Holding a wedding on the middle Monday of a two week school holiday period is very inconvenient for the activities you might normally engage in, like actually taking a holiday. Demanding formal wear is also an imposition.
I had to buy a new suit for the occasion, on account of “outgrowing”my others. I made certain it was a black one as we have reached that period in one’s life where funerals are likely to outnumber wedding invitations.
The wedding, of B’s second cousin Jo Jo to Edwin, who we had never met before, was actually quite enjoyable. The Sergeant’s Mess at Middle Head is quite a drive from our place, up the M5, Eastern Distributor and through the Harbour Tunnel, but it is a beautiful location.
Yachts and ferries cruised across the harbour backdrop while aircraft began their journeys north overhead. At one point just before the wedding a skywriter attempted a “Marry me” while the words were cancelled by a higher contrail.
A bamboo ring adorned with flowers framed the ceremony, the fishing line holding it in shape vibrating with an eerie tune in the wind. It was thankfully a short, simple ceremony with the Anglican reverend presiding over it not realising that the chosen Bible passage implies that a polygamous marriage would be stronger than a couple.
Cananpes of arancini balls, oysters, Krispy Kreme donuts and fried chicken were served, an interesting combination for the posh location. The food at the reception was of very high quality, which was good seeing how much the attendance was costing us. The band was too loud, the professional MC reminded me of a cool Sydney real estate agent, very smooth but I think I prefer a personal connection.
The bride’s side all teared up, the groom’s gave him a very mild roasting, but overall it proceeded without much drama. We were on a table with B’s younger relatives, which meant for more fun conversation than with the cranky conservative old folk.
Exhausted, we left before the dancing, driving back through the Brighton Le Sands route instead of the M5, recalling the relief of our own wedding as we headed to our hotel.
There was a good reason not to dance. Whilst I was wearing a new suit I should have bought new shoes as well. The pair I had on were losing their soles, requiring a cobbler, not a priest. They were probably the ones I wore to my own wedding over 20 years ago.