A Polish wedding party

A bit of excitement in the Grumpy neighbourhood this morning. A stretch limo drew up outside our front door, and it transpired that the Polish plumber and his other half who live somewhere on top of us were taking the plunge. She emerged cutting a striking figure in a dress of some daring, he dapper as could be in a suit apparently cut from the same fabric. This, I must admit, is something I would have consented to even less readily than the stretch limo, but each to their own on their big day. Are Poles particularly drawn to Vegas glitz as a reaction against the hair-shirted communist years?

After photos had been taken they piled in together with the supporting cast, and off they went. I hope they were able to plight their troths amid the splendours of OLEM, and not in the dismal new church down the road (I'm not willing to entertain the possibility that they opted for the registry office).

As we've never exchanged more than the occasional Hello it was all a complete surprise. We seemed to be the only neighbours who were registering it at all. We've left a card on the stairs and perhaps it will break the ice. All the best to them in any case.

Here on the edge of Curmudge all the world is at home. French, Germans, Poles, Hungarians, Africans, Bangladeshis, Chinese, you name it. We come and go on our bikes and in our little silver cars (except for the plumber who has something red and sporty-looking) and we each mind our own business. I've seen the future and it sort of works, but a community it isn't. Pity, really.