The best laid plans can’t guarantee the weather
It rained. It wasn%26#39;t supposed to, but it did.
There were two opposing forces at play here. The forecasters who said it wouldn%26#39;t and the mother-in-law who said it would. I was rooting for the forecasters but I was clearly backing the wrong horse.
If there was one thing we were really counting on it was sunshine, but it was the one thing we had no control over all the long-range forecasts money can buy and all the reassuring words from the venue hosts about only two wet weddings in 15 years, couldn%26#39;t hold the weather at bay.
Anyway, the weekend got off to a cracking start.
Thursday night was devoted to heavy drinking given there was a day to recover properly, and that largely went without a hitch. Well almost. The best man did involuntarily evacuate his dinner all over his wife at about 2am but everyone, including his wife, eventually saw the funny side.
Friday was the day before the wedding and the boys all rallied around to erect the marquee, which sounds like a technically demanding task for a group in various states of delicateness, but it went surprisingly smoothly, not least because of the supervisor%26#39;s skill and patience.
Then those that had the stomach for it went fishing and the rest of the day was either spent putting wedding speeches through a final rewrite or just enjoying the day. And a beautiful day it was, which was lucky since that night we had a barbecue and everyone had the chance to relax, have a drink or two, catch up with old friends and family and get to know some new people.
If there%26#39;s one theme we picked up from experienced wedding-goers it was that one day isn%26#39;t enough to catch up with everyone properly and since so many of our friends and family had come from a long way away we were determined to create a bit of space around the wedding so people could make the most of it.
The first sound I heard on Saturday morning was snoring. The second was rain on the roof. Both were disturbing, but the rain slightly more so.
Everyone, not a meteorologist among them, spent the morning telling me the rain would pass and that they were sure they could see the clouds starting to break. But it was about as reassuring as the dentist telling you to relax.
Still, decisions had to be made and this is where my lovely bride%26#39;s family and friends have to take a bow. With the wedding due for 3pm a call had to be made over carpark or marquee for the ceremony and since the carpark had largely turned to slush by mid-morning it wasn%26#39;t such a tough call.
And then, with military precision, an army of helpers appeared and carried out an extreme makeover on the marquee. It can%26#39;t have been easy but they did an exceptional job. Meanwhile, for me, the countdown went something like this: 1.30pm come out of hiding, 1.45pm have beer while being careful not to enjoy it too much, 2pm contemplate another beer while carefully going through the possible consequences, 2.20pm shave, 2.25pm fight the urge for more beer, 2.30pm get dressed, 2.35pm undergo dress inspection by sister for any minor alterations and applying of flower, 2.45pm quick team talk and traditional belt of whisky, 2.46pm second belt of whisky since the first one barely even registered, 2.50pm take centre stage and wait nervously.
Then the short wait eyeballing the gathering crowd as crunchtime looms.
And then the moment I will never forget as long as I live the beautiful bride%26#39;s entrance.
For anyone who hasn%26#39;t married, I would recommend they give it a crack for this moment alone. I was told a lot of men cry about this point and thinking that this would be a touching display of emotion I was even contemplating getting my policeman friend to give me a wee squirt of pepper spray so the tears would stream on cue, but in the end, not a drop.
Instead just a dumb smile and apparently a slightly petrified look, as the bride, a frangipani-laced vision in white, glided gracefully down the aisle and it sank in that this picture of loveliness was there to marry me.
A sobering thought but a wonderful feeling.
The rest of the ceremony was a blur but in almost no time at all it was done, we%26#39;d done it we were man and wife Mr and Mrs Hunt.
And that was it. Wedding over, only partying left. Well almost.
Photos in the rain, for which it has to be said the photographers excelled themselves with their level of patience given the trying conditions and drowned-looking subjects.
Another army of helpers set about transforming the marquee into a party venue, then speeches, then food, then party.
Actually, the speeches were to see off the last of my nerves and I actually managed to get a couple of laughs. Not as many as the bride, however, who got the biggest laugh by recounting some of my early emails to her. I%26#39;m still not sure whether to take that as a compliment. The father-in-law, who has a bit of a gift for this sort of thing, gave a very funny speech and the best man gave a very touching one.
My brother the MC, having read the audience pretty well, set the tone beautifully largely, as predicted, by taking the mickey out of me. He was reasonably gentle, though, and the reviews were universally positive.
So, with that, the last of the formalities were the cutting of the cake, which was pretty straightforward, and the first dance, which could have been called a first shuffle on our account, and then the serious business of trying to relax and enjoy the band and make it round everyone to say gidday and thanks.
The rain never stopped and in fact got worse as the night went on, but under the marquee it could have been hosing down and nobody would have known or cared, well, except maybe the smokers.
The next day everyone gathered for breakfast, but the day was mostly clean-up and farewells and by early afternoon it was all over with just the waft of stale alcohol in the marquee to remind us that a wedding had taken place.
We%26#39;re now married and it feels not even a tiny bit different, although I%26#39;m sure once the post-traumatic stress disorder starts to wane it might sink in.
The wedding was a huge success but only because of the amount of work everyone poured into bringing it all together. We truly owe them all a debt of gratitude.
I would have mentioned the names of the band, the caterers, the photographer, the venue hosts and the hire company since they all did a fine job, but I couldn%26#39;t figure out a way to slide that in without making it seem gratuitous.
So if you are thinking about tying the knot, email me at stuhunt@nelsonmail.co.nz and I%26#39;ll be sure to pass on my recommendations.
We%26#39;ve also got a couple hundredweight of leftover plastic plates and cutlery I can do you a good price on.
Oh, and in case anyone was wondering, sadly, the chair covers couldn%26#39;t make it along, but the potatoes made up for their absence. In a surprise display of tactical cunning they stormed the Friday night barbecue in a carefully orchestrated stealth mission making it on to the table in not one but at least three different guises.
As for the honeymoon, we went to Thailand, but I won%26#39;t burden you with too many details not that sitting around and drinking a lot is all that interesting anyway.
Thailand I can%26#39;t fault, except maybe for the fact that they put mothballs in the urinals over there and my lovely bride would have you think she experienced fresh horror every time she jumped on the back of our scooter for the daily jaunt down the busy but decaying strip of concrete that passes for a road in Koh Tao.
As for being in the sun, well it was largely great, but since my torso is like the arctic tundra after a fresh dusting it took one brief peek at the sun and for the rest of the fortnight I sported an angry red streak down my left side. I may never learn.
Stewart Hunt%26#39;s amateurish attempts at making sense of married life will be chronicled in a new column starting on Saturday May 3.
