My Maid Of Honour Saved The Wedding And Never Told Me Until Last Year

I remember my wedding as a calm day. That is the joke of it. I remember it as the smoothest, easiest, luckiest day.

Here is what actually happened, as told to me nine years later, in a kitchen, by a woman who had held it for nine years.

The registrar went to the wrong building. Not the wrong room — the wrong building, three streets away, and she was sitting in a reception area of an insurance office at 13:40 wondering where everybody was.

Sarah found her. Sarah, in heels, ran three streets, in June, and found a registrar in an insurance office and walked her back.

The flowers were in a locked van because the florist's driver had gone to lunch with the keys, and Sarah rang the florist, then the driver, then the pub the driver was in, and got the pub landlord to physically go and get him, which is a chain of four phone calls made by a woman who was supposed to be having her hair done.

My uncle got drunk at 12:30, before anything had started. Sarah put him in a taxi with a bottle of water and my cousin, sent him to a hotel, and told me — when I asked, at 2pm, where he was — that he was "coming later".