We celebrated Ian and Svitlana’s wedding in London at the weekend, and had a lovely time, although in our case we had an inauspicious start.
We travelled down by train from Rugby, and arrived at the station in plenty of time to buy sandwiches and a paper – for once we were quite relaxed as we settled into the waiting room 15 minutes before the train arrived. I sat planning the underground route on my phone, not watching the clock. Chantal sat looking out at Platform 5 waiting to the train to arrive. It arrived on time – at platform 6, behind us. We dashed out just as our train pulled away from Platform 6. Bugger. Platform and ticket office staff were only able to offer a later slow train, or the option of paying extra for the next fast train, arriving only a few minutes later than we originally planned. We decide on the latter.
The train arrived on time, and was full. We squeezed in, and resigned ourselves to standing by the doors for the full journey, until after a short while Chantal spotted a spare seat taken up by a large bag, had suitably curt words with the young girl in the next seat, before discovering that it wasn’t her bag, but the bloke on the other adjacent seat decided that he should move it before Chantal turned her attention to him, and she was able to sit down. I stood reading the paper and only once lurched back to tread heavily on the left “Ugg” boot of the young girl behind, which her sister (I presume) found most entertaining.
At least the journey was quick, the subsequent tube trip uneventful, and we even navigated successfully to the Knightsbridge pub where everyone was meeting. Ian, Andree, Chris and Lucy were already there, and others arrived over the next hour or so – with just 20 or so guests, and time for a couple of beers, it was nice for people to chat (and in my case change into smart-but-not-comfy shoes under protest), and, with the exception of Ian who was distinctly fidgety, we were all nicely relaxed in time to walk to the Church.
The Russian Orthodox Cathedral is an impressive Victorian building at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. Since the Church was in the process of being renovated, we walked along a covered corridor to a modern “chapel” at the rear of the Church, waiting respectfully outside until Robert, Svitlana’s friend who was to give her away, since her parents had not been able to travel from the Ukraine, announced that Svitlana had asked us all to wait in the chapel. The first thing noticeable was the absence of chairs, and so we all stood happily chatting, maybe a bit too cheerfully, since the Priest appeared from behind some screens, and announced that we were all very welcome to his church, but could we kindly keep our voices down.
Svitlana arrived looking delightful, and the service commenced. Ian and Svitlana stood in the centre of the chapel on a ceremonial scarf, facing the priest. The service was sung, partly by the Priest, and partly by two ladies in anoraks joining in harmoniously from the back, and was mostly in English. The readings (sung!) differed somewhat from those used in a Methodist, or indeed Anglican, service, and an often used reading about love (“Love is patient, love is kind….” etc) was replaced by one stating that the woman should submit to her husband – a theme repeated in the service. It appears that Svitlana shall be the Handmaiden of Ian. Yeah, right…
Actually, according to the Priest, she wouldn’t be the handmaiden to Ian. She will be the handmaiden to John. Throughout the service Ian was referred to as “John”, or occasionally “Ian John”. If Ian has a middle name it isn’t John, and every time that Ian was referred to as John there were dark mutterings and grumblings from Andree. It was only after the ceremony that Ian explained that when baptised into the Orthodox Church, he had to have a saint’s name, and since no matter how hard you search the bible, you will not find Saint Ian, he adopted “John” – Scottish for “Ian” apparently. The service was getting increasingly multicultural.
The Best Man and Bridesmaid were called forward to hold a crown, suspended a couple of inches above the head of the groom and bride for what must have been 20 minutes, throughout the actual ceremony, quite a feat. Since each was made aware of the duty just before the event, neither had had the opportunity of several days of press-ups in preparation.
The priest paraded the newly married couple around the altar, returning them to the ceremonial scarf where they stood to be greeted by us all, filing past to give them our enthusiastic congratulations. At this point it the couple may have been married in the eyes of the church, but not in the eyes of the law – but this anomaly was quickly rectified by the District Registrar, who had been sitting quietly in a corner throughout the service, and now performed the final rituals with the wedding register.
We gathered outside the church for the traditional photography and confetti, before heading for the restaurant for the wedding breakfast, stopping for more photographs, although Chantal and I missed out on some of these – one of us had left a phone in the pub, and for once it wasn’t me…. We already knew that the bar staff had kept it safe and we went to retrieve it.
We had our own room in the restaurant, and plenty of time to chat, take photos, and mingle before the food was served. The food was excellent, the company was excellent, the speeches were excellent, the “swing” styled music was excellent, and the beer was…….lager. Oh well, you can’t have everything. I am sure that I can speak for everyone, including me (who doesn’t “do” weddings…) in saying that it was a wonderful evening.
Afterwards Chantal and I were privileged to share a taxi with the newlyweds, and, along with Andree, were dropped at our hotel leaving Ian and Svitlana to go home to their flat, just a few minutes away, for some well-deserved privacy.
All I will say about the following morning is that I could not face the full English breakfast, barely managing a bowl of cereal. This only confirms my opinion that lager is not good for you, even when somewhat diluted with bubbly and red wine. Or maybe especially when diluted with bubbly and red wine. I was feeling a little more human when Ian appeared, and we followed him to their very nice flat, about a 10 minute walk away, where Svitlana produced plenty of reviving tea, pastries, and sandwiches and as a result I was back to normal by lunchtime.
Ian assured us that it was just a 10 minute drive to Brixton, where we, with Andree, would catch a tube for the 20 minute trip to Euston. I forgot that Ian has a tendency to be late.
There was the 5 minute walk to the car. Traffic was as always is in London, and it took 20 minutes to reach Brixton. Andree needed a ticket. The machine didn’t work. There was a queue at the ticket office. On the tube we calculated that we would just catch the pre-booked train from Euston, and then we stopped in the tunnel at a red light. We stopped again to “regularise the service” , whatever that means. At Euston we rushed onto the concourse, and ran as fast as Andree’s legs would allow to the platform. The driver waved as the train pulled away.
We had a Déjà vu moment as we trudged back along the platform, where to our delight we met Olya. Olya, a lovely Ukrainian lass, was one of the guests at the wedding, and I recalled that she worked for Virgin Trains at Euston. As we caught our breath, we explained that the train just leaving Platform 5 should have had three additional passengers on board, and she was reassuringly sympathetic, marking our tickets to state that we had missed the train by less than a minute, including her mobile number for queries, and directed us to the Midland Mainline ticket office, advising us that Midland Mainline should be able to transfer us onto the next available train. Midland Mainline wouldn’t. Midland Mainline just wanted to sell us more tickets.
We had plenty of time, and so re-grouped on the concourse to consider options. We phoned Olya, as she had suggested in the event of any problems, and she came to meet us, explaining that Virgin had a policy of transferring tickets, but that Midland Mainline could be “stubborn”. Despite our protestations that we would be able to buy tickets once we had decided which train to catch, she said that she would see what she could do. Bless her, she definitely did all she could. She found her supervisor, who agreed, in principle, to allow us onto the next Virgin train to Rugby, subject to the train manager’s approval. She found the train manager and he agreed that we could travel on his train. She called us, and told us to meet her at the gate, where she ushered through with a smile, directed us to the right coach, and waved us off, subsequently phoning us to confirm we were safely seated and to confirm that we would be able to travel on the “wrong” tickets without a problem.
Guess which train company we will use by choice next time…?
It was a lovely weekend, but I was glad that it was a Friday/Saturday weekend. I needed Sunday to recover. Photos to follow – once Chantal has edited the collection to a manageable quantity.
Technically we live in Oaktree House, but sadly the tree had to go.
We now have a thriving Oakstump at the front of the house.
