My sister got married twice last week, both times to the same bloke, thank goodness. She was married on the Thursday by the state in a register office, and on the Saturday she and Stan stood in front of an Anglican clergyman in a church and asked God to graciously add His blessing to that of the British government.
The state affair took place in the same register office as the one at which I fruitlessly gave notice of my intention to marry Cowgirl back in December. I felt such a nit. There were only three of us there to witness the union, so I couldn’t hide in the crowd, but, if she recognised me, the registrar was tactful enough not to mention it and I was grateful.
Before she started, she took Stan and my sister to a side room for a pep talk, and with nothing else to look at in the properly soulless room, I studied a cheaply framed print on the wall, which I recognised as ‘The Health of the Bride’ by the Victorian artist Stanhope Forbes. The colour, vivacity and lively humanity of the scene were so far removed from the one we were standing in that I was afflicted for a moment with a feeling akin to vertigo.
Then the registrar led the happy couple in, and I heard for the first time that Stan is short for Stanford and not Stanley as I’d imagined. All I can remember of the ceremony was that blandness was the order of the day and the word ‘friendship’ cropped up a lot.
Around 50 people done up in all their finery turned up for the church blessing, which was a different kettle of fish altogether.
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