I was somewhat curious therefore to receive a phonecall from Sally some days before their wedding requesting another meeting to discuss a 'surprise' she and James were planning for their guests. Sipping a lonesome vodka, then two others that evening, I pondered what this could be.
Three vodkas found their way to five. I once again found myself dancing enthusiastically around the lounge to the nostalgic sounds of Glen Miller, pretending I was elsewhere and drowning in the gleeful vibes of another era altogether; a magical place where romance and chivalry, red roses and handkissing still existed. A place where rounded hips and dresses and plump breasts represented femininity and ladies smiled shyly as the gents walked them home under a sky filled with moonlight and stars. A world where an invitation upstairs for coffee (coffee/'kofi:/n. 1 a drink made from the roasted and ground beanlike seeds of a tropical shrub of the genus Coffea; a cup of this; these seeds; the shrub 2 v. sexual intercourse) was unheard of (unless of course you were Holly Golightly or a lady of such ilk) and you could bathe in the innocent anticipation of the next romantic date. Afternoon tea, supper, a stroll in the park, dancing?
Waking somewhat painfully the next morning, I concluded that I had watched way too much Disney as a child and made a mental note that, if I was to continue dancing around the front room in future, I MUST get a curtain up there as soon as possible
James and Sally met me at 5pm the following evening in the Banqueting Suite. Handing me a Norah Jones CD, they explained that for some weeks now, they had been rehearsing a waltz for their first dance. Would I mind possibly playing DJ to their choreography for a few minutes so they could find their way around the dancefloor? I felt like a peeping Tom to their awkward intimacy, as I hit 'play' over and over. It was like standing behind someone in the supermarket queue as they entered their pin number. I wasn't quite sure where to look. The dance went on and on and failed every time. Overstepped the dancefloor; Sally didn't turn; James turned the wrong way; Sally tripped forwards when she should have slid backwards and James wasn't leading properly. Oh God. I felt their nerves and just didn't know what to say. So I didn't. I stood there, patiently pressing the buttons wondering how this would ever work on the day. Surely 45 minutes must have passed by now? I so wanted to tell them to give up and not put this unnecessary pressure upon themselves.
One last time and they had nearly got it, so they decided to quit right there while they were a little way ahead. Neither bride nor groom had moved passionately to the rhythm of their chosen music - there was no letting down of hair, no fun, no laughter. In fact, the dance was uninspiring and possessed very little other than the determined persistence in getting it right. It suddenly dawned on me however, that maybe this was one marriage that could work. As they woodenly shuffled around the dance floor, smiling nervously each time they got it wrong, I was reminded of what must have been the virginal fumblings of weddings long ago. Neither James nor Sally had snapped at the other, nor had they lost their tempers or thrown tantrums. They worked peacefully and respectfully in their task, doing their best to ensure that neither trod on the other's toes. Smiling at them both, I admired their determination to get this right and their tolerance for each other's mistakes, and felt lucky that I had somehow found the wisdom to see through their seeming lack of joie de vivre and passion, to spot what was in fact a gentle and loving partnership. I secretly wished them all the best and much happiness for their future together, and silently prayed to someone up there that on their big day, they would get it just right.
