"Haven't they been fortunate with the weather?" That was definitely quote of the day last Saturday. Actually, it's probably quote of the day at every wedding held on British soil. That and 'What was she thinking?" - a quote applicable to either the bride or any of the female guests present. On this occasion they were indeed lucky. A wedding held in March on a hill in Cambridgeshire could have easily resembled the Somme in a force ten gale had the weather been poor but no, it dawned bright if not a little breezy.Our side of the family had never met the girl my cousin was marrying but she was apparently 'just what he needed.' I'm not entirely sure what that means but it was uttered a lot which made me think my cousin had been like a child with ADHD who'd just found the key to daddy's drinks cabinet until this fresh-faced angel stepped into his life and made him see that life could be all about Radio 4 and wine clubs. Given that my cousin is actually a teacher who has written a book on philosophy I found this comment odd but it was said by my mother and her peers and so automatically sounded sage. As if they all knew something us youngsters didn't (this is entirely feasible).
The church was idyllic, set in a picturesque village surrounded by green stuff. I vaguely remember it from before I moved to London and I think I heard someone refer to it as 'grass' but don't quote me.
The dress the bride had chosen was attractive yet simple. I wasn't expecting out and out chic given that the bride is the sort of person who spends months in the Gambia working with AIDS victims and when she's not there spends her time rehabilitating drug addicts over here. I think the word I'm scratching for is 'worthy' i.e. too busy to worry about all that fashion nonsense. Anyway, it was fine but she'd decided to wear the veil her mother wore to her wedding. 'Awww bless' you might think. 'Errr no'. The thing was gargantuan. It was beyond huge. It was akin to a veil tornado, there was just so much netting; it snagged on bushes and threatened to suffocate small children. As if that wasn't bad enough it had obviously been stored very poorly because it was the exact colour of smoker's fingers - a horrible browny yellow, the colour of age. Her dress was bright white and the two clashed horribly. I'm not sure I'll be so open to sentiment overruling style on my wedding day (whenever the hell that might be). Having said that, my mother's first wedding outfit was a Biba dress which ended up being used as 'dress up' by me as a child and when she married my father she wore a dusky rose coloured, loose fitting suit which was long ago disposed of so unless I manage to uncover the purple felt floppy hat she wore with the Biba dress I'm screwed on the sentiment front.
Speaking of children I counted and there were seven thousand present that day. OK, I may have miscounted given that they didn't stop haring about but the cacophony in the echoey church was astonishing. My father and I enterered into a tutting competition as I have inherited his utter lack of patience with anyone under the age of ten. These are the sorts of things my dad and I bond over.
The reception was held in a marquee in the grounds of the bride's parent's house. The marquee was bigger than my parent's house in terms of square footage, a fact which prompted a certain amount of 'lemon sucking' from my mother. Fortunately the champagne was plentiful and during the pre-dinner drinks I got chatting to the girlfriend of the best man, E, who didn't know anyone. Within five minutes I knew I had found a kindred spirit. She was as cynical, sarcastic and caustic as me and when she uttered the phrase 'God I'm gagging for a fag, aren't you?' I knew I wanted to be her friend. It's odd but as an adult you rarely meet anyone you could be friends with, relationships now involving more than just occasional spats over who gets the best spot in the sandpit, but I really felt I'd like to get to know her better. We spent the reception drinking red wine and playing drinking games with the ushers which was just the kind of juvenile fun I needed given that I seemed to be the only single person there apart from my brother and my strange 35 year old cousin who still lives at home. The melancholy threatened to set in when the slow dancing started but my new friend thoughtfully eschewed dancing with her bloke and settled down with me to start on yet another bottle of red wine and complain about men. We've arranged to see each other back here in London which is great. My little network expands!
Much later that evening when E, my brother T and I had been forcibly removed from the marquee, T and I staggered the few yards back to the B&B we were sharing with my parents. Some thoughtful soul had put the catch down on the front door so I was forced to phone my mum's mobile and get her out of bed to let us in. To be fair I was sharing a room with her so she was awake and anticipating our return. I was very drunk by this stage and had to get ready for bed in front of my mother. Normally when I arrive home drunk I am free to fling myself over whichever piece of furniture is needed until the room stops spinning, lie on the floor of the bathroom for a while, leave my make up on, eat junk food and just generally faff about drunkenly. I tried so hard not to fall over as I was taking my tights off. I tried to give cogent answers to my mum's questions about the day and I tried really hard not to give in to the urge to vomit in our tiny plasterboard-partitioned en suite. Eventually I fell across the tiny single bed and passed out, no doubt snoring.
The following morning my mother was up at 7:45 sharp. She loudly asked me whether I wanted a cup of tea at which point I cracked open the slit that was where my mouth had been and mumbled a croaky refusal. She was practically singing as she clattered about being unnecessarily loud with the cups and saucers. Apparently revenge is a dish best served when the object of your revenge has a hangover. I see more of her in me every day.
* point of view
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