there went the first wedding Tweet

Jade & Oliver's wedding, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

At the wedding last Saturday, the two ladies you see on the left hand side were among the very few people dressed better than for a picnic, unless you count the bride (sweet low key, notice the dress and the bouquet that never got thrown—or was I smoking too much?) and one of the bridesmaids (right corner, on the lawn, shiny fuchsia dress). One woman in three wore a fascinator, which created very amusing hen or cabbage pictures in my mind, and only one, as shown, a hat. Don't get me wrong: fascinators are fine, just like any other headpiece (cloth, shoe, etc.), when they suit you. Like those magnificent red shoes suited that simple green dress.

Bottom line: I've seen a couple of nice pairs of shoes, a lot of men in kilts (whether Scottish by birth or by studies), and, overall, men better dressed than women, either those sitting at what's known as the top table or guests. I'm sure anyone could see me from a mile because I had a long, shiny, pink, vintage coat over my dress, so instead of being fine or in tune, I was standing out. Good. I know what to expect from the next three weddings now, though more people from London will come and they may plan to dress at least as good as they do when going to the office.

Before I make this post entirely about fashion (I think it was the chic that truly lacked), let me say that yes, that is peacock, rather bored with us as it must've attended too many receptions over the years. And, yes, that is an old car, which makes sense when the National Motor Museum is within driving distance—the wedding took place and the guests were accommodated in various places around the New Forest. As well, yes, that is a ride in a tiny steam train, while we all listened to songs enjoyed by the happy couple. And that caged thing next to the train is a tree (of many) planted by Liz in the large Exbury Gardens belonging to the Rothschild family.

While we're at it, and because I love all things counter-intuitive, I must insist that the wedding hasn't been posh; perhaps aspirational. Or am I spoiled by the Romanian habits? Foremost, it hasn't been a wedding for young people, in style, though one needed vast resources of energy to spend the first half of the day (church at 11 a.m.) waiting for the party, eating next to nothing, and drinking much too much dangerously sweet champagne, and the second part of the day (3-4 p.m. onwards)—queuing for food, drinking some more, and dancing until midnight. Instead of dancing, I strolled in the gardens among lilies taller than me, smoking, enjoying the rare ray of sun, and praying it would all be over as fast as the buffet food vanished. It didn't happen.

I don't know when I started hating weddings so much, but the first English one didn't help change the situation. I recall enjoying weddings at 4 y.o. (when it was about strangely elaborate ballet-gymnastics solos on the dance floor and bossing older boys around) and 11 y.o. (when it was about the bestest outfit already, and dancing with even older boys). Everything that followed was... yack, as far as I haven't already deleted the memory of it. It's hard to count just how many weddings I managed to avoid, some purposely, some because of earlier, firmer plans—thank God!

Imagine me last Saturday having to stand up and sit down, stand up and sit down, stand up and sit down every time we switched from singing (hymns, but not me) to listening in the church and from listening to clapping in the marquee (tent sounds so uncool, they thought). That's the essence of an English wedding for me: stand up, sit down. By now, you'd have asked several times: Isn't there anything you liked? Anything at all? There is: one of several bridesmaids of complex responsibilities (main, chief, etc.) read Us Two (Winnie the Pooh can always charge me a tear) in the church, an A. A. Milne poem she'd slightly modified for the bride and groom.

Then she got drunk at the party, shown her husband the finger, and thus made him dance.