White Wedding - Original Writing

White Wedding - Original Writing

As I hurried towards the church I realised, with that cold, sinking

feeling one often gets at such occasions, that I was even more late

than I had previously thought. There were rows of cars lining the

streets around the church and no more guests were arriving. They all

must be inside.

I quickened my pace across the dewy grass and then began to jog, but I

quickly slowed back down again to a brisk walk as my skirt began to

ride up and my hair escaped from my bun.

Having been unaccustomed to the amount of traffic in British streets,

I had taken liberty with my time and had set off at eleven o’clock.

For most of the morning I had sat slumped in my green Rover in a

blockade of automobiles, horns blaring, people yelling and the

velocity approximately ten inches per minute. I had underestimated the

impediments of Monday morning traffic.

Now, as I trotted through the graveyard, I made a mental note to

leave, in future, at least two hours earlier than I usually would have

done in Mongolia.

I checked my watch. Twelve thirty. I was fifteen minutes late. I

quickly approached the church and paused to gaze at it for a moment.

English architecture was so different from Mongolian. The church was

majestic and stately, but at the same time very pretty. The huge walls

were built of heavy, sand-coloured stone slabs and a single turret

spiralled up from the front of the building, roofed with red-brown

slate. Elaborately carved figures were inset into the walls; one, I

recognised as the Virgin Mary, bent over her child in her arms. There

were other figures too, but they were unfamiliar to me, their features...

... middle of paper ...

..., shrieking insanely, while he choked and spluttered

as it got steadily tightly and tighter. Eventually somebody emptied a

pitcher of orange squash over his head, and he stood dripping and

bedraggled but no longer on fire.

Somebody was shoving me towards the exit. I felt maybe I shouldn’t

have had so many drinks. I was just in time to see a portrait of Queen

Victoria burst in flames before I toppled out of the door onto the wet

grass.

The heavy metal could still be heard booming from inside. I was lying

face down on the ground. I breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of damp

peat and grass. I watched with interest as a ladybird scuttled past my

eye. I’d never seen one in such close proximity.

There was the whining siren of a fire engine approaching. I wondered

vaguely if all English weddings were this much fun.