Authors: Judith Cutler
Aidan, who I'd thought wouldn't be seen dead at such a rustic event, instituted himself as a sidesman; not for anything would I have passed on a whispered question from one of the choirboys hanging round outside â was he what they call an undertaker?
The three of us walked with unconventional speed up the aisle: clearly, she didn't want to waste another moment of her life away from Paul's side. The distinguished organist, not used to such cavalier treatment, insisted on playing the rest of the piece although it was clearly redundant.
Paul looked handsome, supported by one of his equally handsome sons, whose presence had Griff nudging and winking at me encouragingly. Robin, officiating in his favourite church, looked his usual divine self and preached an appropriate but blessedly short sermon. Little Imogen, in Freya's suddenly maternal arms, slept soundly throughout.
Even the sun, which had lurked behind clouds long enough to make the day seem cold, emerged for the photos. Smiling at Carwyn, who'd somehow wangled an invitation from Mary, I remembered another quotation. Byron? No ⦠Browning! Griff always said it was always taken out of context, and was in fact deeply ironic, since the poem involved regicide and betrayal. But it seemed to fit today:
God's in His heavenâ
All's right with the world!
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See Guilt Trip