The cream-coloured, pearl-accented wedding invitation, replete with matching envelope, dropped onto the mat late last year. The invitation was to attend the wedding of my sister and her fiancé. I knew she was getting married, of course. We all knew. Ever since the day her now fiancé proposed to her, we had not only known, but been abuzz with excitement, primarily because the proposal was so unexpected. Having been together for the the best part of twenty-two years, eighteen of which had seen them living together, we had all naturally assumed that they were happy how they were, that they had made their commitment to each other when they bought their house together. Happy they undoubtedly are, but my pragmatic and apparently unromantic soon-to-be brother-in-law, pulled an absolute blinder on my sister’s fiftieth birthday back in April last year and asked her to marry him.
Since then, there has been decision after decision to be made. What to wear, what not to wear, corsage or no corsage, who will stay overnight with whom…the list goes on. In the end though, I know that all will go swimmingly. Why? Because my sister and her fiancé, both of whom love each other like nothing else on earth, are getting married, with all those who mean the most to them in attendance. There will then be the wedding breakfast, followed by speeches by the father-of-the-bride and the best man and the women will dab their eyes and pretend they’re not crying. A great deal of drinking will follow, as well as dancing to “Come On Eileen” and probably an ABBA medley. At the end of the night, the dance floor will empty as people drift away to their beds, while a few stick around for one more drink, while 10cc insist they’re not in love. And in this world of chaos and uncertainty, isn’t that what all the best memories are made of?