Not long ago, I rewatched on the Beeb that sweet little ole film The Graduate. What fun the Sixties were. How elegant their nymphomaniacs.
In the very last sequence, the Hero rescues the Heroine at the very foot of the Altar (or whatever one has in the U S of A in proddy churches) just after the Minister has said "You may now kiss the Bride", and the Wrong Man has indeed just kissed the Heroine.
It reminded me of what were, I think, the last nuptials I solemnised in the C of E. Or rather, of the rehearsal we did did beforehand.
The 'groom' was incredibly nervous. I couldn't make out why. I kept issuing all the customary reassurances ... "You needn't worry ... I'll tell you exactly what to say and do ... you don't have to remember anything ." ... but he still kept trembling.
When we had finished rehearsing, he spoke. "Father ... when do we get the bit about You May Now Kiss the Bride?"
"You don't", I snarled. "It's a revoltingly naff American custom. We don't do it over here."
His relief was palpable (although I didn't actually verify this by stroking him physically). "Oh thank God for that", he cried. "That's the bit I've been dreading most".
He subsided into being a normal human being.
Weddings, weddings. My fave wedding memory is of the first one I ever 'did' ... when the Bride's Grandmother had imbibed far too much. In a brief pause at the Reception when other voices had chanced momentarily to subside, this discerning little old lady was heard to pronounce, with loud conviction, "Bloody Vicar's the only good-looking man here".
Not that I was a Vicar. I've never been a Vicar. Plura indicta relinquam.