THIS week, Ruth Wishart reflects on an enjoyable, if slightly stressful, weekend attending her goddaughter's wedding...


THE law according to Sod goes something like this.

You leave Glasgow airport with the sun splitting the heavens to travel to middle England where you disembark in teeming rain. The kind where the puddles have puddles.

The next day is the goddaughter’s wedding. It is still teeming. So much so that the local carnival is cancelled owing to there not being sufficient life rafts for floats liable to be washed off main street.

But the goddaughter’s mother is made of stern stuff. She throws a giant drinks party in her house which has two beneficial effects.

The first is that after two hours the rain has gone off in a huff, leaving only angry clouds, and the second is that when we repair to the marquee outside nobody has a care in the world.

Weather? What weather?

Anyway, it was a brilliant bash, with everyone in high good humour (not just plain high)!

The goddaughter, a modern woman, made a brilliant speech off the cuff with no notes. Her father, whose remarks preceded this tour de force, later opined that he was very grateful not to have been following her.

Her friends (she works in the media) were a rainbow coalition of fabulous frocks, shirts and zany footwear. The bride wore electric blue. The groom was in a suit of many colours. Eat your heart out all those folk with fading pix of floor length white gowns never to be worn again.

The mother, equally indefatigable, threw a lunch for pals the next day which I left in time to catch our girls take on England in the World Cup in – as I fondly imagined – a TV lounge at the airport.

Hah. There were no check in staff available to take my case and provide the necessary to get me through security.

So I sat in solitary splendour in a deserted hall, the iPad plugged into a charging point, and watched it. You don’t half feel a fool shouting at the VAR in such circumstances. Or leaping up at the Scotland goal. People would have talked. Had there been any.

An hour later I got the bag checked and repaired to the lounge. To find the flight was delayed. Then delayed some more. Then operated by a craft from a Scandinavian carrier. Which landed us at 11.15pm rather than 9.50pm.

The original booking was with Flybe, which boasts on its livery: “Faster than road or rail”. Only if you were planning to drive to Nice, chaps.

Oddly, the same thing happened with the same airline when I went visiting the English Midlands last year. Either I’m just serially unlucky or Flybe should consider rebranding as Fly(may)be!