A London pub. A ridiculously amazing black and gold Temperley dress. An even more ridiculously amazing person wearing it. Bridesmaids in black. The most bighearted, loveable guy, glancing out of the window to see The Cab arrive. Their guests shaking hands, then their shaking hands as the words are repeated. And everyone smiles and smiles and every room is full to the brim with love. Polish cherry booze ready for toasting. Roast dinners for wedding tea. Big pub windows and even bigger glasses of wine. The proudest sister standing to speak and standing ovations for best men, one in his socks, arms aloft. Walks to red bushes down the street and (me) trying not to be run over by double decker buses while taking pictures of the brilliantly lovely wedding party. (Thank you bus herding gang of dreams). The best not-a-wedding-band sirens calling everyone to the dancefloor. The longest pork pie I’ve ever seen. Flowers and chutneys from mum’s deft fingers. Hands reaching for the ceiling, for each other, for old times, new times, singing louder than the song playing… and did someone just remember how to breakdance?
A hundred more memories. Easy. Only one day like this though.
Ula and James got married.