The vicar and his gravy stain

I’ve already told you about our Marquee Man being a complete Laid Back Larry. And it transpired our vicar is very much the same.

We booked the church back in July and went along to meet him and give him our details.
He was brilliant, really put us at ease and didn't seem to mind that we hadn't attended his church. Ever. On top of that, he looked great too - like a proper vicar. If you had to cast a vicar in a Richard Curtis film or a sitcom starring Dawn French, then he’d be the man to choose. Even his name is very clergy-esque. Reverend Patterson. I love it!

So anyway, Rev. Patterson turned up at the church for his sunday service with a plastic Sainsbury’s bag. After the service and once we'd introduced ourselves, he rummaged around in this bag and pulled out a crumpled bit of paper with a gravy stain on it. Turned out this was the important piece of paper that we had to write our names, addresses, birthplaces, parents names and all that crucial information on.

Once we’d filled it in, dodging the gravy stain, we handed it back and it went straight back in his carrier bag.

Now, I'm no expert in ecclesiastical paperwork and I know everyone has their own unique way of filing important pieces of paper. But I couldn't help but worry. What if he was actually on his way to Sainsburys? What if that piece of paper ended up in a crumpled ball betwixt a tin of mulligatawny and free range chicken? What if it got all soggy and torn underneath a bag of frozen peas like an old shopping list?? Would he remember our conversation? Or the date we'd chosen?

I felt myself panicking. But it's ok, I thought, surely now at this point we will plan the next date to meet up to go through the service and plan how the ceremony will unfold. So at least if that important documentation of our existence ends up a ball of papier macher at the bottom of his bag, at least we will have that date to meet up. That will be logged. Phew.

But as I went to pull out my diary, ready to set that date, he said "Just pop in and see me a few months before the big day and we'll talk about the service." and he turned on his heel, and ambled off clutching his placcy bag, shouting a chirpy "cheerio, see you next year!" as he went.

No tips for hymns. No clues for readings. And no idea of when we meet up next.

I didn't know whether to laugh, cry or chase after him and force him to make a proper plan. But my husband-to-be reminded me that it was only July and we shouldn't get our knickers in a twist just yet.

So I went home and had a cup of tea, wondering if I'd actually just dreamed the whole thing.