This is the story of my surreal wedding day. Now to appreciate the full extent of the horror of the day we have to go back just over a week…
I was living in a very pleasant flat in Belsize Park, sharing with a German girl and my landlady. The room I had was spacious and quiet. My landlady, a good friend of mine, was away in Singapore, where she lived six months of the year.
About a week before the wedding, I arrived back to find my flatmate in a bit of a state. Earlier, she was disturbed by a burglar, who had come into her room. Minute as she was, she made him empty his pockets before allowing him to leave (she didn't want to totally antagonise him - perfectly understandable). She didn't want to call the police and we checked around to see if anything was missing. A couple of packs of cigarettes were the only things at that time I noticed were gone. To be on the safe side, I cancelled several of my landlady's accounts as I could see a lot of her financial stuff had been turned over and couldn't find some of her passbooks.
There was not much of my stuff left at the flat because my fiancé had taken most of it to his mother's flat, which was where we would be living. A pile of bags were stacked at the bottom of the stairs ready for him to pick up later that evening, and I didn't notice that a wedding present was missing until very much later - a glass Delft cheese board.
I should also explain that I was four months pregnant at the time. The previous month saw me running around making my bridesmaid's dress as well as my own. I wanted the wedding early so I wouldn't look like a beached whale in the wedding photos.
With two days to go, it started to snow. This was 7 February 1991 and I was to travel by train down to my parents that evening. London rarely, ever gets snow; the occasional light dusting was nothing. This was different: it snowed heavily and non-stop all day. Come the evening all trains out of London were cancelled and I was stuck. All of my belongings, including my sheets and duvet had been collected by my fiancé. I slept, shivering (the central heating wasn't up to much in my room and my heater had gone as well) fully dressed and wrapped in my coat.
The next morning I found a cab willing to drive me to Liverpool Street Station. London was strangely deserted; it was very eerie. Suitcases in hand, I found a train and boarded. The journey to Frinton-on-Sea was slower than usual because it stopped at every single station on the way. Luckily my parents only lived a few hundred yards from the station and I arrived, slipping and sliding, just before lunch.
After eating, Mum and I went to deliver the cake to the hotel where the reception would be held. The snow was very deep outside and we carefully transported the cake that my mother had lovingly made inside, where upon the icing then cracked.
We were shown the room, where the reception would be held. It was literally raining indoors. A tank upstairs had burst and spilled its contents. Staring at the deluge from the doorway, we were assured by the owner it would be fine by the next day. With misgivings, we left.
Because I didn't live that close to my church anymore, the rehearsal was to take place later that evening. Soon-to-be-husband had not arrived and I was beginning to get slightly worried. The news was full of crashes, cars breaking down and jams for miles.
A phone call from one of my future sister-in-laws did not help. We were moving into my fiancé mother's flat after the wedding and it had just been burgled. My sister-in-law's jewellery case had been nicked. We waited and waited and then cancelled the rehearsal. I think Mr Beer was very relieved at not having to go out that evening.
By now, we were receiving cancellation after cancellation because people couldn't travel. Finally, the phone call from the fiancé. After two hours with the traffic not moving, he had had to abandon the car on the A12 and he, with his best man had to walk three miles through the snow to get to the railway station. At least he was safe and well and still on still way. He arrived after 10pm and I told him I'd see him at church.
The snow was still lying thick on the ground but the sun was shining. My bridesmaid and I (I only had the one, I didn't want loads) dressed. I was wearing non-sexy, thermal pants and long-sleeved vest under my dress. I had these gorgeous white, embroidered, tights that were a bit too tight due to my expanding stomach. Yes, I cut them and prayed they would stay up; they didn't make it anywhere near my waist. My hair was curled and primped, put up and pinned with silk flowers inserted in line down the back.
Finally, my father and I were alone in the house waiting for the car to pick us up. The snow was still inches deep and I was wearing my wellies so as not to get my silk shoes wet before the ceremony. We hardly spoke; he just squeezed my hand in the car.
At the church, I slipped them off and tried to avoid a friend taking snaps with them on, I was ready. With my hand tucked in the crook of my father's arm, we began our slow walk down the aisle.
A couple of months previous when I talked to the organist about the music we would like, he said he was learning the piece (which I have totally forgotten the name of) and was assured he would be able to play it. He lied. To this awful out of key, mashed up music, I sedately made my way to my future husband, trying hard not to look too pained. (I have a cassette somewhere and may upload someday.)
He was miked up and the first time he replied a massive amount of feedback screeched out of the speakers. "A bit toppy," from him was the understatement of the day but made everyone laugh.
The hymns were in the wrong order. At least the organist didn't mess them up. The vows were short and the papers were signed. Phew! Married at long last.
Next came the photos. We stood on the steps whilst the photographer tried to take some shots. The wind was whipping around and my hair was deteriorating to a wild mess. Mum to the rescue. She had enough and told him we'd have the rest done at the hotel. My hair was irretrievable and I flinch at some of the photos.
We had a hot and cold buffet and everyone tucked in. The room was amazingly dry and not a trace of the water was seen. Then came the speeches or not…
My father talked seriously and sincerely for a short time - then it was time for the best man. Oops! He hadn't actually written anything and was looking to me to tell him what to say. I mean how difficult is it? Thank the bridesmaid and tell a few, but not too blue, reminiscences of the groom. (I have written a few speeches for best men in my time before this.) So there I was trying to talk out the side of my mouth to tell him who to thank etcetera. Talk about farcical.
There was no dancing afterwards; everyone just drifted towards the bar. The photos arrived a couple of hours later and people put their orders in. It was now early evening and people began to drift away. With no dancing, there was no point in staying. In any case, I wanted to try out the four-poster bed waiting for us upstairs.
It was a bit on the small side and sagged a bit in the middle. After a bit of fun, we decided to go out and ordered a cab to my old local. I'd forgotten to pack my coat in my overnight case and wore the cape from my wedding ensemble. All our friends were there and we drank and played darts. At closing time, we ordered another cab and returned to the hotel.
The next morning we were woken by a phone call from the police at seven, informing my husband that if he didn't move his car, it would be impounded. Also the car had been broken into. Great. We dressed quickly, ate breakfast and was presented with a bar bill the best man had kindly charged to us. Fantastic!
We hadn't planned a honeymoon; we were just going to motor round the country and stay at various Travel Lodges. Rushed back to my parents, picked up my other suitcase and hightailed it to the railway station.
The train journey was uneventful and we arrived in Brentwood mid-day. As the junction where my husband had left the car was some way from the train station, he left me with the luggage in a MacDonald's.
Two hours later, I was beginning to get very worried. Finally, he turned up. The cab driver had dropped him at the wrong junction. As the cab driver did not have enough change for the twenty-pound note my husband had proffered, he hadn't been paid yet. I think we were justified in not going to find him.
Everything that was inside the car was gone: tools, my ghetto blaster, hubby's football boots (he's never played again) and a wedding present. We decided to cancel the tour and headed for home. Went to the East End and had a very nice curry, before popping in at the snooker club.
When we arrived back at the flat, we found the burglars had entered through a trap door outside the flat, crawled along and broke through the ceiling, leaving us a nice mess to clear up. The mattress we had bought was placed in the lounge and the next day we bought a Vax, which cleared up the mess brilliantly. (We still have it.) The next few nights were spent gazing at the enormous gap and smelling the pigeon pooh. Hubby, not waiting for the freeholders, boarded it up. Eventually it was plastered over and painted.
That was in 1991 and we're still happily married. Life could only get better.
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