The Writer and I attended our first wedding of the year on Saturday.
It was totally different to the handful of other weddings I’ve been to, which have been overwhelmingly of the summer-in-the-English-country ilk, the ceremony in the bride’s church, and a reception, more often than not, in the bride’s parents’ back garden or local field (although the one with the Spitfire flypast will always stand out).
I’m well aware it’s enormously wrong to compare people’s weddings; whilst they say a lot about the couple and their taste and values, they’re also prey to family politics, and finances and a whole host of other factors I can’t possibly begin to imagine, not having been through the planning process myself. So I do desperately try to resist the temptation to rank them in a little mental league table. That being said, Saturday’s wedding was, without reservation, one of the most glorious.
Rather than being in a small village church, it was instead held in an utterly gorgeous venue in central London, bohemian and arty and completely covered in lights (I’m a sucker for anything covered in lights). The time of year meant that rather than lots of flesh on show, female guests were wrapped up in velvet jackets and fur stoles. But possibly the most striking thing about the whole day was that nothing at all gave the impression that any of the details had been planned under duress, just because that’s how things are done at weddings. From start to finish, it was completely them.
As befits an event planned by two food-obsessives, everything that people put in their mouths was meticulously delicious, from the negronis before dinner to the 10 Greek Street-catered meal (so good that TW, to the unconfined horror of the fashion editor sat at our table, had fourths). The music, enormously important to both bride and groom, was phenomenal – whether it was the jazz acapella group’s brilliant rendition of Chili con carne performed before dinner, or the bride taking the stage afterwards to serenade her new husband with a little Stevie Wonder.
One of the readings in the ceremony was a recorded video message from Caitlin Moran – a favourite writer of the bride’s – reading a section from her book and wishing them well; the first dance was participated in by all the guests; and it wasn’t left to the men of the day to make the speeches, with the bride being particularly witty and brilliant in a way that, despite never having considered making a speech at my own wedding, if I ever get married I’d rather hope to emulate.
Of course, I might have just been enormously well-disposed towards the whole event as it was the one day I allowed myself off during an otherwise-dry January. And lovely as everything was, the taste of the first glass of sparkling wine to pass my lips in over three weeks was beyond ambrosial and there’s a real danger it went straight to my head.
But somehow, I don’t think so.