The door is everywhere. To call it common is an injustice – it is as ubiquitous as the air we breathe, the water we drink, the taxes we owe. It is in our homes, our offices, our transport. It keeps us safe while we sleep, while we drive. It is our protection against the room next door, and the world outside.

The door is part of our vocabulary, our language. We “open doors”, we “close a deal”. We have an “open door policy”. We swing them open, we slam them shut. The door is our slave and our servant. The door is our bitch.

But the door is also our enemy. It attacks us, it frustrates us, it makes us look like fools.

The Toilet Door

The toilet door is my nemesis, the number one on my list of dastardly doors. And I’m not even talking about the cubicle door, that never gives you enough room to close without brushing your legs against the outside of the toilet bowl.

Nor even, the American cubicle door, starting a mighty three feet from the ground to allow full thigh viewing from urinal alley, and the inch-wide gap between the door and walls. One wonders whether Americans in public toilets in England feel lonely in their out-of-sight claustrophobic boxes. But these are not my primary concern.

My target is the exit door. The exit door? you ask. The exit door, I nod.

When leaving the toilet, or bathroom, or restroom, or outhouse, or water-closet, or so forth, the typical gentleman (for this is all I am permitted to observe), will customarily choose one of the following options. He will either wash his hands, or he will not wash his hands.

I shall not question the wisdom of the non-washers. Presumably they believe their hands to be unsullied by their efforts, usually involved in a mere “reveal-tug-dangle” gesture followed by the “tug-shake-tuck”. An inspection of the spray-deck in the men’s urinals does not reassure me that hands are quite as sanitary as their conscience. But I do not judge, I shall simply note that this practice exists and is commonplace.

A washer, indeed myself, would avail himself of the facilities, providing of course, and this is not always the case, that the washing facilities are cleaner than the sewage facilities. Equipment provided is usually an unpleasant soap, scaldingly hot water in one tap, lukewarm water in another tap, based around a basin area. The controls on the taps are judged to encourage the maximum use of water, such that there will always be one tap running for no apparent reason, which is impossible to shut off.

Once hands are adequately washed, one would look for the hand-drying facilities. These are allocated on a ratio of one drying unit to every three washing units, on the basis of physics completely unknown to science: that it is quicker to dry your hands than to wet them. The drying units will have been provided further back into the toilet area, to encourage awkward confrontations with other toiletting members of the public, and to generally persuade the user into joining the wet-hands-exit, wipe-on-trousers masses.

Further encouragement into this camp is provided by the drying unit. This has a fifty percent chance of existing, a forty percent chance of working, and a ten percent chance of actually doing any drying, since models manufactured before 2005 seemed to be modelled on the average drunk’s morning breath. Of course, you may just have one of those clever Dyson units, which are really neat but still leave a few drops on the fingertips don’t they?

Doors, doors, I’m coming back to doors. The exit of a toilet is always, always, always a pull door. Always.

Why. Why why why. I’ve just spent four seconds exquisitely washing, and four hours slowly drying, my clean clean hands. And now you’re asking me to grab hold of a door handle that has been held by every “tug-shake-tugger” and “wet-hand-wiper” who’s ever been in here.

That handle is never cleaned either. When the attendant (not a cleaner, never a cleaner), when the attendant comes to check the facilities, he (or she) will wedge the door open with their mop-bucket, and give a quick wipe to the spray deck. But we know they never check behind the opened door. That’s why that cock you drew in 2005 is still on that cubicle door over there. Wasn’t funny then, isn’t funny now.

To make matters worse, there’s often two doors as well. In case you waited long enough for someone else to come in (don’t ever try that), you’d still have the second to contend with. Your hands will be soiled when you head back to your table, and your hamburger/nuts/asparagus/finger food. It’s disgusting.

It’s disgusting and the door is at fault. Remove the door. Or let them be pushed, so I can kick it open. Either way, when we all die of goldfish-flu, this blog post is my “I told you so”.

CorriDoors

See what I did there? Clever, isn’t it. But not as clever as the build regulations that state that fire doors must be installed throughout buildings, and that those doors need to be closed at all times.

Which gives us the corridor doors. Harmless enough, just a barrier between you and where you want to be. Just give them a push.

Or is it a pull?

Hope it’s a push anyway, I mean, I’m carrying an armful of stuff.

But, hey, it’s got a handle. It’s a pull. One of those simple, clear, obvious rules of life. Right?

Wrong. Fifty percent of the time, your average push door is going to have a handle. Why? We don’t know. Maybe they’re future-proofing against change. Maybe the unions are in on it. In fact, if the door swings both ways, it’s even more likely to have handles. And most people will pull the doors, which is both awkward, and inconvenient. And unbelieveably, even though they pull to go through it one way, and pull to go through the other way, most people will never realize the doors go both ways. At this point, the door is looking cleverer than we are.

And one more point lost by humanity, to the door, is locks. Not the bold padlock, or the fancy chubb. No, I mean the slot locks at the top and bottom of the door. For we all know that when opening a set of doors in any building, the caretaker, janitor, or security guy will only ever open one of the two. God knows why – maybe they only see the doors at night, when they’re used by one person at a time. Next thing you know, you’ve got a hundred people pushing on both sides, before trying to squeeze through, ten abreast. Certainly at my school it was a regular scrum to get between classes, there’d be a cry of “bundle!” and a whiff of Hillsborough in the morning. This is how I lost all my teeth. True story.

Automatic doors

What an amazing invention it is, the automatic door. Sliding briskly aside as we approach, it is hard to believe that this work-driven slave to our presence could be a bad omen.

It is more of a trojan horse. For you never know how long it’ll take to open. And it’s always slightly longer than you’d like. Maybe the sensors are just waiting for you to get close enough, so you have to pause, wait, and then go on. It’s winding us up, little by little.

Either that, or they’re waaay too sensitive. You want to hang around in the warmth of the hotel lobby? Sure, but you’ll get looks, because even a hundred yards into this room, and you’re keeping the doors open. The doors will alert other visitors to this faux-pas, by inching in slightly, as if to say “have you moved yet”, before opening again. They’re playing a game, and they always win.

Lift doors, or elevators to our American friends, are widely know to be evil incarnate. Who knows what will appear behind those doors? Will there be a lift car, or will we fall to oblivion? Will they close at all, without us squeezing uncomfortably backwards into a lawsuit from Debbie in Accounts? This is why we face forward. We need to keep an eye on the door, but we also need to be able to push backwards without going face to face.

Automatic doors may not be killers, but they will add to your stress levels in a thousand different ways.

Door Etiquette

In this brave new world of unwritten etiquette, it is the men who suffer most. Do we buy dinner without asking, or should we split it. The success of the date depends on it. If she suggests splitting it, do we refuse? And if so, how many times? And the only thing we know for certain is that we’re not going home without paying something. It’s a lose-lose situation.

And so it is with the door. In days gone by, it would be appropriate to hold the door for a lady. Nay, it would be appropriate to open the door with gusto, and to wave the lady through.

Now, we’re in a quagmire. We all try to hold the door. Even when it’s not actually convenient. Especially when it’s not convenient. We hold it for guys, girls, and in case we can’t see anyone, a passing breath of air. I am not even going to cover the long distance holders, for whom you must race to be helped, for I think they’ve been dealt with repeatedly.

But it’s madness. Every time someone opens a door for me and waves me through I feel like wrenching out his throat and hanging it from the door frame. It’s a door, not a ten tonne weight! I’ve got it. I’ve got it.

Am I carrying heavy bags? No. Am I in some way unable to open the door myself? No. Am I wearing a hot dress that you’ve like to check out from the back? Not usually! Let me handle the door myself, and get out of my way!

The worst cretins, the real bastards, are the guys who try to hold a door open from the wrong side, while standing in it. I don’t even credit them with a throat-ripping. I give them a “what kind of plant life are you” look, and send them straight to hell. Girls, it doesn’t just happen to you (though I bet it’s a lot more frequent), it happens to everyone.

Let’s just agree now. You want to go through a door, go through it. After you’ve gone through, if someone else is about, just hold it open a second longer (just one!), and let go. Your friend has it from there.

It’s a door. We can take it on alone. It won’t kill us (unless it’s a toilet door). It won’t hurt us (unless we’re getting slammed by an automatic). It can’t chop us into tiny little pieces (unless it’s a revolving door). It’s no obstacle (unless it’s a corridoor). And we can get through it together (unless you’re holding it for me).

Or we can just move to Hawaii, where they don’t need doors. Personally, I’m on the next plane.

• Got married!!!
• Been to Hawaii on Honeymoon
• Flown over an active volcano in a helicopter
• Been to my brother’s wedding in a barn
• Been to my friend’s wedding in a hotel
• Graduated from a second BSc (in silly robes)
• Submitted a Chrome Experiment (fireworks)
• Rebuilt the company’s website
• Left my job for bigger and better things
• Painted the bathroom (no more green!)
• Been assaulted and robbed
• Given my auntie a cool new website and POS system
• Gone to Wales, Hawaii, Holland, Minsk and Brussels
• Run a successful hack day
• Sold dog food, credit cards, hair-loss cures, cars, banners, and clever things I can’t talk about.
• Won an award for last year’s work.

Next year I’m planning to:

• Learn Polish (at last!)
• Pass my driving test
• Have a lot more fun coding

Compare to last year’s effort here:
http://kenneth.kufluk.com/blog/2008/12/this-year-i-have/

How was your 2009?  And what do you have planned for 2010?

Leg of Lamb

I was most impressed by the way the Manor staff brought out everyone’s main course at once. I’m not sure what size oven they’ve got, but they managed to produce 65-ish sizable legs of lamb all at the same time.

The food was the main reason we chose this place. We wanted to make sure people were well fed, as it’s so common to find yourself with a cheesey canapé trying to last you for the whole day.

The main wedding meal is called the Wedding Breakfast. This is ridiculous.

After the lamb was done, and after we’d popped out for a quick breather, we went from table to table to have some of those awkward half-chats you have. It’s fun: no-one is allowed to say “what were you thinking, putting me with these nutters?”. But I hope everyone was well placed. There were certainly no obvious fighting.

We’d spent a long time trying to sit people together. You write everyone’s name on a scrap of paper, then place them on a tabletop, and try to group them together. Where you have gaps, you stick babies, and where there are not enough babies, you have space for people to see and the room to breathe. And once you’ve got it all sorted, someone will drop out and you have to start again.

We were happy with the result though, and to my deep satisfaction, we managed to get, mostly through chance than design, a table that went “Jamie, Amy, Jamie, Jennie, Jamie, Nicola and Andrew”. Not sure what the last two were doing there, but I bet they had fun introducing each other.
Andrew was lucky. For three weeks beforehand he’d been sitting with our auntie as punishment for not bringing a girlfriend, and escaped in the final rearrangement. (Rhona was lucky too – she escaped sitting next to a computer geek).

Having visited half the tables, dessert suddenly arrived, and needed eating. I remember we were given a choice of champagne syllabub, lemon cheesecake or chocolate cake. The chocolate was going to be avoided as too obvious, but was just too good to lose. Lots of people who would normally make excuses, had that dessert.

Cutting the cake

Once all traces of the dessert were gone, Keith came over with the microphone, ready to ask everyone to come into the main room to watch us cut the cake. Naturally, I took this task on myself. My wedding, my microphone, remember.

It was much harder calling people to order than I expected. I think I actually said, “oi. shut up at the back!”. I’ll never be a schoolteacher.

Our photographer, keen as ever to stay out of our way, got his photo taken before everyone else came out. CLICK. One snap. Done.

We were at a bit of a loss. At Bernard’s wedding the photographer had been there for hours with the cake shot. I expected more somehow.

So we posed with the cake. Do we cut the top or the bottom? (Hint for those about to do this: This would be a good thing to work out beforehand). We cut, we did it. People took photos. We stood nervously – not sure what to do next.

I went to ask the photographer if he needed anything else. nono, he says.

So, the moment that everyone had been waiting for. As they took the cake away to be cut, we prepared for the Polonaise.

The Polonaise

The Polonaise is probably the easiest dance in the world. It goes like this. As though walking: Step. Step. Long step. Repeat.

It is a dance that has a specific rhythm, and is well-known. It was danced by royalty in the middle ages in Poland, and across the continent.
It is a group dance. You dance in pairs.

We had planned to practise the Polonaise the evening before. Agnieszka had explained the principles to me, but I’d never done it as a group before, and yet it was my job to lead the dance. This was a little worrying.

Getting married is full of moments like this. You just get through them one at a time. The suit. The vows. The photos. The speech. The cake. The dance. And so on. As you do each one, a little load comes off, and you start to worry about the next one.

I took the microphone and attempted to explain the dance. Agnieszka and Shiff were going through the motions as I explained. Agnieszka demonstrated the wonderful decorations that one could do to embellish the dance. Everyone smiled. I wanted another couple to walk behind them to demonstrate better. So I asked if someone could line up behind them. The entire room did so.

It was amazing. Instead of four people, we had crocodile rows going to the back of the room, curving round, and coming halfway back up the room. My first thought was to say “nonono, let’s just start with 6″. But then I decided to just let it play out. I’m glad I did.

I took my place at the front with my new wife, and we started. The band had learnt the tune and were ready. We began, and led off. As we get to the front of the room, we turn off and head towards the back. When we got to the back of the room, we made an arch, and the next couple went under. They then made an arch, and the next couple went through both. Soon we had a room full of arches, so we led off again, going through the arches, and around the room.

It got brilliantly chaotic. As there were more people than there was length of the room, then people were turning off here and there, creating arches, then setting off again. We went around and around, laughing all the way, and no-one knew what was going on. Eventually, we gave the nod to Pete, who wrapped up the music (which I think was ending anyway), and everyone finished and applauded.

First Dance

As the room cleared away, I took the microphone again, and thanked everyone for their efforts: “I think that was exactly how it was done by royalty in the middle ages”. The microphone went back to the singer, and we were ready for the First Dance.

Ok, so you’re thinking that this isn’t the first dance, it’s the second dance. This is really not the point, and you’ll never be good marriage material. This is the First Dance of the married couple. Together and alone.

And it is also what is, to many the scariest moment, because you have to dance in front of all your mates. To this end, couples often have a dance routine organised, but we were agreed that this is dafter than calling your dinner “breakfast”.

You know what? It was easy. The band were awesome, the floor was smooth (my new shoes slid nicely), and there’s nothing quite like dancing with the most beautiful woman in the world in front of everyone you know.

So much so that we just carried right on into the second song.

We’d practised dancing before, with a few tango lessons (which are great). But I’d never danced with anyone in a wedding dress before. You have to go backwards all the time, instead of forwards, because when you do that you just tread on her dress. It’s a different ball game (an analogy probably very rarely used by dancers).

The Band

The band carried on playing as we retired from the floor, and others took our place. They played a mixture of jazz tunes, and were really amazing. If anyone is ever getting married, they need to speak to my cousin Pete. He was the most reassured and confident person I spoke to before the wedding. We sent him new songs to learn, which he did perfectly. He got us a band together exactly to our specifications, and it sounded great. Even just standing outside (the rain had cleared), and listening to it echo around, was like a dream. It was exactly right.

There were now people everywhere. The smokers and chatters were outside, the dancers were in the main room, the eaters were clearing away the cake and extra nibbles in the oak room. The sitters and gossips were in the blue room on sofas.

We had a free bar, but our wedding was never about drinking alcohol. The tab wasn’t close to finished by the end of the night. Howard came and asked me if we wanted to include spirits on the tab, and I decided against – no depressing rounds of sambuca or vodka for us.

We’ve been to weddings where the noise from the DJ is impenetrable. You have to drink 12 pints before you can move across the room without vibrating to the noise. We were keen for this not to happen.

At nine, the band finished, and we set up for the disco. I detest professional DJs with a passion, so we’d rented some kit from the unlikeliest of streets in the heart of Walthamstow village. We had disco lights and big speakers, with a decent amp. It was great stuff, running off Agnieszka’s Mac. And she chose the songs well, keeping everyone happy for hours.
(The bloke in the shop couldn’t really believe I didn’t want a CD player, but seriously who buys CDs these days? I won’t have them in the house.)

As Agnieszka performed for the dance floor, I went through to the Blue Room to chat and eat cake. It was a long day, and I don’t have the strongest of legs. It was good to chat to people.

To the games room

At midnight (or shortly thereafter), the manor closed down. We had to move on, though most people went to bed. The last of us (Bernard & Louise, Howard, Kevin and Beata, Agnieszka2 & her husband, and Alice) went on to the Games Room, playing snooker, pool and air hockey for another hour or two, sipping beer from tins. It was a nice way to wind down at the end of the day.

To sleep

And indeed on to the honeymoon, and the rest of our lives. Maybe I’ll write up the honeymoon in Hawaii. What do you think?

We’d like to thank everyone involved in making our wedding fantastic. Everyone who came, everyone who helped out, everyone who danced, everyone who sang (I’ve forgotten about singing Sto Lat at dinner!), everyone who was there for us. To the driver, the waiters, the chef and the cooks, to the bar staff, the security staff, and that funny woman on reception. To the Best Men and Maid of Honour. To my mum who made the wedding cake, to Agnieszka’s mum who helped her get ready. To both our families for supporting us all the way. We thank you.

I have been planning to write another post, about what it’s like on a day-to-day basis without any episodes, but 2 weeks ago or so, I felt tired again.
It’s got worse, and I’m now off work (something I really try hard to avoid). I’d write something about how it feels, but I’m knackered, my hands are shaking, I can’t concentrate.
Going to see the doctor at 8.45am tomorrow.
Currently drifting about the house, wanting to do useful things, but completely incapable. Arg.

I’ll try and mentally write a good post about it ready for when I can type it up.

Our photographer had set off at the same time, but we decided not to hold up and wait for him to be there first – it was our day, and we’d been told to enjoy it – so we just drove. About 10mins before we got there, I gave my best men a call. About two minutes before, I called again, and told him to get people moving outside. It wasn’t actually raining, but it was close. I heard him shouting “they’re really coming this time”.

During this time, everyone had arrived at the Manor. They’d been given a glass of champagne, and were able to see what had been set up. We’d spent a busy weekend at work two weeks beforehand printing some big posters. One was the order of the day, what happened when; another was the seating plan. Later, on the way in to dinner, not a single person checked which table they were at. Our tables were named after famous Poles with complicated names, and the plan had a short description of each person. We also had a poster describing the Polonaise, our first dance, which everyone would be invited to join.

We turned into the main gate at Bradenham to arrive up the main drive. Everyone was standing on the steps waiting for us. We stopped at the top, and we got out. It was a great feeling. We then walked, slowly, up the steps as everyone threw confetti. It was like a snowstorm! We’d bought so much in preparation, and it all managed to get thrown. We turned and smiled at everyone, then headed inside.

Keith, our wonderfully organised chief of events at Bradenham, handed us a glass each, and welcomed us in. There was no-one inside of course, so we turned back and headed out to meet everyone. We split up, and went to chat for 5 minutes until the photographer arrived.

Once he did, then we had photos to take. We started with the photos with the car. Agnieszka had trouble smiling to order, as nerves had the better of her, so we got some help from Sonia, who quickly reduced Agnieszka to tears of laughter.

Enough of the car then, and we popped a quick canapé in our mouths before going for photos around the grounds while the guests amused themselves. It was tricky to do the photos, as it was a bit cold and a bit wet. Umbrellas came and went all the time. However, you cannot see this in the photos. Even with the umbrellas, it looked like a fine day.

We headed back up for the group photos. And now a short word of advice for attendees. If it is raining, and the bride is standing out in the cold, do not dally. Do not presume that you are unimportant, not necessary. If the groom is shouting at his Best Men to get back inside to get your arse outside, then do not finish your drink. The time for action is now. Get outside. Get in the frame.

Photos taken (again they look great), we could finally relax for a bit. Well, for about five minutes of course, because it was nearly time for dinner.

The Bread and the Salt

It was important to both of us to have some Polish elements throughout the day. While I’m only a quarter Polish, giving me little but a couple of funny names, this heritage is important to me, and I’m sure helped me find my wife.

The ceremony of the bread and salt is an old tradition that Agnieszka found. Upon entering dinner, we are to be met by our parents, who offer Agnieszka a choice: the bread, the salt, or her husband. She would answer: “the bread and the salt, and my husband to bring them home”. We then eat a little of both, and go in.

Our slight variation had us met by our mothers, who held a beautiful bread commissioned especially for the occasion. They welcomed us, and offered us bread and salt. The bread was good, the salt was very salty.

We then let everyone in to dinner, so that we could come in last. Once everyone was settled, Keith announced us, and we walked in to applause. We toured the top table, and sat down.

The Dinner

Our top table had been arranged differently from usual, at our request. I am not a fan of a quiz-panel top table, having been on one before – it’s unsociable and uncomfortable. Instead, our table was the other way round. We both sat at the head, and left the bottom empty. Our family were on both sides, so we could all talk, and yet also see everyone.

We started with soup. The tomato soup was perfect for a cold day, and Bradenham were wonderful at making sure everyone’s food arrived at the same time. We ate our soup, and sipped our wine. There was a tense moment for us all before the speeches, which we’d planned to have between courses. Eventually the toasting champagne arrived, the soup was removed, and the microphone arrived. I resisted attempts to announce me again – it’s my wedding and I’d rather run the show.

As Agnieszka’s father had died some years before, she’s asked her Uncle and Godfather to take his place and give her away. Unfortunately, he was too ill to attend (and later passed away), so his son, Simon, Agnieszka’s cousin, had been invited to step in. He had done so, very well, but we thought throwing a speech at him too was a bit much, so in the event I was the first to speak.

I stood up.

Hello everyone!

Firstly, I’d like to thank everyone for coming, especially those who live far away, or that we do not see as often as we’d like.
Someone could not be here: Agnieszka’s Godfather and Uncle – Janek. We wish him well.
I’d like to welcome myself, on his behalf, to the family. Many thanks to Simon for stepping up admirably.

We’d like to thank our Parents who have helped us, particularly during the early days when we were both living with them. When I first met Agnieszka, she didn’t want to tell me who her “flatmate” was – it took three months to find out.
Both our parents have helped us get established in our new house, and made sure things got to this conclusion as smoothly as possible. And for that, we’d like to thank them.
So please, BE UPSTANDING, RAISE YOUR GLASS, and REPEAT AFTER ME: “To Piotr, Jinny and Violetta.”

I’d now like to recount one of my favorite stories: how we met.
I was travelling home late one night, boarding the Northern line. I sat down next to this rather attractive someone next to me. I knew I had to find a way to introduce myself – but how to do this on the underground? And I had just three stops to make it happen.
We all know the rules of the underground: face ahead, no eye contact, no talking.
And here I broke the rules. As regular travellers know, the Northern lines stops regularly in between stations to let the aliens board their secret stops.
When this happens, everyone follows the same behaviour: look front, look back. I’ve no idea what we expect to see, but it’s what we do.
I took advantage of this to catch her eye. And it was a beautiful eye. So far, so good.
The next thing we all do is to read our neighbours book. In fact, I’ve often catch myself trying to read the headline opposite, when I’m holding the same paper. Weird.
So I start reading her book. I forget what it was about. Something to do with maidens and dragons…
She caught me, I apologised, and we started chatting.
The rest is history. And of course, our future.
So please, BE UPSTANDING, RAISE YOUR GLASS, and JOIN ME IN A TOAST: “To the Northern Line!”

There are some others here, some of whom will be talking to you shortly. They need little introduction to most of you, but made our lives easier today, and the stag/hen parties memorable. Sonia, our Maid of Honour, or Chief Bridesmaid, and Howard and Bernard, my brothers and also my best men.
So for one more time, JOIN ME IN A TOAST: “To Howard, Bernard and Sonia!”

Finally, I’d like to introduce you to someone who means the world to me: my new wife, Mrs Kufluk.
She is beautiful and blonde, and has taught me loads,
She has changed my life in so many ways, and shown me what it’s all about.
I’m not going to get soppy, I’m just going to say I love you, Misiu.
And I’m really glad I caught that train.
So everyone, please join me in a toast: “To the new Mrs Kufluk!”

and now for a few words from my best men, who’ve promised to do the entire speech in Pirate!

H: Arrr!

H: Good evening ladies and Gentlemen, and thank you Kenneth for that kind introduction, which you may come to regret shortly.

B: Good evening ladies and Gentlemen, I’m Bernard, Kenneth’s older brother, and I’m the senior best man.

H: Senior? Hmmm. Hello everyone, I’m Howard, Kenneth little brother, and I’m the BEST best man. Kenneth couldn’t find a best man, so he settled for two average ones instead. (K: rubbish!) But we’re not here to talk about us!

B: As I think you’ll have worked out by now, Kenneth is the middle brother, and a little research brought to light that this is something he shares with none other than Bill Gates – yes that’s right, and if you’d invested in his companies when he was Kenneth’s age you’d be a millionaire by now…

H: So lets talk about goldfish.

B: When he was very small Kenneth wanted to have a goldfish as a pet. We would go to the pet shop and buy a brand new goldfish, and Kenneth would take it home, very excited, and explain to the goldfish how they were going to be best friends, and all the fun and adventures they were going to have together. And that night the goldfish would swim round and round his bowl, thinking about his new life… The next day we would find the goldfish, lying dead on the floor, having made one last finding nemo-style bid for freedom. So, we would go back the shop next week, and try again.

H: After several years of this, Kenneth decided to keep water-snails instead.

B: I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a water-snail try to escape… (slowly…)

B: At university Kenneth spent some time picking the nicest possible area to live in, and was subsequently burgled four times. His landlord did his best to dissuade the criminals by fitting a burglar alarm to the house, but shortly afterwards they came back and stole that as well.

H: As many of you will know, Kenneth is a keen traveller. He’s been to many of the most exotic places in the world… South America,

B: Japan,

H: Vietnam,

B: Croydon.

H: But as children we travelled by car, the three of us packed into the back of our parents car, for many long journeys across the UK. Laughing, singing, the stuff golden childhood memories are made of…

B: Because of this, Kenneth now has an extreme phobia of travelling by car. He”ll do almost anything to avoid it. When he was on holiday in New Zealand, he decided to ride his bicycle across the bridge between the islands. A nice ride he thought. Trouble is the road-signs are different colours out there. A green background doesn’t mean a nice country road… it means a motorway. There’s Kenneth pedalling flat out with lorries thundering past. After a short time he realised he’d made a mistake. He started to wonder how he was going to get out of it. Then he saw the blue flashing lights of the police.
Rather than helping out, the police give him a through dressing down and forbid him to cycle back the way he came, leaving him stranded on the wrong side of the bridge…

H: After he was released from custody, he decided to go to Vietnam. Vietnam, a beautiful country. As the cycling hadn’t gone too well, he decided to try a nice boat trip. Ahhh, floating along, what could possibly go wrong with that?

< B: ——– Hold up picture of burning boat ———–>.

H: So, barbecue on a boat, not a good idea.

H: Kenneth decided to travel back first class…

< B: ——– show picture of parachuting / skydiving ———>

H: Kenneth has tried many different ways of travelling… canoeing, windsurfing, paragliding… But his favourite form of transport has not been the bicycle, the train, the canoe, the electric skateboard, or any sane form of transport known to man… no, his favourite way to travel has been… the unicycle. While many people would think this bizarre enough, Kenneth is not a man for half measures. No, he decided to play hockey on it as well. Each week Kenneth could be seen, taking his unicycle and hockey stick on the underground to practice. Good thing you didn’t have them that night on the Northern line…

B: Believe it or not Kenneth even represented Great Britain at the World Unicycle hockey championships in Japan … where he came fifth. The most obscure sport in the world, and still we can’t win at it….

H: So Kenneth returned from Japan, a failure. Indeed, Kenneth’s life over the last couple of years has been a catalogue of underachievement. Whilst working a full-time job he has completed an astrophysics degree, got married, bought a house and run the London marathon, yet has not invented anti-gravity boots or a time machine!

B: It’s just not good enough Kenneth. Now comes the part which all grooms fear, where we talk about Kenneth’s old relationships. Kenneth first fell in love when he was just 5 years old. She was attractive,

H: slim,

B: smooth

H: shiny -

B: square

H: but she took ages to load.

B: yes, she was a ZX81. Despite her 16K extra RAM, barely six months into their relationship, Kenneth began flirting with an Amstrad. A CPC6128, with a disc-drive . The poor Sinclair was left all alone, destined to become a door stop.

H: Heartbreaker!

B: The Amstrad CPC relationship lasted much longer, though eventually Kenneth’s head was turned by a younger model, an Amstrad PC1512. And now, after many years of playing the field, bouncing from relationship to relationship, he seems to have at last settled down, with a personal organiser. A word of warning for the bride – keen an eye on those Apple Mac’s.

H: Some messsages: I have a telegram here for Kenneth from the manger of Barclays Bank in Walthamstow, who sends his deepest apologies but he sadly can’t be with you today… but will definitely be seeing you after the honeymoon.

B: Kenneth, today should rightly be the happiest day of your life, and it will continue to be a date that you will both cherish and celebrate as each year passes. And the secret to ensuring that you always remember this date as your special anniversary… is to forget it just once.

H: So, how can we sum Kenneth up?

B: Goldfish killer…

H: International traffic code violator…

B: Astrophysicist…

H: Mono-wheeled lunatic…

B: Computer genius…

H: The best brother anyone could ask for. And Agnieszka, we’d like to say welcome to our family. You look wonderful today. It’s been a pleasure to see the joy you’ve bought Kenneth, although we still don’t know what you see in him.

B: Before we toast the bride and groom, I’d like to thank you for being a wonderful audience – and you can feel proud, because we’ very hard to please.

H: Ladies and gentlemen, please stand and charge your glasses.

B + H: The Happy Couple! (applause, laughter, rejoicing, hey nonny nonny etc)

We’ve got some wonderful photos of speech giving, and people laughing.

My father has always been very keen on very clear toast directions. Too many times have we been to weddings where we don’t know what to say when, and everybody has that awkward, are we standing or not, thing. Apparently this kind of uncomfortableness is a fine English trait, but I happen to agree with my Dad that toasts should be confident. They should be something we’re good at. That’s why my speech had very clear direction in it. And why I was able to completely misdirect everyone with the “northern line” toast, which got a double-take out of the whole room.

My Best Mens’ speech was brilliant. None of us wanted a put-down speech, and we knew the formulaic speeches wouldn’t fit. I think it was genius, and particularly like the computer/girlfriend part. Please feel free to steal for your next event.

After the speeches, we sat down, were congratulated, and the main course arrived. A large leg of lamb. And it was awesome.

To be continued

It took two weeks after our return to London for a brochure to land on our doormat. Agnieszka had been to Bradenham Manor before, and two things quickly became clear: that this would be our perfect reception venue, and secondly, that this would not be the longest engagement.
The most complicated arrangement turned out to be the church.

Though I am not remotely religious, Agnieszka is, and I think churches are perfect for weddings. We saw a few civil ceremonies, and we felt they lacked some clout. Since my folks are bell-ringers, I’d been in and out of churches my whole life and feel at home there.

The Manor had a tiny church on the grounds, but we found (to my utter disbelief), that they would not marry us unless we either lived in the parish (a tiny village), or attended every Sunday for 6 months (which in this day and age of eco-awareness is surprising and somewhat insulting). We turned to the Catholics who are much more sensible: a two-day workshop, and occasional attendance with the brilliant Father Dom in Camden Town.

Agnieszka found us a tiny but lovely old Catholic church in Marlow – not far from the Manor. And after many months of arrangements, we were set.

The Night Before

The night before the wedding, we spent at the manor. We had dinner with our nearest family: my parents and brothers (Bernard and Howard: the Best Men), and Agnieszka’s Maid of Honour Sonia, with her cousins and aunt.

Dinner was great – fine wine, good food. Piotr gave a short speech about his late father, a Pole. People sang. Everyone was just in the right mood. We rushed about afterwards, trying to organize the arrangements.

We had a moment of stress when it came to placecards. We’d spent a full weekend at my office printing and publishing all the various items. I’d had a battle with the placecards when I discovered that the Word layout that Confetti provide is incompatible with a mail-merge from Excel. I finally got it sorted with a new template, but unbeknownst to me, it had missed every 5th name out. This did not help with stress levels that night.

One of the hardest things to organize turns out to be table arrangements. If just a few people change their mind in the week before, then all your elaborate printing goes to pot. We had half a dozen dropouts in the last week – with four quitting just the day before. Eventually you have to just make do – and honestly, I think every table worked out well.

So we get it sorted. And head off to bed. Agnieszka and I had found that there are about two kajillion traditions of a wedding to which you “must” stick. We decided to pick and choose, and spent the night together.

At around 3.30am I heard someone running around on the gravel outside the room, and generally scratching around our door. I called down to security, who promised me they’d keep an eye on the cameras. Fortunately, there was no-one there. Either it was a midnight smoker caught outdoors, or a deer.

The Day of the Wedding

Wedding morning started with breakfast.
Well, no, that’s not entirely true: it started with rain.
June of 2009 was a beautiful month. Except that day. We’d ordered a dozen umbrellas, and feared we wouldn’t use them. Now we feared there were not enough.

I’m a lover of sunshine. Even my website is all about the sun. That day though, I discovered that some things were more important, and I don’t really mind nor remember that the weather was grey.

Breakfast was a large fry-up, the full works including black pudding. For the bride anyway. Everyone else got continental breakfast. I found I had little appetite.

Agnieszka headed off upstairs to get ready – the last I would see her until the church. Meanwhile I ran about downstairs, making sure everything was ready for our return.

The time came for me to go and put on my suit.
At this point, I got a bit stuck – all the umbrellas had disappeared! We were stuck in the manor while my brother had efficiently packed them all away in his car! I had to run around in the rain trying to track him down…

I could then get to my room. Shower, curse, shave, then carry on showering. The suit went on. The cravat was done. And again. And again. And was right.

I was ready.

I got in the car and headed off to Marlow, arriving at about 1pm, giving us half an hour before meeting people. So we managed to get into town, and were the best dressed group at Fego that day. I had a chicken sandwich, but did not eat much.
I took the bottle of water with me back to the church, and we got ready. Signs went up, the “order of service”s were unpacked. People began to arrive. The priest came out to check pronunciation.

The photographer arrived, and started taking photos of myself and my Best Men (after a certain amount of time spend trying to attach buttonhole flowers – thanks Louise).

I was feeling pretty happy with things. As the time got closer to 2pm, I began to get worried. I wanted to know that Agnieszka was on her way; that all was well.

My mum has always said that “bad news travels faster than good”. It’s a good motto.

I got Howard to call Sonia to find out what was happening: no response. Her phone was switched off. This did not help my nerves.
The minute hand turned, and 2pm arrived. I stood at the front of the church. I caught sight of Agnieszka’s driver, and felt much better. All was well. I got myself in position with my Best Men as the last of the guests took their places. All was ready.

Suddenly it occured to me that Agnieszka’s cousins were missing. This would be particularly bad since they were giving readings, and Simon was actually standing in for Agnieszka’s Godfather to give her away! They should have been here 1/2 hour beforehand to help! I sent Howard to find out where they were.

As he set off, they arrived at the back of church. Phew.
I relaxed as they settled. The doors at the back of the church opened, and the wedding began.

The Marriage

My mum told me afterwards that she could see in my face the moment when I saw Agnieszka. I bet she could.

After all those worries, setting my eyes on Agnieszka looking absolutely incredible in the sunshine was a moment I’ll always remember. I grinned.

It is a strange moment, seeing someone you love, and not being able to go and meet them. We’d talked beforehand about walking slowly up the aisle, but now I wished we hadn’t. What would be so wrong with a quick sprint? Maybe this is why wedding dresses are not made for running.

She arrived at the front of the church, and we took our places. At times we stood, at times we sat. We nervously held hands.

Despite the most careful of preparations, we made a slight error in one of the songs, such that the choir sang a different version to the rest of our guests. So be it.

Agnieszka’s cousin Beata read a Polish poem beautifully. I thought I’d done a good job on the English translation (tweaking it from the original translation), but no-one cared. I think we all listened to the Polish, and read along with it.

When the exchanging of vows came, we remembered our rehersal. We spoke clearly. We looked into each others’ eyes. The moment was marked by typical Kennethism.

Standing in front of everyone you care about, in the most important ceremony of your life, trying to listen, remember and repeat, this is not easy. As the priest went through the lines, he sped up, getting quicker with each line: “to have and to hold” (to have and to hold), “for-richer,-for-poorer” (for-richer-for-poorer), “insicknessandinhealth” (insicknessandinhealth), “frmthsdyfrwrd” – and I couldn’t take it any more. I had it building up in me, and knew I either had to laugh or cry. I laughed.

Yes, I laughed. During my wedding vows. Typical Kenneth.

Signing the Register

We went backstage to sign the register. Agnieszka jumps for joy: “yes, yes, yes”!

It was great. We all signed carefully, had our picture taken, and lined up to walk back out of the church.

As we passed our guests, they appauded and cheered. As we stepped out into the sunshine, to the sound of cheering behind and bells ringing in front, I kissed my new wife.

My mum had arranged for a team to ring bells at the larger church in Marlow at just the right moment. We could hear them, but they weren’t imposing. It was great.

We stopped for a couple of photos, then got into the Bentley and waved goodbye.

As the guests rushed off to the reception, we turned back and had a few private shots back at the church, and down by the river. It was rainy, and we had to keep holding, then hiding, the umbrella.

We didn’t care. We were married.

To be continued…

It’s ironic in some ways that I’ve got this thing, mostly because I’ve never really believed in it.

Tom was just another kid at school. Smarter than most, and not particularly athletic, but more than happy to dig in to the sports he enjoyed. One year, he got hepatitis. He took an age off school, though not as much as he should’ve, because I remember seeing him quite ill for a long time. After recovering, he disappeared again. It turned out he now had ME.

To us, it seemed like a great wheeze. The chance to pick and choose what to do, and for how long! I remember that after a while, he came to play badminton, and played like a demon, until after 30-40 minutes, he said he was “too tired”. I couldn’t see it myself. He looked fine.

So really, it was clear to me that this was just a matter of the kind of tiredness we all experience when returning to work from holiday, or on a Monday morning after a sleepy weekend. I know what that is – it’s not a disease, it doesn’t need a name; you’re just tired and you need to get on with it.

Or maybe it was the kind of tired you get sometimes. You know, in those dark depressing months, when it’s hard to get out of bed, or see the need. We all have those times.

But I now understand much better. It is not that.

In January 2007, I got Glandular Fever (I think yanks call this ‘mono’? or ‘epstein barr’ if they’re being clever). This is usually something teenagers get, and is not pleasant at all. Your throat is on fire, for about two weeks. The doctor recommends taking the maximum doses of both paracetamol and ibuprofen, yet it’s still not really enough. I remember my mum told me afterwards that she could smell the rotting flesh in half the house. Like chicken pox, this is something you want to get out of the way young. Ninety percent of the population carries it, most catching it as a teenager, and some show no symptoms. I was twenty-nine.

Upon recovery, which was a great relief, I felt much better. The following month, I spent two weeks in New Zealand, and I remember running along the top of the beach nearly every day. I came home, and carried on with runs.

I have always liked running, mostly sprinting from place to place, but while travelling in Australia in 2004, I tried my first real jog. At a slow pace, on a warm beach, I found I could run a mile, and planned to keep it up. It’s harder in England because of the weather, but sometimes even that can be a bonus. Halfway through a day of code, it’s wonderful to throw your body into a chilly hill run, with the sun breaking out as you cross the park.

In 2006, I’d signed up for the 2007 London Marathon, and had won a place in the ballot. This was great, as it’s something like a 1 in 5 chance each time. After getting Glandular Fever, I deferred. It was only a month out, but quite a crucial month. You can only defer once for illness, but I knew I’d be fighting fit next year.

I can’t remember whether it was June or July that I felt my throat swelling again. I had some swollen glands, felt a bit crappy, and had some ulcers in my mouth. I went to the doctor, who diagnosed Glandular Fever, something you don’t get twice. I have realized that my doctors are utterly useless.

I also found through the summer that I was having problems, mostly with my legs. I attributed this to running. Maybe I’d overstretched myself, maybe I’d been running on a bit of a hangover, something like that.

It got quite bad. I remember waking up at nights with my legs hurting, and needing to stand up and shake them off. They felt cramped, like your muscles get before pins and needles kick in.

It then got worse. I stopped the running, or at least reduced the runs (bear in mind that I’m no great runner anyway – I’m a 3 to 4 miler, not Paula Radcliffe). But my legs would tire after a day’s walking and shopping. I’d come home, utterly knackered, and beginning to get irritable, and just fall face-down onto the bed and just lie there.

You don’t sleep. You just lie there, resting. Your muscles burn, and you can bearly lift your arms.

One weekend I remember. It was Saturday morning, and we walked from my girlfriend’s flat in Camden to get coffee in Camden. That was it – I was done. We spent the rest of the day just lying in bed. I was too tired to even watch TV.

The irritation is bad as well. As you walk, your legs tire, but nobody can see it. My mind is crying out “WHY can you not SEE my legs are not WORKING!”. You have to think about. Every. Single. Step. The destination.

On my way home from work, I’ve just had to stop. My legs wouldn’t carry me any further and I just gradually come to a halt. I’ll sit on the kerb or a ledge, but even bending down is painful. And you wonder. “How will I get home?” “Who can I call?”. What do you do if you’re three street from home, and for whatever reason you just can’t keep going?

So you get up and carry on. Mind over matter.

So we turn, as is natural now, to the god of all things knowing, to the Internet. There are lots of varying reports of ME and Glandular Fever. There are believers and non-believers. I read a scary report saying that Glandular Fever was a mild illness, which is completely over in three weeks, and school children should be able to return to all functions straight after. My theory is that this was written by a gym teacher.

There are mentions of connections. It seems to be well known that one disease can lead to the other. This is not universally agreed. There is no treatment. One common piece of advice is to program the speed dial on your phone so you don’t need to type in the whole number. Ye gods, this is the best you can offer???

So here I am, stuck with something that cannot be properly diagnosed, cannot be treated at all, and something which a large number of people don’t really believe in.

It’s been two years now.

It is something that comes and goes, and when it’s gone it’s great. Sometimes I even believe I could be free. It returns. It becomes something you think about every single day.

The most noticable areas are walking and standing. I can’t handle it any more. I won’t walk in the park with my girlfriend, or shop for more than an hour. I can’t stand in line. I can’t stand around with a beer after work, because my legs quickly feel worse and worse. You’ll see me shifting my weight around nervously, and the next day I’ll be shattered.

When a really bad flare-up occurs, there are always mouth ulcers, which seem to have a connection to the glands under my jaw, which swell up too. I can feel that. The ulcers and glands aren’t a problem, or particularly horrific, but I do notice that they accompany a week or two of exhaustion.

There have been occasions when I beat this thing. I know I can’t stand still for long, but jogging on a “good” day is fine. So I ran the marathon last year. I didn’t get many practise runs in, but I’d done a few. We had a plan – while everyone else is standing around and warming up, I would turn up at the last minute and sit down until the off. I finished in five hours: a good time for a first time. A bloody brilliant time for someone with ME.

There are social awkwardnesses. The underground is a tricky one. I need a seat. I really do. But without a noticeable pregnancy, a colostomy bag or a stick, you feel somewhat silly asking for a seat, or jumping in without waiting in turn. Equally, I sometimes take the lift at work. Yes, for one floor.

I walk through the office as if the weight of the world is on my shoulders. Guys, it is.

“How was your weekend?”. Well, I probably did one thing and then struggled through the rest in pain. I don’t feel great about it. I’m sorry I couldn’t go to your drinks/party/event. Truth is, I couldn’t move.

But I’m a fighter. I’ve never taken a day off for it. Last year, I bought a house, finished a marathon and a degree. This year, I’ll get married.

So this isn’t a bid for sympathy. Like I say, it’s just a record. Kenneth of the future, take note.

—

Some quick notes:

It’s worth noting that I’m no athelete, and I’ve never been an early riser. I probably drink too much, and I whinge about colds and hayfever. I have weird wisdom teeth which can trigger ulcers on their own. I’m not a good patient. I am aware of all these things.

I’d say thanks to Agnieszka for helping me through everything, except that she’s, er, right here, so I can do that anyway and don’t really need to write it down. Love you. xxx

I don’t really understand the category of ME. I know it make sense to empirically group diseases by symptom, but surely one might get closer to a cure by actually examining a specific causal relation? If Glandular Fever causes ME, then let’s have a look at the action of the virus in their glands and muscles during flare-ups? That’s what House would do. It’s not in the mind, my legs are physically burning like I’ve been swimming for ten miles. Surely that’s observable?
Grouping people as “ME” is a bit like medically grouping everyone over 60 as “old”.

http://kenneth.kufluk.com/wedding/

The website has all the details of our plans for the day, so if you’ve just got an invitation but aren’t sure what to do, have a look at the website, then send your RSVP in. We’ll need to know your numbers (number of adults, number of children with ages), and of course your eating needs (veggie/vegan/carnivore).

If you haven’t got an invitation, but were expecting one, just wait for the postman.

For those that think I’m a design genius – sorry it ain’t so. I’ve taken a templatemonster site, and adapted it.

Last year, I did the family thing, and Agnieszka went to do her family thing over in Melton Mowbray.

This year, we did the Polish thing together on Christmas Eve, then had Christmas with my family in Camden Town on the day.  Boxing Day we’ve just spent at home.

The Polish thing involved all sorts:  breaking bread and making wishes; herring then caviar with blinis then beetroot soup with pasta parcels then The Carp of course then poppy-seed cake; zubrowka; opening presents early (with a 7-year-old’s glee).  All in all, Agnieszka made us an amazing Christmas Eve.  All I did was build the fire.  I gave Agnieszka a wake-up light alarm clock radio and some creams, and she got me some proper wooden penguin skittles and a sheep.  No, seriously a sheep to put on my side of the bed  Mehhh.

The family Christmas thing was “as usual”, though the food was far above average!  Grandparents, NDJJChCh (PP in Sweden), JPBLH and us.  Not a bad turnout!  We had quite a haul of presents between the two of us!  Food was great: turkey, two stuffings, sausage, gammon, roast and mash potatoes, various veg.  And all from a single Aga with two fixed-temp ovens.  Great stuff.

On to New Year’s, where I think a quiet one is in order.  No transport needed…

Happy Christmas everyone.

• Got Engaged
• Run a Marathon, half marathon and a 10k
• Finished my second Bachelors Degree
• Bought a House
• Turned 30
• Recovered (mostly) from ME
• Released 5 Websites for my job
• Been to 3 Weddings, and 1 Diamond Wedding Anniversary
• Been to Poland, Holland, Denmark, France, and Mexico
• Made myself a new blog
• Promised to update my auntie’s website 400 times, but haven’t done it yet