Diary of a Reluctant Ruler

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James looked at me with a querying face, one eyebrow raised a little. I twiddled with his fingers which were interlocked with my left hand, wondering what words to use.

“It’s interesting,” I said after a little while.

“Interesting,” James repeated, looking out at the ramshackle obstacle course he’d set out on the hidden piece of lawn behind a coppice in the palace gardens.

“It’s not really anything to do with being a best man…” I said.

“No, but it will distinguish the mice from the men,” Oran laughed, poking out from underneath the large canvas sheet which straddled the mid section of the course.

“Who stole my canoe paddle?!” Greg yelled from the bottom of the lawn, waving said paddle over his head.

“You said we could borrow your stuff,” Charlie yelled back, filling two plastic jugs with water from the fountain.

That water doesn’t look too clean…

Well, we were swimming in it the other day, so you’d hope it was.

It’s kinda green.

Wuss.

“I meant you could borrow my hiking boots! Not my canoe gear!”

“Well, deal with it!”

I turned to James, “Are you sure about this? You don’t want to involve reactions to your getting cold feet or disasters with lost items of clothing?”

“Well, both Charlie and Oran would be my first choices for best men, so either one of them will be great. Besides, it’s good fun,” he smiled, letting my hand drop and going over to help Jonathon, who was unsuccessfully attempting to throw a rope over a branch of an oak tree.

I surveyed the course, which had been assembled in the last hour after ‘meticulous’ planning the night before, which seemed to actually consist of James and the lads messing around in his room, watching action movies and wrestling each other. I’d looked in briefly before I’d gone to bed and had been confronted by the sight of Greg and Charlie in an extreme game of twister (a position I still can’t get out of my head) with Jonathon shouting out directions whist Oran and James broke down with laughter on the bed. Suffice to say I’d left a little worried about the mental age of my fiancé.

The course was made up of four stages. Through each stage (except the last, which would have been impossible) you had to carry a jug of pond water, attempting to spill as little as possible. The first stage was a slalem, around carefully placed chairs ‘borrowed’ from one of the parlours. The second stage was the canvas sheet Charlie was tackling, which was tied down and had to be struggled underneath for about two metres. The third stage was to run around ten times with your head on one Greg’s canoe paddles, which was followed by the fourth and final stage, which was to run to the rope Jonathon had now succeeded in fixing to the Oak tree, put down the jug and climb up it to blow a whistle suspended at the top.

I shook my head. Only five twenty-year-old men-boys could have thought such a thing up.

“Hey Phil!” a familiar voice called from the other end of the lawn.

“Olly!” I cried, running to where she stood at the end of the course, enveloping her in a hug, “How are you!”

“Great! How are you?”

“Stressed!”

“With this going on, who wouldn’t be?”

“How’s Seth Green?”

“Theo’s fine,” Olly laughed, “He said to say hi.”

“Aw, sweetie,” I smiled, “So… I need your help.”

“What with?” Olly asked, as we walked back up to the fountain, where I’d been sitting watching the guys.

“Everything!” I cried, sitting down, “Not really, just two things – dresses, and my bridesmaid’s invitations.”

“Ooo, dresses,” Olly grinned, her eyes twinkling.

“My designer is awful, so I’ve sacked him. And I just couldn’t face going through the whole process of finding one again so… I was wondering if you knew anyone who wanted to design clothes and happened to be readily available, and could possible include it in her coursework for Art school?”

Olly’s mouth dropped, her eyes widening with shock. She began to babble randomly, her mouth opening and closing like a floundered fish, a wide grin anchoring itself to her features.

“You – want – but I – how did? – but that’s -”

I laughed, pleased that she so obviously loved the idea.

“You don’t have to worry about making it – we’ve got a dressmaker, that’s fine. Just designing, and helping to supervise the pattern etc.”

“You can’t be serious?” Olly asked after a moment.

“Deadly,” I replied, grinning too.

Suddenly I was flat on my back, thankfully not in the fountain, Olly hugging me so tightly that it was beginning to get difficult to breathe when she let go.

“Are you sure, are you sure?” she kept repeating, standing now and hopping from foot-to-foot.

She looks like one of those dancing lizards from the Discovery Channel.

“Yes!” I repeated, laughing.

“Oh my goodness, this is going to be so much fun!” she cried, “Take that Ms Parle-vous-Fashion!”

“Ms Who?” I asked.

“My design teacher – that’s not actually her name – she hates me. Oh yes! Yes, yes, yes!”

“Calm down,” Oran said, poking out from underneath the sheet again, “Anyone would think you were having a-” he stopped mid-sentence.

I snorted with laughter.

“A what, exactly, sir?” Olly asked, going all prim and proper.

“Nothing,” Oran replied, looking very uncomfortable and ducking back under his canvas sheet.

“Quite right too,” Olly huffed, “Oh, thank you Phil! Right, I’m going to get this perfect for you.”

“Thank you,” I replied sincerely, “And no pressure, if it doesn’t work out, we get someone else in. But I have perfect faith in you! For now, though, we shall have to sit and watch this lot make fools out of themselves.”

“Merry, have we got any skiing gloves?” James asked.

“He’s calling you Merry now?” Olly giggled.

“Don’t ask,” I replied, thinking about our Lord of the Rings fest a while back, “No, hun, I don’t think we do… Why do you want them?”

“To make it more difficult to cut the chocolate,” James replied cryptically.

“Cut chocolate?” I repeated, completely thrown.

“Yes, for the second round.”

“Second round?!” I cried, “How many rounds are there?”

“Don’t know yet – best out of three at the moment.”

“Oh good lord,” I said to myself, “This is going to take forever.”

* * *

“Three, two, one, go!”

“And they’re off,” Greg cried, speaking commentator, “Charlie immediately sprinting into the lead with those longer legs, but spilling a little at the third chair. Oran close on his heels as they head under the canvas – and we’ve lost sight of both of them. Both apparently neck and neck under there for the moment, oh and we see a hand! It’s Oran first out of the canvas and onto the paddle, closely followed by Charlie, but they’ve both lost a significant amount of water. Into the dizzying stage now as they both run circles around paddles kindly donated by Mr Greg, a fine patron with an extremely fine body – oh, and Oran has fallen over attempting to walk straight to the rope – but his water’s saved, that was close – now they’re neck and neck as Charlie steps away from the paddle and they both dash in wobbly fashion to the oak tree – and it’s Charlie once more first to his rope – and he’s now got a clear lead – but no, Oran’s there – only a second between them – but it’s Charlie who has the whistle!”

The long piercing shriek of the whistle burst through the air.

Oran slid back down the rope, shaking his head in annoyance, clapping slowly for Charlie who remained aloft in the tree waving the whistle over his head.

Round two commenced shortly: an odd game which James claimed was played at children’s parties all the time, but I had never heard of. The basic concept was to roll a six on the dice, at which point you were allowed to put on a hat, scarf and gloves and tackle a bar of chocolate with a knife and fork. The original game allowed you to eat as much chocolate as possible until someone else rolled a six but James version required points so the aim was to move as many squares using the fork to your container as possible.

It’s a little sickening in practice… all that rushing.

Yay, sporks! Sporks, spoks, poks, pok! Bzzzzz!!!

Who gave you chocolate?

I found it! Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Oran won this time, which created a draw. All was tense as we went into the third round, moving inside for an ingenious merged suggestion from Jonathon and myself – a pub type quiz on how to handle best-man situations.

“Question number one,” I began, “James has lost his shirt, what do you do? Charlie?”

“Er, how did he lose it?” Charlie asked.

“Not important – he’s freaking out and can’t remember,” I replied.

“Well, I’d find him another I suppose?”

“Ok…” I nodded, as Olly scribbled a note beside me, “Oran?”

“With me on the case, James would not have lost it in the first place,” Oran replied confidently.

Olly giggled next to me.

“Er, ok,” I said, “Erm… but say by impossible means he has lost it?”

Oran paused for a moment, “Give him my own shirt, and find another for myself.”

“Smarty-pants,” Charlie mumbled under his breath.

“Jealous,” Oran whispered back.

“Question number two,” Jonathon chipped in, “James has cold feet, how do you reassure him? Oran first.”

“Great! I’ll marry her instead,” Oran grinned, looking at James.

“No way!” James growled, “No one’s marrying me but her!”

“You’d better get on with it then,” Oran replied.

“Is that your answer?” Jonathon asked, a little confused.

“Er, no – well, kinda – it might work, making him jealous – but no, er, I’d just reassure him, talk him through it, list Meredith’s good qualities. If the worst came to the worst I could drug him,” he mused.

“Right…” Jonathon replied, still confused.

Olly scribbled furiously next to me, her pen having run out halfway through Oran’s rant. I passed her another pen from beside me.

“Charlie?”

“Knock some sense into him - put him under a cold shower.”

“Ok… Question three, you’ve just come from downstairs where Meredith has just come down and is about to leave for the church, to find James about to go downstairs, what do you do? – Charlie.”

“Er, go with him?” Charlie replied, “Is this a trick question?”

“Maybe,” I smiled, “Oran?”

“Keep him in his room until it’s certain you’ve left, in case he sees you in the dress, which is of course bad luck,” Oran replied, a little smug.

“Urgh, he only knows that because he’s a girl,” Charlie mumbled.

“Whatever looser,” Oran shot back, grinning.

“Break it up, ladies,” James laughed, “Question number four…”

I took over Olly’s notebook momentarily and read through her notes. Oran seemed to be winning. I stole her pen and made notes instead for the next few minutes. The boys seemed neck and neck – the first answer almost always seemed to be the better, with the exception of Charlie overlooking the third question.

“And finally, one minute to put forward your proposal as to why you should be James’ best man - Charlie.”

“Because I am awesome,” – cue snort from Olly who was loving this – “and I would never let him back out of anything, would keep him organised… and not let him do anything stupid… or lose anything…” he fumbled for words for a moment, before concluding, “And besides, everyone knows that the best man has to look awesome. And no offence Oran, but I look better in a suit than you,” – cue punch in the shoulder.

“Thank you, Charlie,” I smiled, letting Olly take over the notes again, “Oran?”

“I have only known James for a year and a half now, and although it’s been such a short time, I feel like I’ve known him most of my life,” Oran started, stumbling a little. He began to tap out a rhythm on his thigh as he gathered his thoughts, “He’s an awesome bloke; a great laugh, (a right sulk when he gets pissed off at you!), a patient helper, and always ready to grab life by the hands. I don’t know whether I’m the better man,” he said resignedly, “But it would be an honour and a pleasure to be his best man.”

“Woo!” Olly cried, tapping her pencil against the notepad in manner of clapping.

She went bright red as she realised everyone was looking at her.

“Er, please ignore me,” she muttered.

“Plus,” Oran said, breaking in to Olly’s embarrassment, “I oppose the fact that Charlie is better looking than me!”

He’s right you know, he’s better looking than Charlie…

It’s a type difference, not a matter of looks in particular.

But nothing compared to James.

Nothing compared to Adonis.

Who’s Adonis? I’ve never met anyone called Adonis.

That’s because he’s a Greek myth idiot.

Well how do you know what he looks like then?

Pictures!

But they’re not actual pictures of him, are they? They’re paintings of models…

*blinks* Er, yeah, well… whatever.

James kept conference with Olly for a while, occasionally asking me whether I’d thought a certain answer was worth more than one point. Oran shifted from side-to-side of his seat, tapping continuously. Charlie just larked about, arm-wrestling Greg across the coffee table.

“Right…” James said, breaking the tense silence, “Olly?”

“Thank you very much for your cooperation and enthusiastic participation today, gentlemen. Both of you performed immaculately, and strong points were seen from both parties. However, only one person can win, and that person is-”