Occasional Scribbles

And so a year after my niece had announced she was getting married, the day had finally arrived.  Where did the year go?  365 days have just vanished, gone.  What did they mean to me? In truth this year was much like the one before and the one before that.  The difference was The Wedding  in this one. 

Much thought and planning had gone into it.  It was after all, the first one my sister had to plan. This was the first of her two daughters to be married and as with all ‘first’ occasions, it was planned with enthusiastic care.  From the design of the dress to the fresh rose petals thrown as confetti, every detail was thought out, church flowers, house flowers, food, service arrangements, music, pretty orchids by the table place names, all came together to make a superb day.

Fortune shone on the brave and the bride, the sun came out, the wind died down and the rain disappeared.

Tears streaked down the face of the bride to be, when I found her upstairs in her parent’s house surrounded by her bridesmaids.  Emotionally exhausted now that the day had finally arrived and the significance of becoming Mrs and no longer Miss together with leaving her family home, threatened to ruin the pre wedding photos.  She came into the kitchen and we poured ‘rescue remedy’ drops into her mouth and finally she was ready.

The church had a lovely warm feel to it, bright, full of flowers and colourful guests buzzing in anticipation.  I told myself I wouldn’t cry when I saw my brother in law bring his daughter down the aisle.  I saw his fixed smile contain the emotion that he must have felt at giving away the lovely girl at his side.  No more his cheeky little girl but a grown woman that he must give to the significant man in her life.  With calm and grace he brought her to the alter, his lovely girl in her beautiful dress. Job done with poise and polish.

The service seemed to be over in a flash and all at once we were singing the final hymn, the rousing Jerusalem, guaranteed to bring a lump to the throat of any Englishman.  I felt tears threaten at the back of my eyes but held them in check.  And there they were, gliding down the aisle, Mr and Mrs, smiles of relief on their faces, tears long forgotten.

Fortunately for all the ladies in heels, it was a short walk to the house from the church and soon we were all assembled in the garden with champagne and delicious canapes, diets forgotten now.  I looked across the garden at my other niece, chief bridesmaid looking gorgeous in her green/blue long dress, hair elegantly arranged, she looked superb.  My nephews, on duty as ushers also looked fine in their morning suits, bright and shiny as new pins, beaming with pride at their lovely sisters.  My own son, younger, was in a very smart gray suit with a pink carnation button hole to match a pale pink shirt and blue and pink silk tie.  They all looked fantastic.

My sister, remarkably calm throughout the entire day, (think she must have had the ‘rescue remedy’ too) looked far too young to have a married daughter.  She wore a very smart cream skirt and brown linen short jacket and super hat and heels. All the months of anxious anticipation gone, she was relaxed now that the service was over. She moved about the guests, talking here and there and seemed to enjoy the day.  I spotted her at the table with the new in-laws and she seemed outwardly serene, though  I saw her picking at her food as she sometimes does, still a few nerves perhaps likely due to the stress of hosting the occasion. 

We had a very good sit down lunch of either cold beef with prettily arranged salad and new potatoes or salmon in filo pastry.  I plumped for the the beef which was superb, tender and tasty and the puds were exceptional, little summer puddings, a lemon mousse in a round gingersnap basket and a very rich chocolate mousse in a tiny glass.

All in all it was a very traditional wedding.  All too soon, the bride and groom were changed and ready to leave in a fabulous white Rolls Royce.  The bride knew nothing of where they were going but we knew they were off to catch the Eurostar to Paris and then on to the Maldives.  Baskets of scented rose petals were handed round to throw over the couple, their heady fragrance so romantic, cool and silky in my hot hands.

The guests drifted home, (and there’s absolutely no need to mention that my young son had gone about finishing off other peoples drinks across the tables, last seen zigzagging across the garden) and as the last ones left, I saw my sister, back in jeans and shirt leap in the air with joy and relief – the day was over, daughter married and safely off on her honeymoon.  Before long we had all changed into comfy clothes, relieved to get the pinching shoes off, free from the constraints of hats and ties.

That evening we sat in the poolhouse over looking the pool, the ones that were left.  Family and close friends made up a party of happy people.  We chatted over a delicious bar-b-Que, drank more champagne and laughingly set about discussing the event.  A post mortem was in order.