Thinking about the totally pimp ceremony I wrote about in the last post, it occurs to me now that such extravagant fripperies may detract, rather than add to, the simple wonderment of the occasion.
Instead we really should go with the original plan: some heartfelt personal vows while girt by loved ones.
And no, this decision is not only due to our reluctant decision to shift our ceremony one suburb over. Sure, it will be hard to pull off a lot of the last post's majesty now that we will be hosting the ceremony outside in the splendour of nature but, in honest seriousness, I think we are both better served by simplicity and authenticity, regardless of where we commit.
Also, so why have we bitten the bitter eggplant and relocated our nuptials?
Although the temporary fencing has been removed from Kidogo and we can now access the building, it still remains adjacent to the ruins of its previous surrounding topography. On the northern side, there remains a triad of bright blue portaloos, which should be downwind. We tried to overlook this through sheer bloody-mindedness. The building is still wonderful once you get inside.
Unfortunately, the sound of stuff-hammering, angle-grinding, sand-vacuuming, cat-calling, nose-honking and ill-informed politicking follows you in. It ruins the atmosphere a little.
Even if one could block out the sound (one can't), it requires a leap of faith concerning access to the building. The City of Fremantle has advised that "there could possibly be a problem with access" as "Western Power will be digging in the access way at some stage", though they don't know when this would happen.
Weighing up the risk that we may face litigation as our guests injure themselves either long-jumping or tightrope-walking to our ceremony, Vicky and I have decided to take our business elsewhere.
Personally, I think that once they dig the trench, they ought to fill it with fire and hoist up a Sad Roger pirate flag as a warning to others that the Kidogo Arthouse is now a no-go zone of death. What was once an inspiring sanctuary for the creative arts is now a place where hopes and dreams atrophy, are garrotted, stuffed into undersized potato sacks, bashed with lead pipes and buried, only half-dead, in shallow graves underneath those trees that drop loads of sticky berries.
I have tried to change the entry on google maps to a description like the one above but my hacking skills are not as good as they used to be, back when everything was straight HTML.
The Azelia Ley Homestead, in the City of Cockburn, is now the proud host of our wedding ceremony. Azelia Ley, who was a Manning, built the house with her own husband from 1915 to 1923. Then, while a kooky old bat, well read and dressed all in black, she used to stand on its verandah and take pot-shots at anybody she thought was trespassing. You can see why it appeals.
I bet the place is haunted by her now. I'll be scrutinising our photos carefully afterward to see if she's in any.
I've attached below a picture a kid drew of the homestead. I bet Kidogo never inspired a child to draw it.
We won't be inside the building. That's now a boring museum. We will be married in the glorious, great outdoors in a true-blue Australian setting.
It better not fucking rain.
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