A Wedding in Las vegas

10^th December. I’m crushed into a no-legroom Economy seat on Virgin Atlantic flight 43 to Las Vegas, inflatable pillow holding up my flagging spinal column, head befuddled by a large pre-dinner G and T. My anti-DVT stockings have my calves in a vice-like grip. I’d remove them, only I have a dim memory of writing a Casualty episode once in which someone met a terrible fate because of their lack of said stockings.

I’ve just watched an appalling film (The Time Traveller’s Wife, if you’re interested, adapted from an equally appalling novel), and now I’m in mid-flight nirvana – too early for sleep, too late for anything else. Listening to Ravel on the in-flight audio system now. It was either that or Prince singing his way through the Purple Rain soundtrack – the only two things I recognise from the in-flight list. I’m saving the Small but Perfectly Formed One for later. Another seven hours to go…

But before I pass out I must report on last night, when I was at the Albert Hall, attending "A Not So Silent Night" McGarrigle/Wainwright Christmas concert. I don’t believe I have yet confessed in my blog to being a Rufus Wainwright fanatic – shameful in a woman of my advancing years, I know, but somehow this talented, camp, OTT man with the glorious voice speaks to me in a way no-one else does. Last night he was onstage with his large, complicated musical family and various friends (including Boy George and French and Saunders). I sat next to a woman who was three weeks away from giving birth, who held her ‘bump’ tenderly throughout proceedings. I wondered if this pre-birth experience would shape this child for life – wouldn’t that be wonderful! Because s/he couldn’t help but be touched by magic after hearing such an array of beautiful, life-affirming songs. We had a little giggle together when Rufus made his German boyfriend Jorn (a stage director, I believe – not a singer or a musician) sing Stille Nacht. Can you imagine? You’re not a singer, and you have to stand on the stage at the Albert Hall and sing a difficult carol into that vast and blowsy auditorium? We agreed that it was like being at a fearsome family gathering where all the other relatives are extrovert and highly talented, but they make you perform. It’s OK, Jorn! You did fine! We all sang the final verse in English while I tried not to weep over-stimulated tears. I was singing with Rufus!!

Sorry. I lead a very sheltered life normally. Bradbury, walking the dog, worrying about money, shouting at the tv, inventing stories, drinking round friends’ houses, attending football matches. And then suddenly I’m in the presence of people who seem to me to be like Gods. I know the Albert Hall is not Olympus, but I am always so overwhelmed by people like the Wainwrights, who can produce beauty with what looks like very little effort. It was a glorious, soul-feeding kind of a night. Next year, make sure you go! And now I’m going to Las Vegas. More later…

Three hours from LV – the plane is now full of drunks hassling the cabin staff for booze and shouting a lot. So much for beauty.

12^th December. The Little White Wedding Chapel on the Strip, where Britney Spears married someone and filed for divorce 52 hours later. I’ve brought all the wrong clothes and have spent the morning in a mall searching for something appropriate – something that says this is serious while at the same time screaming LAS VEGAS! SIN CITY! I seem to have found an appropriate garment: silk with a touch of bling. We gather in Nigel and Karen’s hotel room until summoned to the foyer where Lorenz, our Hispanic chauffeur, is waiting with a ludicrous white stretch limo. Its numberplate reads CHAPEL2. We clamber in for the three-minute journey to the chapel, where we proceed into the Tunnel of Love (polystyrene with angels). It’s to be a drive-in wedding, so we wait in the car while Nigel and Karen and Jane, their witness, struggle through the throng of awaiting brides and grooms to prepare paperwork. I glimpse several meringue-like wedding dresses, a couple of Marines, and an Elvis. The remaining guests sit nervously in the car (where no alcohol or cigarettes are allowed) listening to a Hispanic radio station playing "It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas".

Finally Nigel and Karen return to the car, somewhat shaken and stirred. Karen says it’s like Ryanair in the chapel – people are trying to "upsell" all sorts of extras – photos, flowers, wedding albums. She has escaped with a single rose and a nylon garter sealed in a plastic bag. After a surreal wait, during which Nigel makes bad, nervous jokes, Pastor Tony appears with an envelope which will contain, he hopes, a large "gratuity". He is followed by a photographer, also requiring money. The niceties observed, Pastor Tony marries Nigel and Karen through the window of the car. Yes, really. I never even saw his face.

My notes ground to a halt at this point. I think the surreal nature of the event overwhelmed me… Now I’m home, and Christmas looms. And all the fairy lights in the world can’t compete with my memories of gazing from the top of the Stratosphere Tower at the twinkling lights of an entire city spread out in the Nevada desert…