A wedding

Chris and I were at a stylish wedding yesterday with eight of our friends, two of whom were the parents of the bride. The ceremony took place at the Notre Dame Basilica on Sussex Drive.

Weddings are just like plays, with guests and onlookers as the audience and the wedding party the main dramatis personae. Sometimes peripheral people get to play impromptu bit parts, such as the Ancient Mariner in Coleridge's Rime or Don spilling a vial of bubble mix (meant for blowing bubbles over the bride afterwards) all over his posh trousers during the church service so that Carol, sitting between him and me, found it well nigh impossible to control herself. Pure comedy. Luckily the chief protagonists, at a solemn moment in their part of the action, never noticed what was going on behind them. Michelle had come sweeping down the aisle to the strains of Pachalbel's Canon, her dress trailing behind her, the bridegroom, in a smart suit and bright pink shirt, waiting for the Symbolic Handover (which always affects Chris so much at weddings) from her father's arm to his.

The point of the bright pink was that the bride had been inspired by Louis Vuitton handbags in her choice of wedding colours—black and fuschia—the maids of honour in black dresses and strappy fuschia sandals. Later we sat on black satin chair covers for the wedding supper, each table (covered with a matt black table cloth and given the name and picture of a Parisian monument) strewn with "diamonds" or rose petals and bedecked with fuschia napkins shaped like flowers, monogrammed wine glasses and a centrepiece of silvery tealights on a circular mirror plus a pink rose on a decorated pedestal.

The venue for the wedding reception was the most famous club in town, its motto Savoir Faire, Savoir Vivre, its manager the father of the bride. The club's rooms are fifteen floors above ground level so that they offer marvellous views of the city, especially from the lounge where we congregated in our obligatory smart clothes for our appetizers (prawns, beef on sticks) and champagne. While waiting for the Cutting Of The Cake Ceremony, regally announced by the Best Man's brother, some of us took the opportunity to explore the rest of the premises; these rooms are like art galleries or a history museum, like Canada's National Portrait Gallery that never was, many previous club members having been the nation's top people. Yousuf Karsh was one, and we were particularly impressed by the Karsh Room, filled with large prints of some of his best portraits. I hadn't previously seen his pictures of Joan Miro, Albert Schweizer or Margaret Atwood. They are all tremendous. The long-established receptionist told Elva, Don and me that she remembers Mr. Karsh as being a very nice man.

Michelle's cake, by the way, was another creation with black and fuschia accents and a Parisian theme, being topped with a chocolatey rendition of the Eiffel Tower. See photo above. The cake was served for dessert (Ryan getting the Eiffel Tower) after a sumptuous three courses (fish, heirloom tomato and savoury cheesecake salad, venison) that beggar description, so beautifully were they garnished and presented. After the coffee had been served and after the (pink!) lights had been dimmed for the first dance for the bride and groom, followed what for me was the most touching part of the whole day: a dance for the bride with her father, and then another for the groom with his mother. My blurred picture here is of Robert dancing with his daughter Michelle, with her mother Francine (in the other photo) looking on.

The start of the dancing was timed to co-incide with the start of the firework display from across the river at Lac Leamy, for which we had the best of views.