Dress from a charity shop, no cake and a midweek ceremony – but don’t think my second wedding is a joke
We arrived, my betrothed and I, at the register office to give notification of our marriage. It was the last possible moment we could have done it, because my divorce took so long to come through and his was so long ago that he’d lost the piece of paper. It was also the emergency walk-in morning, so everyone else needed an urgent death certificate, or was a too-old baby who’d missed the registration deadline. Tensions were high and everyone seemed on the point of tears, because they were bereaved, or they were seven weeks old.
I gave notice here the first time I got married, when the registrar was a Guardian reader and said merrily, “Well, I can’t see anyone coercing you!” I was hoping we didn’t see the same guy, though I’m sure they have a protocol for that, like waiters in restaurants when you go in with different dates on consecutive nights.
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