Marrying Mr (W)right

Actually, Dominic ruined what would have been a splendid pun by acquiring a PhD (in some fantastically esoteric field of mathematics) a few weeks ago, so congratulations. I'm still going to us it though. Still, girls, it proves that a PhD is a marital asset, doesn't it? DOESN'T IT?

The wedding was, as all weddings are, perfect. For me, this one was particularly perfect. It started in the pub, and ended with me managing to outsource a sister. I arrived in Stone to find the church locked. Couples were wandering around the station wondering where they'd get changed, so we all repaired to a fine local and took turns changing in the rudimentary loos while working out how we all knew Hilary. Unfortunately for my dear sister, several of them recognised me from her looks, though I'd like to think that they're more refined than mine. She certainly lacks the stubble and supplementary chins.

The nuptial mass was delightful - chatty priest, confused non-Catholics etc., though being on the front row meant that I couldn't hide a novel in my hymn book, as is my wont when pressed to attend such services. Still, Maria, the bridesmaid beside me, had a great line in gentle sarcasm which kept my mind off eternal damnation for a while.

The reception was a vast, sprawling affair held at the family home. I should plug some things at this point. The band were The Deadbeats, a talented and genial bunch who played stuff from every generation, and didn't give up until 6 a.m, or so I hear. To them I am indebted for the sight of seeing my venerable father do his chicken dance to Parklife, a song he's clearly never heard. Full marks for effort though.

Above all, please, please visit the Mudchute Kitchen if you're in London. It's the restaurant attached to Mudchute City Farm in Docklands. It's run by Philippa, one of Hilary's closest friends, who catered the wedding. Ladies and gentlemen, I could have wept, so good was the food. My mother grew the veg (and the flowers), and Philippa pit-roasted a lamb, accompanied by the most wonderful salads, vegetables, cakes and multiple kilos of cheese, washed down by stunning wines - including a twenty year-old Madeira - chosen by the Tate's wine buyer. Ales were barrels from Storm Brewing Co. in Macclesfield - well worth searching for.

The speeches were witty and warm - even my dad, whose favourite words are 'er' and 'mm', delivered from behind a newspaper. I lost the sweepstake for the best man's speech by some considerable distance - I suggested 13 minutes, Colm managed a magnificent 33 and a half, though in his defence, it was alternately witty, heartfelt and tender, and therefore worth every minute.

As to the social ambience - I hung with all my cool young cousins, graced the dancefloor once or twice, and made a dignified retreat around 2 a.m., finding myself a spot behind a sofa. Others camped out, or merely crashed where they fell, including the young gentleman pictured below, who was oblivious to the crashing of revellers breakfasting around him the next morning.

Any flies in my beer? Well, by the time thirty or so people had asked where my 'young lady' was, I was ready to yank their tongues out, chop them off and feed them to the chickens. Extra points for the well-meaning damnation of one older cousin who used the phrase 'well, not everybody can find someone, can they'. How my hands itched for a spade. Instead, I merely pointed out that all families need a slightly weird uncle…

Probably of interest only to family members, here are the photographs - click on 'Marrying Mr (W)right' (see, I told you I'd reuse that pun). If you know any of the people, or merely wish to have your say, click 'comment' and leave your witticisms.