I can’t quite believe it. Of all the things I have been fretting about, like freak weather conditions blowing the marquee away, concerns about my dress fitting my ever-expanding backside, incidents with cow muck/a chicken/toilets, I didn’t anticipate this one:
Our vicar has had a stroke.
Fortunately it was mild, but the poor bloke is in hospital and under strict orders to stay there. So he can’t do our wedding.
When my fiance broke the news I thought it was all over. But before I launched headfirst into my first wedding meltdown and took deep breaths into a paper bag, he said there was a stand-in – the vicar who read our Banns. Massive sigh of relief.
But it's a shame, because Reverend Patterson has been on the entire wedding planning journey with us, and we've grown quite attached to his placcy bag collection and shoddy memory. The stress of wondering whether he’ll actually remember our names or even know what day to turn up has all been part of the rollercoaster of emotion that has come hand in hand with our organising.
But his understudy, Reverend Deakin is a really nice bloke and he did a lovely job of reading our Banns. And the good news is, he also looks like a sitcom vicar. Hooray.
I just hope nothing happens to him in the next six days - after all he is well into 80s. I guess I’d just have to wheel Rev Patterson in on his sickbed, maybe decorate his drip stand with flowers.
Anyway, I shouldn’t worry, we're in the countryside - you can’t go more than six feet with bumping into a vicar, they're everywhere.
Failing that I'll give Rowan Atkinson a ring. He'd be great
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