The Big Day

A wedding day can go past in a blur so, as Father of the Bride, I took time throughout the day to deliberately savour events and commit images and sound-bites to memory: putting on the new suit, shirt, tie and shoes in the hotel room - rather like donning a new football kit ahead of a big game; the trip to my daughter’s house, cost free and efficiently if unorthodoxly by bus; observing unmolested from a corner an hour or so of beautician attention to the bridesmaids who needed no such embellishment but were determined to gild that lily; the first sight of the beautiful bride attired in her white; my other daughter, on bridesmaid duty, affixing my buttonhole; the taxi ride to the town centre, being set down fifty yards from the Council House and the sunshine walk through the parting throngs of Saturday shoppers who hailed us with congratulations and compliments; the pause inside the impressive building for pre-ceremony formalities with the registrar before gathering with the bridesmaids for the entrance; the emotional walk down the aisle to deliver my daughter to her future husband and then retire gracefully to my seat beside my own spouse and receive a reassuring squeeze of the arm; the moving and respectful civil ceremony with thoughtful readings, heartfelt vows and no few tears from bride, groom, parents and guests (and possibly even the registrar); the triumphant exit and, after some confused milling around, a straggling stroll out to the waiting double-decker bus; the swaying drive out to the reception venue and the inevitable hiatus waiting for the bride, groom and attendants to complete their city-centre photo shoot and join us; once they were, the frantic photo calls with the photographer battling against the fading December dusk and eventual dark to capture every conceivable combination on his list; sitting down to the meal - an unconventional but tasty tapas with fine wine, although for me a pint of ale was a preferred pre-speech lubricant; the speeches themselves, kicked off by my own, thankfully well-received, and taken up by the groom and best man, brothers and best friends, whose double act hit the right notes of irreverence, sincerity and humour; another hiatus as the tables were removed and the band set up, which gave an opportunity to admire the wedding ‘cake’ comprising a stack of artisan Durham cheeses and a display of the previous generations’ wedding day photos; then a ninety minute blast from the four piece band and two female vocalists who put together a lively, engaging and musically sound  mix of modern hits that had the younger ones bouncing and old classics that got the not so young strutting their stuff too; through it all the two six month old babies serenely watching or sleeping, oblivious to the admiring attention they unconsciously attracted; the limited taking up of the supper buffet of bacon rolls and cheese, pickle and biscuits, with most guests still full of sticky toffee pudding but willing to take a bit of a packed supper for later; back on the bus for the return journey, fuller, more raucous, and more swaying that the outward trip; most passengers disgorged at the hotel and for some a nightcap in the hotel bar; finally bed but for me little sleep as I replayed the events of my daughter’s big day, in my head, on one continuous loop.