Older, But None the Wiser.

This month Anna, my wife, and I celebrate our thirtieth wedding anniversary (pearl). Was it thirty years ago I was staggering around the wedding venue with £900 in my jacket pocket to pay the bar bill? It was a small affair (my mum was disappointed it wasn't a bigger do, with a marquee in the garden, ice sculptures, a firework display and a guest list to rival one of the Queen's garden parties). But the service at my family church, followed by a knees up at the Tudor Arms, Watford, suited us fine. It was perfect and we wouldn't have had it any other way. 

I was quite nervous on the day for several reasons other than the £900 (I think some people must have thought I was having heart palpitations the way I kept gripping my chest). My speech was a concern. My reputation for drinking too much at social functions preceded me, so I vowed to abstain until after the speech, when I made up for lost time. Both my mother and my Scottish father-in-law were/are larger than life characters, who weren't known for holding back. I was concerned a fight might break out between them so plans had been made (Operation Hadrian's Wall) to keep them apart. As it happened, they were both on their best behaviour and my worries were unfounded. 

The wedding photographer (my mum had contacted) had worked for the Watford Observer but did weddings as a sideline. With the result that all the photos had a regional-newspaper-feel to them. There is one of me being cajoled into the church by my twin brother. We have enjoyed the embarrassment on his face for the last thirty years (see photo), not to mention my very effeminate hair-do, which I assure you was the height of fashion at the time.

I had been a choirboy at the church and so had sat through countless weddings (we were paid 50p per wedding, result!), but now it was my turn to “repeat after me”. 

The organ started to play, me and my brother sidled out of our aisle, faced the alter and Anna pulled along side me looking amazing in her meringue (a meringue she can still get into!). Then the father- in-law-to-be, looking resplendent in his kilt and full Scottish regalia, joined the line up. And we were off...promising each other this, that and the other. I neither fainted nor started crying which I had witnessed many times as a chorister.

After our TV dinner, speeches and drunken merriment we staggered into the Hilton Hotel, Watford. The receptionist made us feel very special by informing us we were the fifth couple of newly-weds staying that night (I wonder if they're still married?). 

Occasionally, we get the photo album out and relive the day. Seeing the faces of loved ones who are no longer with us and the missing faces of people who were mere twinkles in our eyes. We chortle at some of outfits on show (my sister wore a brown dress and matching hat, which sends her into a relapse every time she remembers it [I think she looked nice], and my brother wore a 'mustard' coloured suit which he still defends to this day [see photo]). 

If I'd known then that thirty years on I'd be living in France as an Irish passport holder, with a French resident and a ferrel cat, I would have laughed out loud, before clutching my breast to make sure I still had the £900.

Photo: Stephen and his twin brother (and best man), Simon.