The call was an invite to a wedding. Chris and Catherine met over phone calls during one of Chris's cases (he lawyer, she insurance). He liked her voice. He invited her out. They met for drinks. They fell in love.
The big day was at Lauderdale House, a lovely house in Waterlow Park, on the edge of Highgate cemetery (I walk through this park on my way to visit the stiffs, or when I go to the Heath). Many of the usual suspects gathered for a quick drink in the pub, then cabs to the house. What a sweet venue. And when the moment came, Catherine came in and she really was absolutely glowing. I've never seen her look quite so lovely. Aaaah, the power of love...
Anyway, once all the "I do" stuff was out of the way, it turned into a completely stunning day. Top crowd, great food, excellent speeches (Tim B had picture props for the best man's speech, much was made of the gay bar stag night...), FREE bar (hoorah), top tunes (some interesting moves towards the end of the evening), and a really good laugh. Happening of the day had to be the bouquet throwing. Right at the end of the night, all the single ladies were asked onto the dancefloor. I tried to skulk away, but was pushed on by various well-meaning friends (bollocks). So I stood right at the back of the clamouring female crowd...in front of me was Washy, 6 foot tall male, to my side was Mr Randall. The bride pitched the floral prize...and it sailed straight over Washy's head and fell at my feet. I was sorta bending over to pick it up to give to Mr Randall, so he could give it to the lovely Silke (they'll be next, I reckon), when the most hilarious 70s slapstick moment occurred. Mr Randall clearly thought he could win this fair and square if he managed to fall on top of me after some rugby-hand-off style move and make a grab for the posy. I hope no-one saw my knickers in the mayhem, as I have a feeling it wasn't the most graceful landing...
Before
Randall trying to make it up to me
