The Wedding

After finishing my last shift before the wedding, I was strolling through town with the sun shining when I saw a muscular man doing an intense solo work out on a small piece of grass. I was in a terrific mood so thought I’d go for some witty repartee.

“Burpees are horrible, aren’t they? Who invented them, eh?”

I expected a laugh, perhaps even a high five, but got neither. The man frowned, shook his head and sprinted up a hill. His loss. He might have got an evening invite if he’d played his cards right. In the weeks leading up to the wedding, bouts of glee like this were not uncommon, although they’d soon be replaced by worry. What if it pisses it down? What if my hay-fever flares up and I sneeze on Louise’s frock as we are saying our vows? What if Louise doesn’t show up? Given her militant spreadsheet planning over the past eight months, I thought this unlikely but you never know.

I said I’d take care of the music. I’m a Grade 3 classical guitarist and I used to be in the punk rock band, Falling with Superman so it made sense. Louise lacked such credentials. Louise’s skill set re. organising weddings is more along the lines of:

- Being good at organising things

- Knowing exactly what kind of wedding she wants

- Not being a useless dickhead

So, she took care of the other stuff. A few bits and bobs here and there by the sounds of it.

Creating a wedding playlist is fun for the initial half-hour blitz but going back and reviewing it is a headache. A bit like writing a blog, I suppose. My original playlist had “Humble” by Kendrick Lamar on it, but after deliberation, I decided that the lyrics: “Get the fuck off my dick,” might be unsuitable for a party including guests aged under three and over eighty.

I also had to book the band and a harpist. Well, I didn’t have to book a harpist. Harpists are not compulsory. Harpists are also a complete nightmare. More on this later. One afternoon, I called the front man of the band to clarify a change in the set list. “Do you really think Wonderwall has been overdone?” Instead of hearing rock music and screaming groupies in the background, I was met by a flustered man answering the phone in hushed tones, saying he was busy. The accompanying sounds were typing, phones ringing and the muffled voice of someone nearby asking for a mother’s maiden name.

We drove down to Kent a few days before the wedding to sort out pressing issues such as Louise’s spray tan. For the uninitiated (I was at the time), a spray tan involves getting completely naked and standing up in an inflatable booth while someone sprays you. With tan. When Louise was in the middle of this process, two Portuguese cleaning ladies arrived at the house and let themselves in. When they walked into the living room, they were met with quite a sight. At least it wasn’t me. They would have called the police.

On Thursday afternoon, with talk of colour schemes, confetti and table plans in the Hilder household, I headed out for a jog. Despite having been to Louise’s mum’s probably 50 times, I still don’t know the area and realised I was hopelessly lost at the very moment a thunderstorm started. Lashing rain aside, it was quiet in the Kent countryside and I barely saw a soul, until 20 metres ahead, I noticed a lady walking her dogs. She’ll give me directions, surely? I got closer and closer, fake-coughing twice and exaggeratedly clearing my throat but she didn’t flinch.

“Um, excuse me?” I said when I was within touching distance.

She jumped out of her skin.

“What the hell are you doing?” she snapped. “You should not creep up on people!”

I apologised, felt guilty and didn’t dare ask for directions, running away quicker than my fitness levels typically allow. I made it back to the house eventually, but the route had been twice as far as I’d envisaged.

Arriving at the door, sodden and exhausted, I was greeted by Louise telling me to shower quickly as my auntie — our talented flower arranger — was arriving in 5 minutes to pick some flowers from the garden and I needed to help. No rest for the groom.

The day before the wedding, the weather was terrible once again.

“It will be fine if it’s indoors,” Louise said, her smile as convincing as that of a double-glazing salesman. The venue is called The Secret Garden. You’re hoping to use the garden, aren’t you? At least for a bit.

With the rain pouring, Louise’s mum and sister came with us to the venue to add the finishing touches to the marquee. This was no small task. The marquee — an empty tent — needed a lot of finishing. My task, owing to being tall, was to hang up some fairy lights. I’d brushed this off as an easy gig. A bit of Sellotape, 20 minutes? It didn’t work out like this.

It was decided the fairy lights would look best if they started in the four corners of the marquee and met in the centre. To accomplish this, we needed to thread some string through a hole at the highest point of the marquee, then tie it in a loop for the lights to attach to. At one point, Louise’s sister and a woman who worked at the venue were holding my feet as I stood on a high chair and tried to throw a piece of string tied to a knife through the hole. It took several attempts but when we eventually succeeded, the feeling was pure elation. And relief that nobody had lost an eye.

Louise and I said our goodbyes and I met my family and godparents at the pub we were staying in. This was a lovely evening and my nerves were settled with a few ales and tales from my auntie about my granddad’s erratic driving. My mum, dad and I had a midnight glass of Prosecco in teacups and I was happily exhausted by the time I got to bed, falling straight asleep. Until 4.30am. Then I was up for the day.

At breakfast, I told my brother that I’d had about 4 hours sleep and a solid 3–4 hours of fretting that my fairy lights were going to fall down in the middle of dinner and electrocute the guests.

“If someone had offered you 4 hours sleep before your wedding day, you would have bitten their arm off,” John said.

I thought this was over the top. I would have reluctantly accepted at best.

Right, I’m aware I haven’t even got to the ceremony yet. This is going to have to be a two-parter. My last two-parter was about getting drunk in France so I suppose the biggest day of my life deserves the same treatment.

To my delight it was a beautiful morning and putting our suits on in the sunshine was fun. As should be the case, my wedding suit is the nicest outfit I’ve ever owned, and the suit and I have already been through a lot together. I still remember the day I bought it; It was a frosty Saturday in January and Louise woke me up, waving two envelopes at me. I opened them. One letter was about a job I’d applied for, and wanted, saying I hadn’t got it. The other was a speeding ticket. Life ruined before I’d brushed my teeth. Why are they sending these things on a Saturday? The bastards.

As you can imagine, I was very pissed off about all of this. Louise, in the emotional conundrum of being angry with me about the speeding ticket but also having to express sympathy about my career failures, suggested we go into town. We went to John Lewis, I spent loads of money that I didn’t have on the suit and everything was fine again. Buying expensive things makes you feel better about yourself. Who knew?

As well as my mum who was ironing suits, my dad who was chatting to our German photographer about the Bavarian countryside and my groomsmen who were drinking beer, an old friend of mine was also at the pub. He lives in Vietnam and had flown back to England the day before the wedding. Assuming, logically enough, that the wedding would be in Leeds, he took a Megabus from London up North. Hours after arriving in Leeds, he discovered the wedding was in fact in Kent so hopped in a car with one of my best men and yo-yoed straight back down South.

I couldn’t eat my eggs Benedict for nerves but managed to hold down a Tracker bar provided by a resourceful godmother, before getting in the taxis. The breakfast of kings. The taxi driver was keen to talk about QPR’s failings last season, which wasn’t my primary concern, and we arrived at the venue an hour or so before the ceremony.

With the sun shining and the flowers and accoutrements set up, The Secret Garden had completely transformed from the previous day and looked stunning. The pollen count was low. Things were looking up.

Until the harpist arrived.

“Where shall I go?” she asked, interrupting a conversation I was having with the registrar about topics including me getting married very soon.

“Over there, perhaps?” I said, pointing to a chair near the altar.

“Oh, no. I can’t play outside.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The sun will warp my harp.”

“Right. So, what do you suggest?”

“Do you have an umbrella?”

For fuck’s sake. Harpists and their demands.

Fortunately, one of my groomsmen took over and helped the harpist to find an umbrella, and agreed to hold it in place for her during the ceremony. Not a task you might expect as a groomsman but he stepped up to the plate.

Holding umbrella for harp.

The guests began to flood in and I shook people’s hands while grinning like a maniac to try and conceal my nerves. Seeing all your friends and family in one place — all for you — is pretty overwhelming and, I’ll be honest, pretty great.

Everyone took their seats and, after a few minutes, the chatter died down and the diva harpist began to play the wedding march. I turned to see the bridesmaids and Louise’s mum entering The Secret Garden through an arch and felt my heart began to pound. Louise walked in on her dad’s arm, a few steps behind and looked incredible. I felt my eyes dampen but fortunately, the walk from the archway to the altar was unusually long, so I had time to compose myself without breaking down into floods of tears. I’m a man and therefore not very good at writing about my emotions, but seeing Louise walking down the aisle was quite possibly the best moment of my life. As I’m in danger of sounding soppy, now is an appropriate time to remind you that I nearly put a Kendrick Lamar track on our wedding playlist and I happen to like him as an artist. So there.

The ceremony went well. My brother did the original gag of patting his pockets as though he’d lost the rings, neither Louise nor I cocked up our words and both of our mothers gave fantastic readings, which nearly set me off crying again.

I’d say Kendrick Lamar’s second album is my favourite.

After the ceremony, on the crest of a wave, Louise and I bounced around chatting to our guests, having drinks on the grass and having our photos taken. I’d been advised by a couple of married mates that it is important to try and grab some time alone with your wife on your wedding day as it is easy to get swept up by the excitement and hardly see each other. Thinking this would make me look good, I put the idea to Louise and suggested we go for a short walk. Within two minutes I’d lost Louise and was talking to my friend about the illustrious career of the Italian footballer, Luca Toni.

The wedding breakfast was excellent and surprisingly I was only asked twice why it is called a breakfast when it is, in fact, in the afternoon. This is below the average, isn’t it? Aided by a timely recent presentation skills workshop at work, my speech went as well as I could have hoped. I did accidentally say the word, shit but I didn’t see any disgusted parents putting their hands over their children’s ears, so I think I got away with it. Afterwards, my Irish friend assured me that shit isn’t even a swear word, which is pushing it.

I had three best men, which you may deem excessive but it worked well. Their speeches were exceptional and I was grateful that, while they certainly came close, none of the stories crossed the line and I found myself in that sweet spot of feeling horribly embarrassed but not quite wanting to sink into a hole in the floor.

Louise’s dad pulled a surprise out of the bag with a song that he and his wife had written and recorded at a studio in Kent. The lyrics were very thoughtful and, having never known him to be a singer, I was impressed that he could hold down a tune. His wife later told us that he’d been auto-tuned, but that’s by the by.

To close the speeches, I had one more announcement to make and stood up.

“So, um. Louise is pregnant.”

Note that I did not say “we are pregnant.” A man who says “we are pregnant,” is no friend of mine. He is not pregnant. Not even a little bit. I sat down again, while Louise’s mum prodded me and suggested that I might want to provide a bit more information, which I eventually did. Louise was 12 weeks pregnant, so the timing was ideal for the reveal. Apart from a couple of leaks, we managed to keep this a secret, which was difficult. Especially when talking to pals at the pub after three pints.

“So, anything new with you, Andy?”

“No, not really. Work’s been quiet.”

Everyone seemed delighted for us and it was a sweet moment. It’s difficult to talk about our wedding day without sounding like I’m bragging about how great my life is. It was not always this way. Let me remind you of that cold January morning; two letters, no new job, one speeding ticket.

Shortly before our first dance, Louise had a panic.

“I’m not doing it.”

“I’m sorry?”

“If we don’t do it, nobody will notice.”

We’d been going to dance classes for months because of this. I’ve spent Monday evenings torn away from Monday Musings, stood awkwardly in Hawksworth Village Hall while the dance teacher tells me I need to work on my New Yorker. I wanted to do the dance. However, while I disagreed with Louise about this matter and thought that people might notice, I didn’t want an argument with my pregnant wife on our wedding day. Who does?

“Fine, I guess you’re right. Let’s just not do the first dance, then.”

Louise told her mum she didn’t fancy doing the dance and she said.

“But you have to?”

So, we did it.

It went fine. I forgot the finale but by this point, it didn’t matter. People had joined the dance floor and some men were loosening their ties. My duties were over. I could have a beer.

The rest of the evening flashed by in a joyous blur of drinking, dancing and trying to talk to as many of our guests as possible. When people congratulated me on the baby news, I kept repeating the sage words, “It’s time to grow up,” although this was undermined by my shirt being covered in Jaeger bomb.

It was a terrific party and Louise and I could not have asked for a better day overall. Getting married is great. Harpists are not.

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