drive off of the tee – only giving us the single shout of “shot” if we sent it straight and true down the fairway.
A gent of a particular era that meant he was always immaculately put together to the extent that we assumed he had “connections”.

He should have been the one honoured with this role. Instead it was passed down the line to boys with anxious disorders, varicose veins or kidney stones. We felt like the baby from the Velvet toilet tissue advert – “soft, soft, soft” – dressed up in suits and with fat bald heads. We had jumped up the wedding running order. This wasn’t supposed to be for us.

I love being silly with my brothers. There wasn’t going to be any exception. By the time the celebrant asked for the ring bearers to present the rings, I had my Doc Martens up on the table to show my brothers my socks. The whole congregation (obviously not that word, because it was a non-religious ceremony but it evokes the idea) was staring at our table.

Then the three of us helped E and her mum cart food out for eighty people. Well, we carted out food for 40,000 people but there were only eighty there. E was finally able to get out of the kitchen. We danced together alongside the first dance and then sat and ate – the first thing we had been able to put away that day. There’s nothing quite like the sweat and panic of a day’s hard work in service where you can’t bear the sight of food only to sit down with a job all done to try and stomach something. It’s the best/worst appetite suppressant I’ve found.

It was great to see old friends of my mums and to catch up with my cousins and extended family but it was far too brief. Before I knew it we were sweeping food off of the tables again and trying to work out what could be salvaged. Wrapping the evening in foil and clingfilm to put it all away again.

We drove home exhausted and vibrating from the energy of the day.