So sister Helen became a Cartlidge. Well, she changed her name on marrying. She'll always be a Stone to me, I guess, just as she'll always be my baby sister.
The service was pleasant at Caverswall Church, if climatically challenged. I was cold in my thick woollen suit so how Helen, Jill and Heather felt in their flimsy gowns, I can't imagine. Mark looked dapper, and when he said his vows I could tell he really meant every word. Intense is a good word, I think, to describe Mark's expression. Or maybe he was trying not to laugh. Both the bride and groom had a fit of the giggles at the rehearsal last week, but there were no such lapses yesterday. Helen just looked beautiful, as did my wife and daughter. But if I felt a warm glow inside it was lost in the cold.
At the reception both my dad and Mark excelled themselves with their speeches. Neither of them -- despite my warnings, I've been there -- bothered to write a few words down, and paid the price when Mrs Stagefright clasped them to her frigid bosom. Dad opened with something mildly amusing; everyone tittered, and then that was it for several long seconds while he desperately tried to follow it up. Poor sod, I felt for him. Mark, meanwhile, fell back on the old "My new wife and I..." gambit, which always gets a cheer. The food was pretty good.
The evening reception, complete with disco, was a huge success so far as Heather was concerned. She scampered off to the dancefloor and stayed there most of the night, only returning to the family grouping for sips of lemonade. A few people fell over, the worse for wear, while others watched and said silent prayers that it wouldn't be 'their lot' that let the side down next. The family Stone stayed upright, but that's cos we all sat in a corner nursing Cokes and lemonades. But, you know, I envied those that could relax and let themselves go on the dancefloor. They were the ones having the best time.
Three cheers for Mark and Helen!
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