Consider this: it’s particularly difficult to stay connected to the comings and goings of an election call when you are stuck at a wedding in the middle of the countryside. Dressed to the nines, carrying a glass of champagne around the room in a refined manner, and leaping upon passer-by with wild eyes whilst shrieking OMG I HEAR HOWARD LOST BENNELONG TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW is hardly a ladylike way to spend a Saturday evening.
It’s a delicate balance to strike when you wish to nod smilingly at the glowing bride and make nice with the band when really all you can think about is whether Maxine ‘twinkle toes’ McKew is going to bust out some of her patented deranged dance moves when claiming her seat.
What a night! What an election! What a result for those of us pining for change! And all of it happened while I jived awkwardly to an upbeat cover of Rock The Casbah and dodged the uncle of the groom leering at my cleavage. Certainly, there were moments when a defiant handful of political dorks broke away from the celebrations (A cake is a cake, people. Honestly) and stole upstairs for glimpses of Kerry O’Brien’s poorly repressed smirk, but for the most part, Saturday the 24th of November 2007 was all about Lucy and Jeremy and their happy future together.
It was testing, it was torture, it was a fair effort to refrain from racing around the dancefloor with my dress raised over my head once JWH conceded with trembling lower lip.
Try as the loving couple might, it was impossible to stifle the exhilarating winds of change sweeping through the wedding crowd, and by evening’s end an elated mob of anti-Howard folk (it’s still too difficult to describe oneself as ‘pro-Rudd’, discuss) gathered outside to exchange the kind of full-body squeezings that wouldn’t be out of place at a 1972 key party.
It felt new and it felt exciting and I was glad to be a part of it, carrying my shoes in hand like a tragic Cup Day leftover. All eyes on you, K07. Show us what you’re made of.