A Civil Partnership

I am honoured to be able to use this sentence and mean it:

The bride rocked an American apparel lace catsuit. Her g-string and breasts clearly and gorgeously visible. A wrestling belt bisected her torso. Her Mohawk quivered gently as she shivered, teeth chattering in the brisk morning air of Bow.

Her groom stood tall in gold hi-tops, silver spandex legs topped with a white tux. A peach tutu swung about her as she turned to and fro, eyes sparkling at her guests. The sky - a perfect blue-bird blue - had dressed for the occasion. Even the sun had his hat on.

The wedding party made their rag-taggle way towards the registry office. A collection of gender-bending friends (their chosen families) and a confused pet - each carrying a single flower - whooped up Bromley High Street and onto Bow Road.

The staff at the Registry Office smirked.

We filed in to the serious room designed only for waiting, and decorated the stern furniture. The wedding attendant looked slightly nervous. The security guard merely laughed. It did look farcical but actually wasn’t. A universal feeling gripped the room.

Laughter bubbled up into each gullet, threatened to spill from each grinning mouth. The unanimous feeling was reflected on every face: wedding-happy grins smothered us all. Lucky – the ring-bearer and only sausage dog in the room – skipped happily from guest to guest as we awaited the call and we admired each others finery. ‘Nice wig!’ ‘Nice boa!’ ‘Nice tits!’

Periodically Lucky would grow frustrated, snapping at the pink bag attached to his back. The bag contained the ‘rings’ (or lockets, hastily purchased the day before at Spitalfields Market the bride confessed.) Each contained a lock of the others’ hair.

None of us could quite believe we were here.

The wedding attendant stepped finally into the waiting room and opened the double doors. “Will the guests please be seated.” Much guffawing and last-minute introductions, (“Hi hi, yes, I’m with the bride, nice to meet you too!”) and the party cleaved to people the chairs each side of the aisle.

Then, signalling time, the first bars of the wedding song chimed forth and everyone shut the hell up. Warren G’s ‘Regulate’ filled the room. We giggled and nodded our hip hop heads in approval.

“It was a clear black night, a clear white moon Warren G was on the streets, trying to consume…” and, on cue, the gaggle of chosen grooms-men, best men and maids of honour hotstepped smugly up the aisle.

The groom was waiting with tears in her eyes. Then in strutted the bride, bouquet in hand, Mohawk still quivering.

Vows were exchanged. Lockets were exchanged. Tears were shed. Photos snapped. The groom, laryngitis or party husky, said “I will.’ The bride acquiesced also. We cheered. Lucky howled, pleased as punch that his mistress had been made an honest woman.

A poem was read about wings carrying two souls and then we followed the bride into the garden where, grinning further still, she shivered under the perfect blue-bird sky and said, “Let’s go to the pub.”

The Bow Bells was the venue for the wedding breakfast: here platters of chips and two bottles of vintage cava were shared. Pool was played. Jokes were cracked. Arrangements were made for this party and many more. We had to bang on the door to get them to open up for us. “We’ve just got married!” the newly-weds gaily declare. “Happy new… I mean congratulations!” the barman said, wiping sleep from his eyes.

The past was a mirage we’d left far behind. And now they were married, joined together forever.