Traditional wedding protocol dictates, in highly stentorian terms, that: thy must shower the newly-weds with pricey designer prezzies. The couple smile and nod politely as they receive your bounteous offering, before hastily stuffing it into a black plastic bag when your back is turned and casting it off a nearby ravine. “It’ll take pride of place on our mantle-piece,” they smile. The fib doesn’t hurt. You bought it counterfeit.
There were many ravines in Donegal, but rather than take the risk of having some weighty—not to say expensive—bit of silverware flung into the abyss, my dad instead came home with some inanely-priced high-end camera in his possession. The transaction took place inside the church itself mere minutes before the ceremony, right at the front of the hall, presumably to make sure absolutely everybody could get a load of how many mega-pixels the thing had. Even the bride and groom were sidetracked for a few seconds, before remembering to look upon the colossal act of capitalism disapprovingly.
Here’s a down-scaled version of a picture Dad took of my mother, sister, uncle and myself. I had to use an external hard-drive to store the image, as it was so large it caused my computer to blue-screen.
About me
I'm Jack. Sometimes my hair is untidy, riddled with goblins and smurfs. When I scream into the Grand Canyon, it inspires pained howling in wild dogs and wily coyotes, and compels all leaf-eating mammals to scuttle for higher ground in wait of the great flood. I think Goku is an existential paragon. My life's trajectory is adjusted towards becoming a hermit and dying alone somewhere on top of a golden mountain at sunset. Which is a jolly good innings, all told.
