I was promptly awarded my own territory – Devon and Cornwall.
I’d heard the term ‘Salesman’s Graveyard’ applied to the area, but it treated me well. Ken had once had a salesman based in Exeter who had failed, so I agreed to base myself in or around Plymouth.
Jane and I were getting married and the two events were merged.
We travelled down to rent a flat in Plymouth, just before our wedding. As we entered the city we laughed at the main drag that was called Embankment Road, saying how awful it sounded, similar to Gasworks Place or the like. It was of course where we ended up renting.
Ken was my best man, driving me to Tyndale Baptist Church at some pace. The whole day went by in a whirl, but I recall saying ‘I do slolemnly declare…’ In those days we did rather stupidly have the stag party on the eve of the wedding day.
|ASIDE: One of Jane’s friends got married to her groom who was sporting a head bandage. He had hung from a roof beam and slipped at the stag.|
Matt’s best man, Brad, sported a large forehead bruise from a paintballing incident at the stag.
Stig Fack, a colleague at Hugin, took the biscuit. He woke on his wedding morning at Oslo railway station, the ceremony was in Stockholm. He found himself alone, completely naked, and without any cash. There were no Sweden-Norway border formalities, and he managed to get back in time to marry, He was wearing a borrowed Oslo station-master’s spare uniform.