The groom and best man wait
Last Saturday, my eldest son, Matthew, married his long-time lady-love, Medi (Mayada). Both are now medical doctors, having studied together at Newcastle/Durham Medical School. They have subsequently done their junior doctor F1 and F2 periods in London, where they have now set up home.
The wedding took place at the Savile Club in London, which turned out to be a great location. The Georgian building, on four floors, plus extensive basement, brims with history. Its wood panelled rooms and grand dining suites – reminiscent of Louis XIV at his most opulent, are a delight, and speak of an era long departed. But it provides classy fun to indulge a bit of fantasy.
The building is a traditional gentleman’s club during the week, but is available for weddings at the weekends, although there is that strange transitional period on a Friday night when resident wedding guests have to creep around like mice, (or servants?) avoiding disturbing the ‘gentlemen’ and using only the facilities of entrance, bedrooms and exits for dinner elsewhere. That said, the rest of the experience, including the renovated bedroom accommodation, was fabulous, and I had two of the best breakfasts I’ve ever eaten . . .
To begin the day, we all met up in a nearby pub, while the bride went through the final stages of preparation.
Soon, we were ushered by the groomsmen into the opulence of the room to be used for the ceremony. Pic below is my niece, Alana, my brother, Dave, and Sandra his partner.
During this part of the day, we were asked not to take photos, so we’ll have to wait for the official set to reveal how lovely the arriving bride looked. Following the wedding ceremony, we all climbed the hollywood-style staircase, down which the bride had descended, and began the festivities.
Medi, the lovely bride, relaxing after the ceremony.
The main reception room is wonderful. You might imagine that such extravagant decor would feel ‘heavy’ but it didn’t. It provided a peaceful and relaxing atmosphere in which the dinner and speeches unfolded. I was due to speak, as part of the groom’s team, after the desert, so I had to moderate the wine intake for a while . . .
The event was black tie – to go with the surroundings. Here’s a pic of Bernie and me in our finery – I haven’t dressed like this for a long time . . .
Definitely going out . . .
Cat and Bernie
The wedding breakfast was a lovely three course meal; during which the speeches began. One of my favourite moments was when Medi’s dad, Isam (simply known as Sam) made his gentle and tender speech to ‘give away’ his daughter to Matthew. All the speeches went well and were very ably MC’d by my other son, Daniel, whose own wedding I wrote up in the blogs in August.
Sam (Isam) and Tara, Medi’s parents
Many of the speeches were simple tributes from the heart, and brought tears around the room. Others were more structured and humorous. One of my favourites was when James, one of Matthew’s close friends, read out a letter he had written to the future. The future in question was addressed to a child of Medi and Matthew, and the letter described his or her parents as they were on the day of their wedding. It was a lovely idea and beautifully delivered; and no, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house at the end of it. During my own speech, I compared the wedding to an Arthurian tale and asked the “Knights of Edinburgh’ – those classy gentlemen I met at the ‘stag do’ in that lovely city, to stand as a group and to give a ‘court’ toast to the arriving Queen.
James delivering one of the most moving speeches of the day
One of my close relatives described Sam and myself as looking like two mafia dons in our finery – so here’s a photo of Don Stefano and Don Isam.
Don Stefano and Don Isam . . .
And a few more of the friends and family:
The very able Best Man and his Bro . . .
With Ruth, my lovely neice
Three of the Groom’s team
A very smart military presence
Bride and Groom take the first dance
And then it was time for the Bride and Groom to lead the dancing. The string quartet who had been playing since our arrival took a bow, and were replaced by a jazz quartet, which set the feet tapping and soon the small but elegant dance floor was full of well-dressed movement.
The excellent jazz quartet and, later, a DJ, helped round off the evening.
And then . . .
Trouble comes in threes . . . from top, Bernie, Joanne, her sister, and Sandra
It was at this point that my brother’s partner, Sandra, discovered that the basement of the Savile Club bore an uncanny resemblance to the downstairs domain of Mrs Patmore in Downton Abbey. Sandra, or as she has become known in our house, ‘Dangerous Sandra’ duly marched a group of us from the bar to this tiled and ancient wonderland, where she posed us for a variety of photos culminating in what I have dubbed the ‘Band on the Run’ shot. Apologies to our younger readers who won’t have a clue what that is . . .
The “Band on the Run” shot – I’m in there somewhere, honest!
Medi came down to discipline her wayward servants at one stage, so we got this lovely pic of her . . .
Lady Medi comes down to rebuke the noisy servants
Matthew waltzed his grandma around the floor . . .
Matthew and his Grandma
Soon, the midnight hour approached, and we spent a few minutes in mellow family reflections . . . (thank you for taking this one, Bernie)
Son and Father reflect on a lovely day . . .
And then it was time for cloaks and carriages, as they used to say . . .
A big thank you to all concerned. Bernie took most of the shots, so the final pic goes to her and that wonderful dress . . .
It was lovely to meet the new extended family and we look forward to many more occasions. The bride and groom are now honeymooning in the Maldives, but don’t envy them too much, as they return shortly to the harsh reality of life in the NHS.
A very beautiful day . . .
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What was it that broke under such circumstances?
I had asked the question of myself the week before. When you ‘stopped the world’ what was it that broke? Perhaps breaking was too strong a word – it could also be described as a passage from one state of attention to another . . . I sipped the hot coffee, noisily – it was the only way to drink it, fresh from the flask.
“Penny for them?” asked George Dixter, sitting on the park bench next to me. We had bumped into each other the day before, and he had offered croissants and coffee in the park; the place where I had first met him. The weather had turned damp and cold, so he didn’t look out of place in his old Burberry mac, which seemed to accompany him everywhere and in all seasons. On this occasion, and, no doubt in deference to the late autumn, he was also wearing an olive green fedora.
In the late fifties or even sixties, he would have cut quite a contemporary dash. But now, he looked like a character out of a period spy movie. I smiled at the thought, but was wary – little that these people did appeared to be accidental.
“Well, two things . . .” I sipped some more of his generously provided coffee and gratefully accepted the fresh croissant which had been procured from the bakery across the road from the park.
“Firstly,” my grin widened as his snakey eyes locked onto mine. Conspiratorially, I lowered my voice. “why the George Smiley outfit?”
He leaned closer, playing the perfect spy, and whispered, “. . . And secondly?”
I couldn’t help it, I chuckled. “Well, secondly, what is it that breaks when we ‘stop the world’.
“Aha . . .” he said, sitting back and mirroring my noisy sipping of the ultra-hot coffee, as though he had just learned some secret from me.
“Well now,” he began, putting down his steaming coffee and flexing his fingers outwards from linked palms. “the first one is easier to answer – play!”
“Play?” I asked, unsure if it were noun or command.
“Yes, play,” he replied. “as in we don’t play enough!“
“We?”
“We, as in people,” he replied good-naturedly. “We forget how to play and play is really important!”
I thought about this for a while, while he sipped his coffee. I was about to ask another question when he answered it. “My outfit, as you say, is quirky . . . It makes me feel good because, in it, I’m playing; and I love the reaction of those around me, and it would help stop their worlds if they used it properly – which brings us, nicely, to your second question . . .”
I considered the import of what he had said. They were all playing . . . and yet.
“What breaks,” he continued, leaning closer, again and emphasising the serious side of this play. “is something that hides behind the habitual, which we call the slayer of the now.”
They had mentioned the word slayer, before. I knew it meant something in Buddhism, but I was not sure if they used it in the same way.
“So, stopping the world is an example of an action that defeats the slayer?”
“Yes, as, to a certain extent, does the whole idea of play.” He sipped the last of his coffee and looked at his watch. “Play and stopping the world makes us present to the moment, the now. The real lives only in the now, the rest is a system of mental devices which support the slayer . . .”
He looked at his watch. “I must go.” He said, holding out his hand for my coffee cup which was part of a set belonging to the large flask. It was still half full, but I handed it back to him, expecting that he would empty it onto the nearby grass. He didn’t – instead he reached into his canvas shoulder bag and pulled out a styrofoam cup. Emptying the remainder into this, he passed it back to me.
“You’ll be delighted to learn that Maria Angelo has offered to take the next bit with you!”
Events were happening too fast. I blurted out, “When?”
“It’s on the bottom of the cup,” he replied, striding off around the path.
Carefully, I raised the foam cup and examined its underside. There was nothing. I moved to protest at the departing back of the raincoat, but he beat me to it.
“Oh yes it is . . . ” he shouted over his shoulder.
I stared at the cup more carefully. On its rim, three marks had been added with a blue Biro. They formed a perfect triangle within the circle. I chuckled, again, thinking of my last meeting up there with Don Pedro. So, it was to be on Humphrey Head, again, but when?
Five minutes later, when my musings on the meeting were finished, I downed the last of the coffee, only to find emerging from the dregs at the bottom of the cup the words ‘Thursday next, 3.00 p.m.’
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Coffee with Don Pedro is published on Thursdays. The previous episodes, some of which are labelled ‘The Beast in the Cafe’ are in the blogs. You can follow the enigmatic trail by clicking on this link.
Contact details and an outline description are on the other pages of this blog and via the website below.
Sun in Gemini 
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