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Wedding Planners

It's one of those new careers isn't it? Matter of time before you can get a qualification in it, possibly a post graduate degree. A masters in oohing, aahing, taking numbers down, adding them up and rounding them up.

They don't quite know what to make of us. We aren't young enough to coo over, we aren't old enough to be sweet and dear. The wedding planner at the Horn of Plenty gushed as best she could... 'Oh, a halloween wedding! I love those! You can have carved pumpkins...oh yes, how lovely! Oh, that would look wonderful!' The Hotel didn't need her endless commentary. It was beautiful, looking out over Dartmoor and the river Tamar tumbling down the hills. The helipad waited nearby in case we couldn't handle her anymore and just wanted to take off, possibly throwing her from the cockpit, aimed at the gleaming Conde Nast plaque by the doors.
It was by far the most elegant of the venues we had seen, and it came with the most enthusiastic wedding planner. She grated on the groom almost instantly, though her description of how the wedding would'flow,' was rather well done. She could present, she could add up, she just couldn't shut up.

The other venues were more muted in their wedding professionals; we were shown around the Fox and Hounds at Eggesford by some guy behind the bar, who was pleasant enough. The chapel room was lovely, the garden was nice, the venue had everything, and you could pretty much do what you liked with it. It was a big pub and that was that, and that was him done, business like, casual, easy.

The well meaning young woman at Northcote Manor was less noisome than her counterpart at the Horn, more deferential than the man at the Fox and Hounds. I thought I could sense a very slight air of controlled despair about her. She brought out some bits and pieces from the kitchen for us to try, and then led us around the creaky old country hotel; here sat demi-dead gentlemen reading at fireside, rifles zippled up at reception, here were happy murals painted on the walls, here were the rooms with the grand but slightly tired curtain ties and the huge vases full of fading flowers...she didn't try to sell it; if the long drive and the woods on either side didn't win a viewers heart, the worn out rooms and worn out staff couldn't do it. We shook hands and fled back to the land of the living.

The wedding planner at the Bedford Hotel in Tavistock was possibly my favourite on account of not being there at all. He hadn't stood us up; I was so charmed by the town and the age of the building, I just leapt in to see if anyone could show us around, and some girl behind the reception desk gamely took us round the building. She was as pleasant and straightforward as the man at the Fox and Hounds leading me to suspect that it is actually the position of 'wedding planner,' that turns people's minds. The Bedford was described by larians as smelling of old dinners and dying people; it certainly reminded one of days of bygone carpet.

We have found a place, so I won't jinx things by talking about it. No wedding planner as such, though the Horn of Plenty remains our back-up, so the gusher may yet get her chance.
Last night was the first time I had slept soundly after four days of travel through Devon. I hate planning of any kind, and weddings are particularly toothgrinding. But at least we are on our way...

Comments

( 3 comments — Leave a comment )
november_girl
Jan. 27th, 2015 09:28 pm (UTC)
I'm glad you're progressing enough to sleep better. Try to remember this is meant to be fun.
x
november_girl
Jan. 27th, 2015 09:28 pm (UTC)
Meaning that you should do what you can to make it so, even if that means telling the wedding planners to bugger off.
smokingboot
Jan. 28th, 2015 11:10 am (UTC)
Good advice!
I shall try to take it. But it all seems so hard to me, the logistics and the fretting...I am excellent at the fretting!
( 3 comments — Leave a comment )

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