Putting my stylishly brogued boot to my tender Scots behind, I am blogging just a wee bittie this morning to keep my sporadic dairy from becoming utterly moribund.  Being about the happy business of transforming a gladmaking engagement into someting altogether more glorious is, as it turns out, is rather distracting, innit.  Those wishing for the journalistic delights of hearing this story told in style know where they can go…

Yesterday, the Ring-bearer and I added to our golden brood by purchasing wedding bands—one each seemed sufficient, although we read in the Seraphaville Times that a seasonal five of the blighters would this year retail at the incredibly low price of $475 Canadian.  This was hogwash, alas.  Still, fine gold rings were to be had at a still very reasonable and more reassuring price in the old-fashioned jewellers we patronised.  The proprietor has an old-world way with the flannel too.  When trying on the chaps’ bands, I joked that Mrs B.A.-to-be liked the broadest ones best since they would most clearly announce to all the women in a five block radius my married status.  “Ah,” he replied with a charming grin, “Quite right—I don’t blame her…”  Reader, he got our custom.

Yesterday was also completely priest-ridden.  More priests than I could have shaken a stick at—which is just as well since I’m sure Canon Law is pretty down on threatening clerics.  And besides, none of them really deserved a beating.  Priest shortage?   What priest shortage?  And now we are off to sample the Gallic delights of Montreal, where more of the DC’s fine family is to be found.  To that end, I finish this post with an ‘eartfelt au revoir!

Encore plus tarde. [Er, I promised the DC I’d try to get all my cod French out of my system before setting foot where it may be found offensively lame…]