a[nother] wedding story

I hadn’t attended a wedding in years until this year, but last weekend we went to our third wedding in six months. Of course at our age (creak creak) these tend to be Second Weddings but let’s not dwell on that.

The first wedding of the year was at the zoo in the Balinese elephant village, on that hot steamy January night when the 10-year drought broke, and while I’m certain the bride was cursing [I know her well] the tropical downpour that made her evening so memorable, the setting was absolutely perfect for a monsoonal ‘weather event’. (Yes I’ve been perusing the Bureau of Meterology site, how’d you guess?) The elephants stretched and luxuriated in their pond behind the couple as they recited their vows in the thatched shed-thingie, although no one could hear them through the roar of the rain. (No one could see much either thanks to the dodgy uncle with the video camera who stood right in front of the couple, elbowing the professional photographer out of the way and making the entire gathering – with the exception of the very thin-lipped Mother of the Bride – giggle). I forgot my camera, and thus the evening remained unblogged for those of you considering perusing my January archives. The thank you cards arrived a couple of months later bearing a photograph of the newly weds under clear plastic umbrellas, standing amongst dripping tropical foliage, so I’m glad to see they embraced the elements and went with the flow. So to speak.

Speaking of dodgy uncles at weddings and yes there is always one, let’s have a little competition, shall we? Tell me what the dodgy uncle did at your wedding, and I’ll tell what he did at MINE and we’ll pick a winner. Well I’ll pick a winner. My blog nyah nyah etc.

The second wedding of 2007, you all will recall. A dawn[ish] wedding on a beach two hours’ drive from here thankyouverymuch followed by an all-afternoon into-the-evening reception so that we returned home at dusk, our entire day shot um, spent happily celebrating the blissful joining of twin souls.

So. Last weekend. The third wedding. The bride (whom I didn’t know, but who has met Mr Soup and the wee croutons once before at a soccer game – I elected not to attend, sports involving the outdoors, mud and balls not being my thing) was a Sicilian beauty, and the groom a fair Englishman (and a friend of my own fair Englishman husband). Ten minutes before we were due to leave I was still standing in front of my wardrobe gesticulating hopelessly, wailing I can’t wear black to a daytime wedding! I needn’t have worried. This is Melbourne after all. I wore the black.

Being Italian, being Catholic-Italian, there was a bit of bling.



Mr Soup did the whole lapsed Catholic thing of automatically standing, genuflecting, crossing and responding in all the right places, while I silently gawked marvelled at the religious PARAPHENALIA everywhere. I come from heathen stock so the theatricality of it all simultaneously amuses and horrifies me. But the priest was personable and humorous without being over the top, and there were lovely readings from people like Kahlil Gabran which I suspect aren’t a regular part of the Catholic wedding service. Plus there was a string trio playing in the balcony who played beautiful classical pieces during those quiet bits in the ceremony where the priest is busy handing out crackers and passing around a golden chalice full of germs wine, but who then launched into a rendition of Makin’ Whoopee as the newly weds exited the church. Again, a delightful touch but I suspect non-traditional. All in all the whole thing was lovely and as the woman next to me gasped in dazed awe, the bride looked just like a Sicilian Frido Kahlo with her strong beautiful features and pile of jet black curls. And I only heard one whispered giggle concerning concrete overshoes the entire day.


I am such a talented photographer.

The reception was held in one of the swankest restaurants I’ve ever been in, overlooking the river. The food was incredible.



Sadly, we knew only two other couples at this entire gathering, but the six of us had been put on separate tables where we knew no one. Why? To force us to meet new people? Sheesh. We waved forlornly at each other across the room and as soon as was possible shuffled around a bit and visited each other, so all was not lost. But I repeat, why do that? Everyone else seemed to be put with their friends. I think I’ll shut up now, I sound like a high school girl. (Please don’t separate us, Miss!)

Now I have to write something else because it was a lovely wedding really, and I don’t want to end this over-long post on a sour note. So I’ll think of something generous and loving and send happy shiny blessings out into the ether.

Because concrete overshoes just wouldn’t go with my outfit.