Exhaustion Max

Just The Standard Amount of Insanity

Usually I am busy. It used to be socially. It used to be the standard MO to finish work at 5pm, have coffee with one friend, and dinner and a film with another. Saturdays were split into sessions of three different meals and a drinking session, with four different groups of friends.

These days, it is not friends that are vacuuming all my time, but its All About School.

As we know, I was 16 hours of hard labour on Sat night. And that is enough to make you feel like you've devoted all the precious hours of the weekend to the Factory with nowt to show for it. (In fact, I think it works out to be about $18 an hour before tax, which is not NEARLY enough to be putting up with that kind of shit)

Monday was the union meeting that I am still not quite sure why I am in, other than it scoots me out of the house for a while.

Sure, I have put my hand up for a few extra shifts at The Boy Factory. I didn't NEED to do the 6-10pm shift last night, but I did. The thought occurred to me late in the afternoon that had The Other Deputy asked me to do the gig after the events of Sat night I would have emphatically declined. But I powered on through and did the shift. And if was fine! The kids (possibly still a little scared of me from Saturday night) were pretty much angels.

And the tutoring of The Private School Girl isn't really a factor in the scheduling of things at The Boy Factory, but that's what I did between knock off and clock on yesterday. She got 92% in her assessment. I am money well spent!

Tonight, I have only the social to contend with (along with the usual amount of planning and marking bullshit). Yet still one of my Year 10 creatures asked me to come down and help them with their assessments. I laughed a little too loudly. And politely declined.

And Thursday will bring with it Soccer Training with my under 13 wunderkinds. It is still too hot for soccer training. I am handing it over to my CoCoach this week. I'm too tired to keep being the brains of the operation.

Hopefully before I jump in the car for Wedding #3 of 2009, I might get a chance for a power kip!

But, WHY???

A kid asked me yesterday why I wanted to be a teacher. This question was posed at a sunny time in the middle of my 16 hour shift at the Boy Factory. On a Saturday.

At the time, things were going quite well, and while I was tired, and while I was full to the eyeballs with caffiene, and while I was riding a sugar high so big I wanted to should 'Yabbadabbadooo!', things were all going quite swimmingly. But I knew that it was but the calm before the storm and other such cliches.

This kid was on detention, trying to make up for being suspended for whipping another kid with his phone charger. Three times. Having said that, he is a lovely kid, albiet one who does stupid stuff. Anyway, in response to his question, I gave some glib answer about trying NOT to be a teacher, but then getting into it and loving it. Which is, while correct, not really a hundred percent true.

I got into teaching because aside from stage managing a circus, there is nothing that I would rather be doing. Sure, the reasons I turned to teaching was because my soul was leaking out of me while I worked in advertising. Because the "glamour" of working on film sets gave me dandruff and made me take up smoking for 4 weeks. Because the theatre scene in Sydney, while creative and interesting and passionate, is small and cliquey and pays a pittance that cannot even dent an electricity bill, let alone smash hole into a Sydney weekly rent. I turned to teaching, not because that is what both parents do (yes, it's in the blood), not because it is The Done Thing at the end of a BA, not because of the pay (HA!) or the holidays (though they are fantastic) or the "power" (as would be the motivation for one of my "students" should he choose teaching as a career... Again I say HA!).

I really love the connection with the kids. I love the moment they get something they didn't understand before. I love the looks on their faces when we go on an excursion to see Danny Bhoy (flimsiest link to the curriculum, but it was fantastic!). I love when they admit to me that they like English, or they finished the book, or they tell each other to shut up because they want to get on with the lesson. I really love teaching the HSC class, because it is a challenge for all of us. It is difficult and in-depth and requiring a bit of brain power.

I do not, however, like taking 70 teenage boys to a Country Show. And I don't mean a performance, with curtains and characters and acting. I mean like the West Bubblefuck version of The Royal Easter Show. Without the things that I like about the RES (the giant testicles on the bull, and the woodchopping). Including all the things I DON'T like about the RES (really awful and inexplicable aromas, bogans swearing at their kids). And the inmates of the Boy Factory don't get out much, so they jump at any chance to exit the red brick gates.

So they get on the bus. Some of them don't fit the dress code, and some of those escape my notice til we're there. Some of them have failed to take out their hideous earrings, so I put those in my handbag. Most of them are just excited to leave The Factory, and all the older ones are calling for us to stay longer than the 9pm bus back to school.

9pm comes. About half the kids are there on time. And as the rest arrive, the ones who got there first drift off to eat/drink/watch kids from other schools have fights/mainline fairfloss and red drink before bedtime. We mark them off and finally get them onto the buses, and there is someone missing. There are phonecalls, and running between buses, and much confusion. There are chants with obsceneties, wolfwhistles and mob mentalities. We finally get the large coach heading to home, and the poor sod working the shift with me turns to me and utters those famous last words...

"Well, that was about as bad as I expected. But I don't think we did too badly"

Within 5 minutes, the Year 12 Boys start a rousing chorus of "I wish all the ladies...". The lewdest, crudest, most degrading rugby song I have ever heard. I am not one to shun a double entendre. In fact, I just might be The Double Entendre's Biggest Fan. I don't even gravely object to most sexist jokes, so long as they are funny. I have no issue with crass language (as it quite evident if you chat to me outside the hours of 9-3. Or even in fact read this blog), but I do know that Context Is All when it comes to language. Rugby songs, though they are generally 'Yay Man, Boo Girl' don't all piss me off. Especially when they can be turned around to ridicule the fellas ("I Used To Work In Chicago" being a great example of this). But this song has ALWAYS irked me, even if I am in a pub with a mix of genders. It is gross objectification, hinting at rape, at the conquestification of sex, at the powerlessness of women. And this time, the only "Ladies" were me and the bus driver.

We stopped them before a second verse. We banned them from all rec activities. I dobbed on them to the deputy who had them on a Sunday Morning detention today.

And right now, I don't want to go out of my way for any of them. I don't want to give up my planning periods to walk them through their assessment tasks. I don't want to take them to the excursion to The Big Smoke. I don't want to really speak to them ever again. But I don't really think any of that is feasible.

But it has made me think about the question of Why I Want To Teach. Because of they are going to be such fucktards, why should I bother with them?

BoDra... On A Friday???

Subtitle: It's met its match


Yes, yes, I know the Bonnet Drama's place is reserved for Sunday night, but they are bringing back Inspector Frenchface in my chosen ABC timeslot. This would be my unimpressed face.

And seeing as I am working down at the Boy Factory tomorrow, I felt the need to do something to fill some beautiful and rare hours of solitude. So I hired The Duchess.

I have never been the biggest fan of Keira Knightly. She is a bit too pouty and shouty for my liking. Her posh accent and complete absence of boobs does not endear her in the slightest. Give me a Portman or a Johannsen any day of the week.

And then there is her jaw. In a previous place of employment, I was arguing about the extreme size of KK's jaw, and as proof turned to Google (how did arguements get solved before???) to find that someone had written a BLOG by KK's jaw. The link of http://keiraknightleysjaw.com/ still exists, but it no longer contains the musings and diary entries of the lower part of KK's face.


Seriously, it is huge.

A discussion of her jaw, its size and angle QUITE SERIOUSLY also appears on a site that describes itself as "A site for square jaw women admirers, at last !!" (seriously, who lets these people on the internet?? ). So the accusations squared at me (pun entirely intended) about my unfeasible obsession with the Pirate's Girlfriend's jaw are supported by other internet based lunatics. Which, come to think of it, seems to be a less-than-solid defence for my own sanity, but let us move on.

The Duchess was as expected, a bodicy tale of a young woman born out of time. A woman of as great an influence as could be in those days. And quite the 17th century fashionista. With the tiny waist, the bustle and the 2 foot wig with another 4 foot of feather on top... Wayne Cooper's bean poles wouldn't have the strength! The spesh features tell me that this particular Duchess of Devonshire (I have felt like eating scones all night!) was quite the tabloid celeb in her time. The story was a mite predictable, what with the arranged marriage, and the manners, and the domineering mother, and the greasy philandering husband.

And of course there is the delicious affair that she has, going against Hubby Ralph and Too-Tighted-Corseted Mother. She not so secretly snogs him in the park, then romps around Bath leaving The Duke with his Mistress back in London.

Her little bit on the side, destined from the opening scene is the very scrummy Dominic Cooper, playing the soon-to-be PM. Not to go all Antonia Quirkey actor man obsessive, but he is more than a little bit yummy. Since History Boys. Mmmh. (He just might have to be my next Video Ezy Stalking Victim. Note To Self)
Hmmm.

But again, I digress!

Throughout the film, I was trying to get emersed and lose myself in the storyline, but all I kept thinking (aside from 'where are this woman's boobs??) was "has her jaw gotten smaller?". Maybe Keira was born out of time too. Maybe she was meant to be living in the 1650s, with the giant wigs and headpieces that balance out her face. Turns out, when KK has on 5 foot of fake hair, her jaw looks like its in proportion!

I volunteer to watch them! Mostly cause they're yummy.

I have not really ever been a graphic novel fan. Until this year, I guess. What with The New English Syllabus being all about the GN.

I have always, however, been a fan of the superhero movie genre. The comic book film. I loved XMen, esp the first 2. I loved Spiderman. I have been totally obsessed with Batman since Mum forced me to stop the VHS tape during Jack Nicholson's The Joker in his first massacre of the film, deeming it "inappropriate"

When I was in the UK, my favouritst film rag, Empire were hyping like a kid on red cordial about The Watchmen. Which as a non-GN I had (to be sheepishly honest) not ever really heard about. But I was intrigued. They were frothing for it in a way that can only be descrived in the film geek way of "epic".


And it was no disappointment.
The film is set in alternate history, in a universe with superheroes, only one of which has superpowers. Obviously these heroes are going to be outsiders, removed from the mainstream (Belonging text, hello!), and the story follows these heroes as they cope with the alienation.

Much like 300, it is really really framey. Very loyal to the framing and composition of the GN. Not that I have read it, but I could tell. The use of the slow mo and the freeze frames really hit it home... the moment when that calf muscle explodes with the bullet was surely a frame from the GN (some of the Boys from the Factory saw it at IMAX, and this is the only shot that I REALLY wanted to see there).

The soundtrack was a fantastic mix of seventies and eighties. 99 Luftballoons was featured - while I was wearing my tshirt of same name! Sad to report that its not on the CD release. The Dylan and Dylan covers reflect the political allegory within the film - poignant in the 80s when the book was written, and still relevant (or more so) today.


All of the characters in the story smack a bit of has-been. They were flawed, with weaknesses, crutches, psycholigical histories and wrinkles. There are crows feet on Silk Spectre, jowls on Nightowl, an amusing paunch on The Comedian. It made the characters even more attractive.
And on that topic, it just might have been one of the funniest sex scenes ever. Though cosindering the unlikely body positions (in order for naughty bits to actually be touching) and the HILARIOUS ending to the scene - even funnier than a Robbie-Williams-Kylie-Minogue-Exploding-Champagne-Cork-End-To-Video-Clip. It was due largely to Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah". Pretty much the sexiest song ever.

There is also a healthy dose of cheesy lines, cheesy fight scenes and the cheesiest hair flicks seen since Charlie's Angels.


I loved it. I loved the way it made me feel about history, about the media, about filmmaking. I love the way it made me want to teach, want to learn, want to read. I could ignore the wooden acting, and the holes in the storyline. Because this was Love. Swoon! (Cue explosion)

Obsession?

So I have been contemplating this blog, and its purpose, its title, and ultimately who I want to be reading it.

I realised that the most interesting stuff I am going to be saying on here is probably going to be the reviews of the stuff of culture, pop, modern and otherwise.

So now I am thinking that while playing with words is probably my favourite thing to do in the world, I don't know that it is the obsession that I am exploring in this blog. I need a new title, cause Entendre doesn't cut it.

I also realised that Mr Darcy keep cropping up. I don't want him to keep rearing his arrogant head into my life as much as he does, for fear that I will cripple myself with the obsession like Amanda Price...

This post, despite the opening line, has little purpose.

Post Script: I changed the title this afternoon. (NB it used to be ENTENDRE)

Mr Darcy meets Sam Tyler... I mean Amanda Price

It is a universally acknowledged truth that a woman in possession of two eyes and enough hands to hold a novel will be entirely consumed with obsession about Mr Darcy

I was a latecomer to the Austen phenomenon. I HATED studying Emma in year 12. But then, you are meant to hate your HSC texts. (Then again, I loved 1984 and Brave New World...). I managed to avoid Old Jane at uni, but a few years ago I pretty much devoured all her works, along with the appropriations (Clueless, Bridget Jones, Pride & Promiscuity... etc) as well as ALL the film and TV versions of everything.

And in reality,without a syllable of hyperbole, it is a universal truth that Colin Firth is the ultimate in Darcy characters, and he shall never be surpassed.

(and nor shall the Wet Shirt Scene. Phwaor!)

As we have already discussed Sunday Night, as the holiest of nights, should be devoted to The Bonnet Drama.

Last week, Lost in Austen started. It was not as good as the BBC-Firth P&P. Hell, NOTHING is as good as that. It didn't even reach the moorish heights of the Knightley/MacFadyen fluff (that forced both G & I to take sharp intake of breathe at the shot of Darcy striding across the moors. I say again... phwaor!@!!)

In fact, it was a little bit like Bonnet Drama Collides With Life On Mars/Back To The Future. A bit of banging on doors, trying to get back to... the future (in this case, Hammersmith). It wasn't quite bonnety enough to be a totally successful bonnet drama, but it was enough to whet the Austen tastebuds.
On the ABC, we saw it as 2 long episodes, which I understand is different to the ITV screening of 4 eps...


I spent the first half of Ep1, silently begging Amanda to get her bonnet on. The fish out of water leather jacket was just distracting and annoying, when everyone else is looking fab in the decolotage and baloony in the arse in the empire line goodness. Her dramatically ironic whinging about what is meant to be annoyed the shit out of me- Amanda, sweety, you're in a different text, obviously. You got drunk and snogged Bingley. Your Mr Collins sniffs his hand once he readjusts himself. And Caroline is a muff diver. We're not in Kansas any more!

As she got into it, as she got MORE Lost in Austen, the story/the audience/Amanda and me all managed to suspend our disbelief a little more. She donned the empire line, she turned the diction up to 11, and dropped the dropping off the ends of her words. She took up the fan, the manners and reignited her Darcy fondness.

And it turns out George Wickham, actually not a bad guy!





Oh, and there was even a bit where Amanda convinced Darcy to jump in the pond, to recreate a wet shirt.... I couldn't decide whether to swoon or laugh hysterically. A combination of reactions I have not really done before...

Of course, the naffest bit was when Darcy followed her through a door and ended up bounding out of a port-a-loo into the main junction at Hammersmith (another one of those "I've Been There!!" moments), and she ditched her dishy boy who was offering her a trip to Barbados (which he sold the Ducati for. Hi5 and Jolly would be MORTIFIED!)... wow, digression much?)

And the All Live Happily Ever After Kissing With Tongues ending was also fairly naff too.

Overall though, it was more obsessive tele. Because, obviously, I need more of that in my life...


BUT!



Ruth Ritchie, possibly my favourite columnist of all (and she writes a TV column... way to go the high brow journo!) in her SMH Spectrum this week... committed the highest form of blasphemy for those that worship at the altar of Austen...


She said And why doesn't one of us, one of the vast league of misunderstood, misguided Elizabeths, get to go back to Highfield, to Pemberton, to the ball, and cock it up our way (jeans, yum cha and swearing).


PEMBERTON!!!! Ms Ritchie has just forfeited her invitation to dine at my estate when Pemberley and Darcy are mine.

Madame Depardieu and the Beautiful Strangers

So they say "don't judge a book by its cover"


Them.


What the fuck do they know?

I picked up Antonia Quirke's memior on a whim (just when I bought Secret Diary of a Call Girl, which is why I was hanging out in the biography section, usually NOT my bookshop haunt... I can't believe I actually hang out in bookshops so often, I have parts of the bookshop that I consider to be my own bookshop haunt...) and the only reason I grabbed it was because of the AWESOME cover on it (and the back cover is even more cool - similar image, but she is standing on tippytoes!). Madame Depardieu and the Beautiful Strangers, which I think is called Choking On Marlon Brando in the US, because those uncultured prudes couldn't possibly know the Great Gerard! I wish they would suck it up and just use the titles these books intended! Sorceror's Stone, indeed. But I digress.


Seeing as I don't live in the UK (anymore), I don't really have any idea who she is, so her autobiography for me was not an in depth exploration of her as a celebrity. Though it was a bit of a delve into the celebrity psyche. Quirke is a film reviewer, loving the movie as an artwork in and of itself, but mostly because of Male Actors (the Beautiful Strangers of the title). Her lovingly crafted odes to the great male stars of the artwork are intertwined into the stories of her beautiful failed romances.

She has been favourably compared to Bridget Jones by some reviewers (sorry, links couldn't be found. Mostly because I couldn't be arsed.) which is both flattering and strange. BJ is after all, not actually a writer herself. Mostly cause she isn't real...

As another chica obsessed with the filmic and all the Boys dotting all things filmic, I found the book hilarious and compelling. I didn't want it to end, and I didn't want to sleep when I read it. And seeing how great my love of sleep is, this is indeed a large claim!

For someone who considers herself to be a third wave or at least late-to-the-game second wave feminist, I sure do read a lot of chick lit, watch too many chick flicks and generally emerse myself in what They considers is the Stuff I Should Like.

And it is not that I generally like it, most of the time I just watch it or read it because I want to know what happens. And it makes me feel icky.

Twilight, for example. Fuck she shits me. What a moany, passive, whingy bitch. What a piece of shit horribly written crappy series that is.

But I still read all 4 books in the space of about 2 weeks... And hated myself for it.


But this! This is Chic Lit that is hysterical, cute and intelligent at the same time.

But I still don't reckon boys will like it much...

Week 7

Another order from Amazon.co.uk. More DVDs on the way, and more of a hit of the Gene Genie will be getting to me in a matter of weeks.

Another family dinner at M's place. At least I didn't get lost this time. He was jetlagged, I couldn't finish the dessert, because I would have been DUI.

Another Week 7 at school. More exams to mark, more battles with DVD players that don't want to go. This time the whole school had to crash in order to thwart my Year 11 Shawshank plans.

Another weekend slid by, making me feel as trapped and as unnecessarily parented as the one before that. And the next one that slides in will involve me driving for HOURS up to the coast with them. And that's not something I am that much looking forward to, to be honest.

Hunt me out

My not so secret guilty pleasure is watching DVDs of TV. I try not to do illegal things like download shows, unless there is no other way I can get my hands on them. But watching season upon season of good (or utterly shite) quality drama or comedy will be a sure fire happy me.

Late last year I stumbled across Life On Mars. The sound, British version. Where it was blokey, sexist, racist, homphobic, sweaty and un PC (pardon the pun) patriarchy, where corrupt cops could pull off believable corruption because Manchester in the seventies was a sesspool of very convincing scum. Unlike that poor excuse for a remake from Across the Pond. Besides, Manchester at least still looks like it did in the seventies. Well, the parts they filmed in, anyway. Rather than using freaky stock/lighting effects... (I gave it a shot. Various Australian TV critics said that I would love it, even though/because I loved the first one. I didn't. They lied).

If you haven't seen the show, get your hands on it, and watch the whole first season without stopping for dinner.

The obsession for me was not in the main story arc. I didn't give a hoot about Sam Tyler and his time-travel/hallucination conundrum. I wasn't sold on the Tyler/Annie love story.

I only have eyes for Gene Hunt.

Despite the sexism, racism, homophobia, slightly dubious behaviour, terrible haircut and tendency toward violence.... Or maybe because of them.... (I never claimed I was a woman without issues).

And I am not the only one. Glenda Cooper has ranted on this one before me (but I only found this rant in my cyberstalking of the character). And as India Knight reports, the very clever British public voted him as some kind of sexiest character in another meaningless poll.

Maybe it's because of the delciousness of the fact that his name is also an act of someone looking for the person with the right chromosomes with which to share to make babies (because if I could end the hunt for genes with him, oh I would. I would!). And a pun that tasty (while a long stretch of the bow) is too much for me to walk by without a nibble.

Maybe its because of his razor sharp wit and matching tongue.

Or his passion and his spontaneous behaviour.

Or perhaps his authority.

Really, I think its because he resembles a seventies version of Mr Darcy. (Wow, that is the second time this month I have mentioned Darcy. Better make a tag for him too.) He is obnoxious, prejudiced, proud, talks WAY before thinking, generally tries to make himself unlikable.

And yet...

He means well. And he is unwavering in his loyalty. Just like Fitz is.

The funny thing is, I only saw it when watching Cranford. When the combination of Gene's powerful manly commanding voice (swoon!) was coupled with the sideburns, ruffled shirt and tight strides. Nothing like a Sunday night bonnet drama to give you an epiphany!

25 Pretty Boring Things About Moi (meme)

1. I spend way too much time on Facebook. And I don't know why, really. Maybe it is because I feel a little isolated out here in West Bubblefuck.

2. I live in West Bubblefuck (Tamworth). With my parents. Again. I am grateful that I am able to live with my parents. But at the same time, I kind of wish I wasn't.

3. I am aiming to not be living with my parents by the time I am 30. Giving me 1 year and 4 weeks to sort it out.

4. While I don't much like to admit it, I can be a bit of a control freak. It has put my friendships in jeapordy in the past, and I hope it never will again.

5. I spent NYE in Cooper Park in Sydney, almost seeing the fireworks and laughing about high fives.

6. I don't wear the colour white. Not that I don't think I look hot in white, its just that I am total grot and I spill stuff on myself all the time. Other colours hide it better.

7. I do wear a lot of red. And own a lot of red things. Red wasn't always my favourite colour, but now...

8. I get annoyed by people who say that it is cruel to eat animals, but then wear leather shoes. Or pants.

9. I often have a dream about going and buying a CD (not the same CD, I have had this dream about a number of different specific CDs, most recently, Funeral by Arcade Fire) and then I wake up in the morning all excited because I now own it, and I go to put it on, and I am bitterly disappointed that I don't actually own it. I do now own Funeral by Arcade Fire

10. Lots of my friends live in places all around the world. I miss them heaps.

11. I am a total sucker for an Irish accent.

12. I am a teacher. And I love it. But I am really pleased that I did other stuff before I became a teacher.

13. I haven't played basketball in 7 years.

14. I am the newly appointed coach of the under 13s football team at Farrer. I also have long winded arguments with my Year 8 class about what the correct name for the sport is. I maintain that if you play it almost exclusively with your feet, then it should be called football. Not that I have anything against league, union, afl or grid iron, I just don't think they should be called football.

15. I am averaging an attendance rate of 3 weddings a year, and have done for the last 4 years. So far I have been to 2 this year, with the 3rd coming up in a few weeks.

16. Despite the fact that it is a total shit box, needing a new starter motor, new tires and a bloody good clean, I love my car, Henry.

17. I think I might be developing an alergy to alcohol. the last 2 times I have been drinking I have felt desperately ill. And only last August I was able to drink like someone at a festival (funny that). Maybe I am only allergic to alcohol when I am in the southern hemisphere.

18. Even though my occupation involves me telling kids not to swear and to spell words correctly I am terribly bad at both of these things.

19. I have a fairly unshakable addiction to purchasing DVDs. Especially TV series on DVD. It's shameless. (which coincidentally is the name of one that i bought online this afternoon)

20. I have been accused of having a dirty mind. I wouldn't like to pass judgement on that accusation, but I do seem to have skills in interpreting double endentres where there are none.

21. I loved living in the UK. And I miss it heaps. But not enough to move back there.

22. Late last year I became quite obsessed with Life On Mars. The British TV show (as opposed to the US TV show or the Bowie song). But I don't really care for the plight of Sam Tyler or the blossoming relationship between Annie and DC Tyler. It is all about Gene Hunt. The man is the modern... no, wait, the main the the 70s version of Mr Darcy. In almost everyway.

23. I am really bad at telling my left from my right, especially in high pressure situations.

24. I have an almost crippling fear of rodents

25. I hate it when someone says "Good girl" to me. Kinda makes me stabby.

Gruff and Gruffer

The life of the late-twenty-something is invariably filled with weddings.

Usually these matrimonials see me traipsing up and down the West Bubblefuck Highway to the Big Smoke, or beyond, and forking out megabucks on transport, accommodation, food, presents, dress, shoes...

This weekend, Mohammud Came To The Mountain.

Cz and I went to school together, here in West Bubblefuck, and we went to uni together too. So when she and her Glaswegian boy flew in from Scotland for a wedding at home, all the troops from all around the place came to ME for the wedding. Gotta say, I loved the not going anywhere part of the weekend.

For as long as I have known her, Cz has been a little wedding-centric. A little obsessed with the plastic romance of Hollywood and Austen (especially Hollywood's version of Austen), and I was always worried that she wouldn't find her Leading Man. But she has.

Her BEAUTIFUL speech at the reception (which she didn't even want to make) went a little like this-

"In Alasdair I have truly found my other half. I have found the person that makes me stop wondering if there is anything out there to be waiting for. I have found my Mr Darcy - who challenges me when I need to be challenged and is by my side when I need him there"

Cry? Like a CHILD.