Weddings are like number 15 buses; you wait six months and then two come along together. In fact so much like number 15 buses, they had two of those at the wedding too. Just to emphasise the point. Alright, and to take the guests to the reception venue. But I’ll take the symbolism over the pragmatism any day. Or night. Cos it was night. Itself a very unusual time for a Jewish wedding. They normally start around lunchtime and then go on til after midnight. Just to get the most… the most… value for the dress? Because it’ll never be worn again? The most… enjoyment for your guests. That’s it. Or the most activities. So the marching band and trapeze artists won’t interrupt the firework display; the Red Arrows fly past won’t spill the champagne; the arrival of Adele, Beyoncé and Taylor Swift won’t interrupt my eating.

So as this one was on Saturday it started at 6. Because Saturday is the Sabbath and you can’t get married until its over. Because there’s lots of things you can’t do on the Sabbath, like ‘doing work’, like ‘causing a spark’, like… probably playing tennis. So in case, when the bride arrives on the scene, sparks might fly, or she might spontaneously combust, you have to wait til the Sabbath ends. Then you can do, as the bible says, whatever ya fucking want! Hence weddings normally on Sundays.

The nuptials were special, conducted by Mr and Mrs Rabbi. A husband and wife team, the Mrs of which is the groom’s sister. Oh, that’s unusual. In so many ways. But all good. Personal. Real. Then afterwards we went to a fab bar in Farringdon for the party. And that’s where the number 15 buses came in. Because they took us from Belsize Park to the City. In that fantastic, rumbly, rattly, 20-mph whizz of open-doored (hence Omicron safe?) lumbering. I love the old Routemaster buses. I may have to get one.

And there didst we parteeeee. As it is written. And a wonderfully happy parteee it was too. Eating, drinking, dancing, more drinking, then more drinking. Which was all fine because we came home by tube!!! Yes, me in my glad-rags and Princess Mel in all her finery, on the post-midnight Northern Line with all the vomiting homeless and tattooed pub closers. Actually it was in no way unpleasant and got us home far quicker than the non-available Uber could have. I was possibly the most drunk person on the carriage.

Happy Monday

A xxxx