Two Weeks and Two Days

A whirlwind weekend in the life and times of K. and me.  It all started on Friday afternoon.  I was enjoying a quiet afternoon -- listening to this, reading this, skimming through this -- when I was called by the frantic Belgian, who explained that 'we have a problem'.  It turns out that if you want to get married in Belgium, nobody but you and your significant other can turn in the requisite documents (i.e., an assortment of birth certificates, certificates saying there is no impediment to a marriage, certificates indicating that you have never, to the knowledge of the Glasgow City Council, sacrificed a bull to Mithra, etc.).  This, of course, makes perfect sense, but, as it were, we'd been fed very bad information by the townhall.  Anyway ... upon the news that K.'s parents could not turn in these documents, K. told me to set aside all else and find affordable last-second plane tickets to Belgium, so that we might settle the matter in a timely fashion.  ('Just do it,' were her words, if I recall, when she heard the beginnings of the phrase, 'I told you s---'.)  So, twelve hours later, at the very dawning of Glasgow's most gray of dawns, I found myself with her, only one-quarter awake, £400 poorer, on a plane bound for Brussels (via Amsterdam). 
 
As it normally the case, the situation was not nearly as bad as we thought it might be.  If nothing else, we got to play with the (still nameless) orphaned kittens, drink Westmalle along the Maas, and tempt fate while riding a bike (after drinking said Westmalles) during an apocalyptic thunderstorm.  And, yes, we got things settled at the townhall, at least I think we did.  According to the competent official who has led us astray two times already, we are scheduled for a wedding on August 4, at 10.30.  Fingers crossed, people. 
 
We're bound for Glasgow early Tuesday morning, bringing another section of this weird chapter to its close.  Hopefully, it will eventually become just a footnote.