The Wedding Ceremony
Five years ago today I turned forty years old and Issy, the girls, Mum, Dad and me were in Galle, Sri Lanka celebrating. That same morning, Issy had set in motion a series of internet clicks which were to become life defining.
She was searching for a lunch spot, and had found a cheeky little house perched up from Galle Fort, called The Sun House, which had piqued her aesthetically inspired antennae.
One email later, and their management had confirmed that, unfortunately, they were closed for the season but that, actually, they would be happy to open up the House for us, and would lay on a Sri Lankan birthday feast.
Although Martha, nearly four years old at the time, managed to pull off a three hour nap throughout our entire and inaugural experience of The Sun House – awaking long after our fantastic meal had ended – the resulting day-trip was to inspire our wedding ceremony, back in January of this year, at exactly the spot at which we enjoyed the first samplings of their unique fish curry…
Winding back to our wedding day story, it was 3pm, on the first Friday in January of this year, and a steady stream of guests were arriving.
All the mental rehearsing, of the moments about to unfold, were lost in a burst bubble of time. As people spilled into the House, in place of conversation I’d settled, instead, on simply making lots of eye contact, smiling, and offering suitably complimentary noises about the dress, the shirt or the new haircut which was, at that moment, bobbing in front of me in a delicious blur.
Everyone seemed very happy. It felt bit like a scene from a play, although I knew that no one was acting. The gathering of these warm bodies milling about, the hearty chorus of special reunions and overdue embraces, all at this pre-arranged time and date, everyone dressed “fabulously” (as instructed on their invitations) and exuding a collective sigh of contentment, was all scripted, and yet appeared to be happening spontaneously.
We’d already one additional guest, forgetfully left off our table plan, but I was none the wiser, as this preliminary clerical mishap was palmed off to Cake, one of the two Best Men, and on Master-of-Ceremony duties, who added it to his “to-do” list.
I was left to drink in deep the kaleidoscope of colourful fabrics and Vietnamese fans buzzing around me. It was hot, but our guests seemed unperturbed. We were all sweating. All in this together!
As numbers steadily grew, I took a few seconds to freeze-frame the various new groups of soon-to-be-inebriated-on-the-dancefloor friends and family, melding in these early moments of the event. For now, and before the free-flow bar was open, you could still make out the starched creases on some men’s shirts, where an iron had recently passed, appreciate the coiffured hairdos, and the children dressed in thoughtful garb.
Over the preceding six months, the time spent in clothes stores – from Melbourne to Milan to Salisbury – ensuring Flo and Martha’s outfits complimented those of their new Australian nieces (with the eldest, Ella, re-modelling the dress Issy herself had worn at Max and Quimby’s wedding 16 years ago) flashed across my mind’s periphery.
I extended my hand for the latest familiar face bustling into view: it was school buddy Paul (“Butler”) who grabbed and shook it, with a wry look in his face. I knew, from living with this incorrigible Irishman in Battersea, London, for the final two years of the ‘90s, that this meant only one thing: Butler had started on wines early. By early, of course, I mean, Wednesday.
Before I’d had the time to fully consider the magnitude of an already fully-charged Butler, Richie (let’s call him our super-hero protagonist for the next hour) came hurtling across and, as a loyal linebacker blocking his quarter-back, proceeded to escort him somewhere else.
Never a dull moment, I thought to myself, and pressed on to find Chloe who, unbeknownst to her, was about to join Richie on the super-hero docket.
By now, we were missing only a handful of guests, and were minutes away from lift-off. Outside in the garden the seats were almost full, guests were firmly practicing their fan techniques, and a certain friend from Portsea was beginning to regret his choice of absorbent linen shirt.
Not far from here, up a winding flight of stairs, and inside the Cinnamon Suite, Issy was all but ready – with merely the minor detail of her dress being re-stitched by mother-of-the-bride, Pobby.
Below them, Chloe and I met by the Sri Lankan registrar’s table, all of us exchanging grins and fittingly positive sounds, by way of a form of greeting. “We need the bride’s passport, please?” came the request. “OK, yep, I’ll get it,” said Chloe, on auto-pilot, “I’m just sorting out the entrance music,” she flashed back a steely glance of the eyes, and smiled harder than probably necessary.
“Great, thanks, Chloe,” I chipped in, “What did Issy settle on for music?” I asked, rather stupidly, “I’m not 100% sure,” Chloe replied, and turned 180 degrees on her heels and headed back up to find the bride.
I slowly back-tracked from the registrar and out towards the steps, overlooking the garden. Our guests were dotted among the frangipani trees and, beyond them, a multitude of dark green fronds framed the view out to the ocean.
My brother was by my side, having completed another Best Man duty, walking Pobby to her seat. He looked cool, calm and collected, save for the sweat pouring through the back of his jacket.
There was a reassuring twinkle in his eye. We were only waiting for Ange and Greg, and then we’d be at full quota, he reported. And, then, tantalizingly, he smirked “have you seen Paul Butler yet?” I couldn’t but chuckle, before looking away for a distraction. The bridesmaids and Flo, our ring-bearer, were congregating nearby.
Chloe came back into focus behind them. She had Issy’s passport in hand, and an iPhone at the ready. She was tampering with the speaker as I walked back, for a final time, to the courtyard. One last lungful of sticky air, and an appreciation of what was about to unfold.
A screech of tyres echoed through the open front gate, and I saw Ange’s cheerful face emerge – they had scraped in before the game’s opening whistle. Slightly delirious (their tuk had accidentally driven them a good ten miles in the wrong direction) but quick to adapt to the discreet moment of the story-line into which they’d been fortunate enough to stumble, Ange and Greg high-tailed it to the garden.
I followed them in, and was taking my position, as rehearsed with the family the evening before, next to the bridesmaids and our celebrant, Phoebe.
Recently qualified as a celebrant, Phoebe was about to oversee her fourth wedding ceremony. Issy and me couldn’t have been more proud and excited at the prospect.
As an extremely dapper Mark, and his beautiful youngest daughter, with meticulous timing, stepped out – in the wake of Martha and Hazel, who were carefully and proudly dropping handfuls of pink ginger petals on the floor – I looked across at Phoebe and, for the first time that day, felt at ease.
The opening bars of “Good Day Sunshine”, courtesy of DJ Chloe, jolted everyone into action.
Our guests craned forward and arranged their phones, whilst our blessed photographer for the day, the wonderful Teegs, adeptly took up prime position.
Issy and Mark took centre stage.
Issy looked stunning and was relishing, it was clear, the sensation that things were, once and for all, now underway.
Over the next fifteen minutes we basked in the delightful informality and tenderness of Phoebe’s curation of our wedding ceremony.
With only a few clipped, unscripted moments (Issy taking control of a fan to wave the perspiration off Phoebe’s brow; whilst towards the back I could just make out the muffled heckles of Butler, prematurely suggesting “I do” before Richie could suitably gag him!) Phoebe spoke touchingly about our union, and about life.
The sky showed no signs of monsoon raining (as it had done at the same time the previous day) as everyone simultaneously squinted, fanned, and momentarily paused their lives and their conversations.
Time stood still, as Phoebe’s words injected a beautiful and wholesome dose of thoughtfully crafted sentiments into the thick air, and into the respective consciences and imaginations of her audience. I didn’t want it to end.
The moisture had disappeared from my mouth, and my cheeks strained at the sensation of being so happy, of being in love.
I also felt increasingly ready for a drink – as, it transpired relatively soon after we’d exchanged our rings, did a number of our party. Fortunately, we had catered very well for such eventualities.
At last we were wed.
Nine hours of flagrant revelry was about to get properly underway.