So thirteen years on from my wedding day, I realise that my wedding video is still unedited. What’s that phrase “The shoemaker’s children are always the worst shod”? Or something. Disgraceful.
I found the three unedited tapes whilst doing a clearout recently, and casually mention the fact to a friend who was there on the day.
“Hey, is there any footage of the cars?” he asks, smirking.
I don’t remember if there is any footage but I know why he’s asking.
The cars were just about the only item concerning the general organisation of my wedding that my mother wasn’t involved in. I don’t remember why, but it must have either involved severe crippling illness or being irrevocably, physically trapped under a very heavy object, because she was there champing at the bit in every other wedding-arrangement based scenario.
The wedding cars were also the last thing to get sorted, and to be honest, pretty much after deciding on my shoes, dress and hairdo, I was fairly scunnered by the rest of the whole arranging ordeal, anyway. I did know, however, that I wanted an old fashioned Bentley but beyond that, I was pretty easy.
My mum insisted that me and Dad scope out a few places one Saturday, either from beneath the large meteor that had landed on her from out of nowhere, or from a hospital intensive care unit; I can’t remember which. Whatever state she was in, she didn’t seem to notice that neither me or my dad couldn’t be arsed.
So me and Dad went off to check out a range of chauffeur services. A wide range of…one. We went to the local garage who ran a chauffeur service on the side, had a quick look at some cars that had a thick build up of snow on them in the forecourt, picked out a nice old Bentley and seemed to make a fairly uninformed decision about the car for bridesmaids and mother of the bride. I don’t remember what we did for the rest of the afternoon. There’s every chance we went to the cinema.
Fast forward six months and the uninformed car for Mum and Bridesmaid was the first to pull into the drive on my wedding day. It was a white Mercedes. Phew,so far, so good. But I think the words of my aforementioned friend sum up the next revelation quite well.
“That’s the first time I’ve ever seen a wedding car with a full body kit.”
Have you ever seen a spoiler on a wedding car? Have you ever noticed bling bling alloys and chrome wheel trims on a marital chariot? What, not even in Trailer Trash Brides Magazine or one of the weddings of Pamela Anderson?
Dad quickly bundles Mum and Bridesmaid into PimpMyBride. He’s pretty certain she hasn’t noticed, and we’re hoping that the inside of the car doesn’t include furry dice and a skull-topped gearstick to give the game away.
Once safely dispatched, we await the arrival of what we hope is a Bentley that doesn’t have Go-Faster Stripes or flames down the wings.
It doesn’t have either…thankfully. But once inside, something dawns on me,
“Dad?”
“Yes…”
“Can I ask you something?”
Dad looks slightly uneasy. Surely his daughter is not going to ask him for some cheesey marriage advice?
“Is it just me, or is our chauffeur not the spitting image of Fred West?”
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September 27, 2008. brides, Dad, Fred West, serial killers, wedding day, weddings. .
