He mumbles incoherently for ten minutes, we have vows and kisses and tissues and he goes back to mumbling drunkenly. Not a dry eye in the house apart from the three of us trying to contain our laughter and failing. The bride comes out like an angel and meets her fiance in the gorgeous gardens under the floral arch–and it’s picture perfect. So he blunders into position after falling over one of the benches. Let’s say, he’d stopped for a wee refreshment at his prior engagement. So he trundles up the mountain in his clapped out old car and almost falls out of it in his bright pink blazer. The sun shone, the bride was glorious and her fantastic parents were too bowled over with love of their beautiful daughter to take any notice of what the celbrant was waffling on about. We were at a chateaux for a hundred in France. I was reminded this weekend of a brilliant irish celebrant who we met at a wedding a few years ago. May your blarney be blissful and your leprechauns be handsome.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |