Nine years ago it was a bright sunny day, and a new page of #PaulsonsChronicles started.
The little Victorian house was in a bit of turmoil: the bride just came back from her hairdresser’s appointment, and a big silky flower, ecru and rosy, was stuck to her hair. The bride was doing her makeup, thinking that something would definitely go wrong—either the foundation would splash everywhere, or the eye shadows would be too powdery. But no, everything somehow turned out to be perfect.
As anxious as he was inside, the groom looked absolutely calm and serene and repeated to the bride in distress that everything would be fine. And then, she wore her highest heels, took her train in her hand, and the day began.
Oddly enough, I remember it as clearly as if it were only yesterday: our street beaming with radiant autumn light, how we went in the cab—a very large one (L. was a bit sad that it didn’t look “retro” enough, but it was comfy anyway), my prickly bouquet with delicate tiny roses, still with dew on their petals—my friends had fetched it just in time from the flower shop on Magdalene St.—the rose scent was sublime, our way to Shire Hall, the ceremony, Pachelbel’s as its main melody, the photo shoot when our photographer, a jolly guy, cracked lots of silly jokes, and we laughed our heads off (for the very first time in my life I didn’t worry that I would look dreadful in the pictures), and then to La Margherita, where we had our small reception (the owner, an Italian lady, still remembers us, and it’s precious), and Magdalene Bridge where we stood, and tipsy girls from the punts screamed “Happy Wedding!” “Enjoy!”
And so we did. And it was the happiest day in my life, which I will remember forever.
Happy Anniversary, my angel.
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