She materialised out of nowhere, catching me entirely off guard. Elderly neighbours are good at that. They spend many hours patiently watching from behind their net curtains, watching and waiting, pausing occasionally to adjust a doily or put the kettle on, but always alert, always listening, always ready to pounce. Just a second love, that chap Mo is busily occupied trying to pack up his car. I’m just popping out to startle him. Maybe I can get him to drop something.

Bejewelled, perfumed, plastered with make-up. Clunking great rings, her skin an unnatural orange. A walking perfumery, swirling clouds of fumes and powder surrounded her. I knew I should have kept that gas mask. With the recent transport disruptions due to volcanic ash she really should be more careful.

“Brother and sister?” she asked with a telling wink, glancing between my sister and I with pride and a sense of achievement. There was no time to respond. “I’ll be sad to see you leave, “ she said, “you and your little family. Your daughter is adorable, a darling. I’m sorry I haven’t introduced myself before.”

But this is what terrified me.

“For the last six months I’ve been watching you,” she said. I may never sleep again.

Into the car park slinks a dark green car, crawling like an injured dragon or, let’s speculate here, as if the driver has had little sleep, and in the middle of a night-time crisis, is trying to find the correct car park. An impartial observer would have noted it was an old Rover, T-reg, and definitely in need of air in its tires.

The car park was empty, an occasional ambulance but that was it. Dark, eerie, is there anything more terrifying than an empty hospital car park at night? The dragon stops at the barrier and the driver takes a ticket. A heated discussion is taking place, the driver is gesticulating like a petulant child…

“Listen,” I said, “I CANNOT believe that we have to pay to park. It’s 3am, the car park is empty, my daughter is sick and these capitalist opportunists have the audacity to charge us two quid, DESPITE all my taxes and National Insurance contributions.”

“Now is NOT the time,” said my wife, so I shut up.

At the end of the day a couple quid isn’t that bad. There are worse things to worry about. Mortgage negotiations for example, or buying a house off an old lady who is buying off another old lady and the contract exchanges are on hold while the two biddies bicker over who keeps which light fitting. Or getting a bit of chicken stuck between your teeth for three weeks.

So I stopped complaining.

Miniature Christmas tree, pepper mill, lighted candle. They sat on the table like three wise men or a scene from one of those unutterably dire “incredible journey” movies. An elderly couple arrived and sat at the neighbouring table. She was dressed like a confused goddess, draped in coats, shawls, scarves and things. He was clad almost entirely in black. Jacket, shirt, trousers, shoes, all were black. “Two G&T’s,” he ordered, “Bombay if you have it.”

But the tie, his tie was hideous. Capable of inflicting moral and intellectual damage upon any diner that saw it. Bright red with arty black shapes scattered in wild abandon. I could make out some stars, a couple of squares, numerous squiggles, various giraffe segments and possibly Che Guevara’s head. It probably wasn’t, he was too posh and too Tory for ol’ Che, but it was definitely a head.

His face reminded me of Sam, an old school friend who was affectionately known as “Bam”. A pointless detail, you wouldn’t know him. Her face rabbitesque, her hair phenomenal, a fluffy mushroom-like bouffant precarious on her head. She looked like a rabbit wearing a World War I helmet. I could just about hear their conversation.

“Your top looks nice,” he was saying, “much better than I thought it would.” Talk about digging a hole. Restaurant murder: Wife strangles husband with hideous neck-tie.

I never heard Rabbit’s response. A party of eight clattered in, eight extravagant well-to-do ladies. Flowing dresses, monstrous rings, necklaced to the hilt, designer glasses, massive hair-dos. One of them in a sequined jacket, I thought those things were illegal. The largest of the eight was licking her fingers. I kid you not, it must have been anticipation – no food had been served.

On the way out we had to navigate past two black bears that were fighting in the doorway. Turns out they were old ladies, not bears and they weren’t fighting either, they were grappling with the zips on their giant black fur coats. Easy mistake to make.

The wedding took place in a beautiful Norman church deep in the heart of Norfolk. Deep in the Norfolk countryside. The mud on the path to the church was pretty deep too. The heels of the stilettos sank deep in the mud. Deepness all round really. The guests staggered, slid and stumbled their way to the church.

The groom’s family were a cucumber-sandwich-eating, Earl-Grey-drinking, doilies-throughout-the-house contingent from Hertfordshire, representing English polite society in its purest form. Think tweed suits, broad fancy hats, court shoes, pince-nez.

The bride’s family were a skull-ring-wearing, alternative-lifestyle, couldn’t-give-a-monkey’s group of Goths from Norfolk. Think clumpy boots, long coats, skull rings, dressed all in black. Every male Goth had long below-the-nipples black or red hair. They made Ozzy Osborne look like a Take That fan.

You have to admit it, this congregation had a certain élan. The Hertfordshire family sat on the right, the Goths on the left. You could feel the divide. Prim old ladies sitting nervously, sneaking glances across the aisle at the skull rings. Prim old ladies do not like skull rings. They prefer giant opal rings of the size that could crush a man’s skull with single strike. One of my biggest fears is being knocked off my bike by an old lady’s giant clunking opal-ringed fist.

The groom was waiting nervously at the front. He received a phone call to inform him that his ailing mother was on the way, she was being brought by ambulance. Shortly after this a whisper makes its way to the front. “She’s here,” was the hushed message.

The music started, congregation stood and turned round, the groom’s mother was making her way down the aisle in a wheelchair with a drip in tow. The organ was rapidly hushed, the congregation returned to their seats, it was a tragic moment. By no means am I mocking the groom’s ailing mother, but it was a tragically comic scene. Five minutes later the bride arrived, her bridesmaids clad in mustard yellow medieval gowns. The organ started again, the congregation stood up…

The reception took place at a roadside cafe, but there was no roadside cafe food. Instead a cheap and scant buffet was laid out, consisting primarily of pork pies, cocktail sausages and quiche. There was a stampede to the buffet resulting in a number of scuffles. I understand this completely. Cocktail sausages should always be the cause of unalloyed jubilation. I do worry about the cocktail sticks though, in the wrong hands these could be extremely dangerous. If an adolescent hamster got hold of one he could use it as a javelin. My hamster is incalculably selfish and puerile and I wouldn’t trust him with a cocktail stick for a moment.

The bride and groom’s first dance was to Black Sabbath. The prim old ladies did not join in. The goths were in their element.

The drama at the buffet was eclipsed by the events as the evening drew to a close. The bride’s sister lap danced her boyfriend of two-weeks in front of her just-divorced ex-husband, who responded by slapping the her, who in turn attacked him with her stiletto.

It was, without a doubt, the most bizarre wedding.