A Very English Wedding

[smokingboot]

So we were driven, in the white be-ribboned jag, behind the carriage with its rose garlands and its black shaggy-hoofed horses, scarlet plumes dancing above their heads. In front of us rode the bride, veil glittering, the dress ivory and gossamer wisped, tiny red roses woven into her red hair and a massive tumbling bouquet.

To call november_girl beautiful on the morning of her wedding day would be a sad understatement. She was, officially, the most beautiful woman in the world, and the world showed its approval, smiling at her as she passed, kids running alongside the carriage wheels, mums waving and showing their babies how to wave, strangers cheering, blossoms spilling off the trees, a forerunner of confetti to come. Then we turned away from the village, down past fields of lambs and wildflowers, over the brook across an old stone bridge to an old stone church where ephraim's ushers were waiting.

As an admirer of masculine beauty, I must say that a gentleman is entirely irredeemable if he can't look good in cream and deep scarlet, and they did polish up rather well, cufflinks and cravat pins shining, though not as much as the grins. The bride stepped down and the vicar gave us our instructions (more of that vicar later) We sorted her train, and paused, before the bells rang out to tell; The bride has arrived! Then into the church, where the look on the face of the groom satisfied the Mills and Boon reader in every observer's heart; just as her father had done earlier that morning, so ephraim looked as though he was about to burst into tears. We settled as the service began.


Mad you know. Do you think it's the profession? One must bear in mind that it really is not a proper wedding if the vicar clears the jumps without incident, and her mistakes were funny enough to enjoy without marring the beauty of the ceremony. Bride and groom had chosen the 17th century service about marriage being for the procreation of children, the prevention of fornication and the mutual enjoyment of etc etc... going tremendously well until the vicar tried to gallop away and do the readings herself - the wrong readings. Her enthusiasm was only curbed by the presence of larians smiling at her grimly with all the look of The Person Meant to be Doing This Bit about him. The right readings were then done by the right people and all went very well until the time for the couple to make their vows.

This, the vicar had told us, was the time to settle the bride's train properly; the bridesmaids creep behind and splay the bottom of the dress out so that at the vital moment the dress is thoroughly perfect. But for this, the bride must stand still, which she cannot do if the vicar spends about a minute saying; 'Over here...no, a little further this way...back a bit...' while I scuttled crab-like across the stone slabs trying to spread out the dress. At the point where the bride, like a galleon before a high wind, lurched suddenly into reverse with all the prospect of tripping backwards over the least elegant of her bridesmaids, I surrendered and left the skirt to take care of itself. Anyone who could stare at a hem rather than the lovers' faces, would have to be a bit strange anyway.




Smoothness ensued until the final hymn, 'Jerusalem' at which point I couldn't help wondering if the organist was visiting the same therapist as the vicar. It feels safe to say that the entire congregation was startled by the random riff in the middle of the hymn - organs may be more versatile than I know, but I still don't think they're made for jamming. Confused, beleaguered but defiant to the end, the congregation roared out a belter of a final verse. Melody was restored by the exquisite voice of Pippa without lj, who sang so angelic a solo, one didn't want it to end.


After all this came food and speeches, scalextric and bopping at old Billesley Manor, with its grand fountain and bizarre post-modernist topiary; a fine night, stars out and a crescent moon, horns upturned. I looked at that moon and found myself realising how far we've come. Words can only say so much about really important matters; faces, love, music, feelings, true things speak for themselves.

Congratulations Mr and Mrs Shockley. Here's to the coming years.