As I said, I probably had more wine to drink than was necessary over the course of the 12 hours that I was at the wedding. By the time I left I wasn’t stupid, or dangerous, or legless, just a good, healthy tiddly – as were most of the other guests. So it was time to go – at around midnight I said my good byes, walked a ways away to the car park, and stood waiting in the dark for my taxi.
A young lady stomped by, turned at the back of the barn, and sat down on a low wall, clearly in a snit. She was followed by an angry young man, pleading and exhorting with her, and as she beagn to yell at him and he started accusing her, I gotta admit, my first thought was, “Oooh, goody. Drama!” and I chose not to move away (to be fair, I was there first and I was waiting for a taxi exactly where I said I’d be). As they continued arguing other young men came up and started to – I dunno – take sides? – yell at them both? – threaten the young man? I must admit, I was quite enjoying this.
Then things got physical – the shoving started, then the pushing, and suddenly I realised I was in the trajectory of the punch-up. I tried to move away but with my sprained ankle it was hard to get very far and then – yup, wouldn’t you know it – I was in the midst of things. One hard shove and down I went, onto a low wall, into a flower bed, and against the wall of the barn.
The crowd scattered like buckshot. One of the men did help me up (I may have been a tad rude to him when he started brushing me down), and I just stood there, stunned. (I’ve never been in a fist fight before, you see.) The venue staff were wonderful, asking my taxi to wait while they washed and bandaged my bleeding hand, and then off I went back to my hotel. All over, nothing to see here, folks.
It wasn’t until morning that I discovered the state of the clothes I was wearing, stained and scraped from the plants and the brickwork (they are at the dry cleaners and the jury is still out as to their fate). And it wasn’t until much later in the day I discovered the scrapes down my back and legs, along with the bruises and the goose egg on my head.
Now, the fact that I chose to stay in my room until one minute before check-out watching cooking shows and packing, and then settled at a table in the pub for five hours people-watching and reading a book, had much more to do with the sprained ankle than it did the barroom brawl (altho I did share the story with the bar staff, who were quite entertained). I left the hotel at five and headed into the city for my second dosa dinner of the week. Then off to Euston Station for the Caledonian Sleeper home.
I gotta say – while getting shoved about and knocked down in a stranger’s fist fight was neither the best way to end a beautiful wedding day, nor the best thing for my already damaged ankle – it does make for a good story (the women in the lounge at Euston were riveted).