46 Years and Counting

It’s my wedding anniversary today.

23rd February 1980 was a wonderful day, filled with all the memorable moments a wedding should have, some planned, some… less so.

My dress was made by a local lady and cost the grand sum of £45 (the veil was extra, naturally). I had five bridesmaids. I bought the material, chose the pattern, and enlisted help, four dresses were made for them, while the chief bridesmaid bravely took on making her own.

There were meant to be two ushers—my brother and his friend. However, the friend decided a dentist appointment was more pressing and arrived too late for his duties, so I ended up with just the one. Not quite the grand entrance team I’d imagined, but we carried on regardless.

I wasn’t nervous at all beforehand—just excited. But when the church doors opened and everyone turned to look at me, something shifted. Seeing all my family and friends, many of whom had travelled a long way, I was suddenly overwhelmed. That’s when the nerves made their grand, uninvited entrance.

My uncle brought his teenage stepdaughter, whom I had never met. She stood at the church doors and smiled sweetly for camera, and, to my mild irritation, later appeared in every single photograph. A mystery guest who became a permanent feature of the album.

The reception was lovely, held in a beautiful venue. The cake was made by my auntie, and I still have the silver goblet that adorned the top.

Within three months, the place burnt down.

So technically, our wedding was unforgettable—and now also historically significant.

The evening party was just a few doors down, conveniently within walking distance. Jon and I actually lived next door to each other in adjoining houses, so in the gap between the two venues, guests wandered freely between them. It was quite something to discover members of my family had made themselves comfortable in his house.

First dances are often talked about, but I can’t for the life of me remember ours. I do remember guests forming an arch with their arms for us to walk through, which was lovely. The song? Chosen by the DJ… and apparently erased from my memory forever.

When we finally left, we had a long wait for a delayed taxi. Eventually, we were sent off in a flurry of confetti, most of which ended up covering the taxi floor. My new husband felt obliged to apologise for the mess, with an extra tip of 50p. Generous times.

We stayed at a local hotel that night before heading off to Blackpool for a short honeymoon. The next morning, I woke feeling rather unwell but was determined to carry on and make the most of it. After two mouthfuls of cornflakes, I rushed to the toilets – where I promptly managed to projectile vomit in a spectacular arc across the wall, including the mirrors. Not quite the romantic start we’d imagined.

Jon cancelled the honeymoon, and we returned to our new flat on the nineteenth floor of a block of flats. I spent the next four days lying on the settee, feeling dreadful.

Once I’d recovered, we ventured downstairs to the shopping precinct and did our very first shop at Tesco. We spent £8 and carried everything home in two boxes.

As Jon placed the boxes on the table, his back went. Completely. He was in agony for five days. It was horrendous, and we couldn’t even tell anyone, because frankly, no one would have believed us, anyway. It would sound too much like a comedy sketch.

Despite everything, I loved that flat—our first home together.

So yes, our wedding was memorable… and not always for the reasons you might expect. But wonderful all the same.