the white chocolate wedding cake

We were sat around the fire in the Daffodil Lion one cold February Thursday, when Lennie (Leonard) announced in a matter-of-fact way that he and Lennie (Leonora) were to get married in the summer, and it was to be a full church wedding. At first we weren’t sure if he was being serious. He has this very dry wit. He had barely known Lennie (Leonora) for three months. And, as I pointed out, (when he seemed unduly miffed by my incredulity):

“What are the chances of two people with the same (slightly unusual) name getting hitched? Do you Lennie take Lennie to be your lawfully wedded wife. I don’t think so!”

“I’ll get her to drive over and show you her ring,” he said.

“Promises, promises,” said Zeph (short for Zephaniah) who worked as a fitness instructor at Westing Leisure Centre.

“You,” I said, “spend too much time gazing at sweaty gussets dampening the saddles of exercise bikes.”

Zeph ignored me, flicked back his dredlocks, and gave Lennie a small punch on the arm.

"So come on?" said Zeph. "How come you've decided on this big wedding all of a sudden? You don't even go to church."

Leonard shrugged.

“Lennie’s family are very CHristian. It’s what they…she wants.”

I nodded.

“It makes it more of an occasion if it's in a nice church rather than some shitty registry office. Lets face it, if it weren't for weddings and christenings and stuff, a lot of churches wouldn't survive."

"Well, I still can't see the point if you don't believe in God," said Zeph.

"I might,” said Lennie.

"You're telling me you believe in God?,” said Zeph. “I thought you were an anarchist?"

“Agnostic,” I murmured.

“Whatever,” said Zeph.

"There was nothing wrong with Jesus," a voice piped up from a nearby table. It was Graham. "Jesus was cool."

"Jesus was cool?" said Zeph incredulously. "You'll be telling me next the crucifixion was fab and groovy."

"You know what I mean," said Graham. "I don't know if Jesus was really the son of God or not. But he definitely existed. And he was a moralist. He helped the poor. He treated all people the same. He made sacrifices. He cared about the planet."

"I can't actually remember him being a member of Greenpeace," said Zeph.

"Although he did recycle all those loaves and fishes," I chipped in.

Graham wiped beer foam from his beard.

"Actually, it's a bit of a redundant argument. ‘The environment’ wasn’t an issue in those days. There weren’t any chemical factories or toxic waste dumps or traffic, just a few goats and olive trees. In fact, if you weren't being crucified or fed to the Lions, it was probably quite a good time to live."

"Yea if you like living in a stable with a load of mangy animals," said Zeph, "and having diseases like leprosy, and raw sewage running down the street."

"Actually, the Romans built proper sewers," said Lennie.

"Not in the middle of Bethlehem they didn't," said Zeph.

"How do you know?" asked Lennie.

Zeph looked uncertain for a moment, before countering, "OK. How come you're such a big expert on bible studies all of a sudden?"

Lennie shrugged.

“University of life,” he said.

“University of bollocks,” said Zeph.

"It's true what Graham says though," I said. "Jesus was a bit of a hippy. I mean, if he were to come back now, I doubt whether he'd work in a bank and drive to church every Sunday in some big car and a flashy suit. He'd be much more likely to be a social worker or an organic gardener or something.

"Yea," said Zeph. "He could set up in business with Graham. Jesus and Graham - no hedge too high, no lawn too wide."

"Well," said Graham, "he sure as hell wouldn't work in a leisure centre.”

"What's wrong with that?" asked Zeph.

"Yea," I said, "Zeph's body is a temple."

"Yea, but can you imagine Jesus on a squash court?" said Lennie.

“He wouldn’t be allowed,” said Zeph. “White soles only see. His sandals would mark the floor.”

"True," I said, "but what with being able to walk on water and raise people from the dead he'd probably breeze through his gold life saver."

They all laughed politely, except Lennie who looked a bit glum.

"Hey, we don’t mean to take the piss man," said Zeph. "But you can't be serious about this wedding?"

"Why not?" asked Lennie.

"Well," said Zeph, "it's just hard to imagine you walking down the aisle, if you know what I mean."

"Yea, we’re not knocking you mate,” I added. “It’s just it seems a bit sudden."

"Yea, why now man?" asked Zeph.

"Well, Lennie saw this dress," said Lenoard.

"A dress..." said Zeph. “What dress?”

"A wedding dress. And it started her thinking that time was pushing on and she was like, you know, missing out.”

"Well, I saw a nice pair of Nike Air Max at the weekend. Don't mean I want to run the Chicago Marathon," said Zeph.

“One day, you might,” said Graham.

"True," said Zeph. "But a marathon only lasts a couple of hours. Marriage lasts a life time. It's a serious fucking commitment. I mean, what happened to this idea of freedom? I thought you two were into all that stuff."

Lennie shrugged. "It's not that simple," he said.

"No," said Zeph, chuckling and shaking his head. "It never is with you, mate. Still, whatever makes you happy."

"Yea," I said. "It’s like that Crowded House song - There is freedom within. There is freedom without."

“You’re bloody worse than he is,” said Zeb.

And we raised our glasses to toast Lennie and Lennie’s future happiness.

Despite Leonora’s confirmation the following Thursday that, yes, they were going to get married (and, yes, she did have a ring, traditional as you like, with three little diamonds and a ruby forming an abstract heart), we still didn’t think Leonard would go through with it. He was always having these grand ideas – like emigrating to Nepal by mountain bike. He’d brought all the maps and written to the embassy and everything, before he discovered Nepal wasn’t some Buddhist idyll, but a repressive dictatorship, which definitely did not welcome idealistic young foreigners.

Then there were all his other plans; to start a hemp farm, to live in a tree house, to import Alpacas. To be fair, he did embark on all these projects. But the tree house leaked and eventually fell down. His Alpaca ended up in pets corner at the Daffodil Lion. And when his neighbour (a retired JP) spotted the young hemp plants in pots in his back garden he was lucky to get away with a caution, thanks to the testimony of his other neighbour, a botany lecturer at Westing University, who confirmed to the magistrates that the varieties Leonard had grown were not the kind you could smoke (well, you could, but the only trip they were likely to send you on was to the chemists to get some throat lozenges).

However, as the weeks went past, it did seem that the wedding was more grounded in reality than his previous ventures. Although, Leonard being Leonard, it was clearly not going to be your average matrimonial experience, and no one was overly surprised when he announced that the ceremony was to have a seventies theme and be conducted by the notorious Reverend Foxy Wilson, who divided his time between adoration of the Holy Father, The Holy Hendrix and (it was rumoured) several of the parishes more lonely and less virtuous widows. This latter accusation was possibly a lie circulated by those more traditional parishoners who didn’t think a man of the cloth should show such a propensity for fun, frivolity and Fenders Stratocasters (although, knowing Foxy, it was probably true).

In addition to having a way with women, the Rev Foxy also had a way with words. And it was he who had convinced Leonard that a church wedding would not necessarily be incongruous with his lifestyle and beliefs. As the Reverend was fond of saying,'there is more than one path to heaven' (although, given the meandering route and numerous detours the Reverend had himself chosen to take, one wouldn't be too optimistic about his chances of reaching the pearly gates).

Having said that, Foxy was such a charming and seductive person, when the time came, St Peter (even taking into account the sizeable weight of the reverend's indiscretions) would probably find it very difficult to turn him away. Certainly, the Reverend's powers of persuasion were far too great for someone as suggestible as Leonard, and after each of their meetings his enthusiasm for 'this wedding thing' grew greater and greater, until by mid-summer (much to everyone's bemusement) vows had been read and a date had actually been set.

Early summer evenings, when we had time and the weather was dry (and sometimes when it wasn't) me, Graham and Leonard would ride through the countryside around the Daffodil Lion on our mountain bikes. As we pedalled along we talked about anything and everything. It was curious, in motion, we were always far more open than when sat in the pub, where secrets might gather in the corners of the room like wasps and flies caught in old cobwebs. It were as if thoughts shared whilst freewheeling down a country lane existed for just those few shameless moments, then could be thrown away, to decay in the hedgerows like the discarded cores of forbidden fruit.

At the beginning of May, a couple of months after Leonard had first announced that he was to be married, we decided to cycle out to Penton Pastures, a nature reserve to the east of Westing. It was just me and Leonard that day, as Graham was making the most of a dry spell, mowning lawns.

The nature reserve was on the former site of a gravel works, from which hundreds of tonnes of terminal moraine had been plundered to construct the network of dual carriageways that criss-crossed the Westingshire countryside. The vast craters left behind when the last of the decent gravel had been removed, had been turned into lakes, which were surrounded by areas of mixed woodland and open meadow. Some areas of the reserve were fenced off to allow birds and butterflies to get on with breeding in peace. However, these were bordered by miles of intertwined tracks and paths, most of which were negotiable by bike. Despite the best efforts of the excavators, the area was still very stony and most of the paths were pretty bumpy.

Invariably, after riding round Penton Pastures, we would return home feeling as if our buttocks had been repeatedly pummelled by small hammers. However, any physical discomfort we suffered was always more than compensated for by the spiritual euphoria we felt while rattling around the lakes and woods in the dusk, dodging gaggles of geese, marvelling at the power and grace of swans, and sneezing through clouds of perfumed pollen whisked into the air by the fluttering of what seemed like a thousand butterflies.

That afternoon, as we pedalled around the blue lake (so called for the clarity of its waters), Leonard voiced some concern about the wedding.

"It's not that I mind Lennie (Leonora) getting into this wedding thing," he said, his voice vibrating slightly as the bike rattled beneath him, "It's just she's gone totally overboard. She spends all her time buying stuff. She's spent hundreds already and the wedding's not for weeks." He paused to adjust his gear lever and glance down at his pedals. "It's like she's changed. She never seemed to care about things like that. It all seems so materialistic. Kind of greedy."

"Well, if you've got money to spend, you might as well spend it," I said. "You know what women are like when it comes to shopping. They can’t stop themselves."

Lennie didn't reply. He was still mulling over Leonora's change of character.

"Anyway, I shouldn't worry," I said. "It's not like she's gone completely bonkers."

"Actually, its kind of the reverse," said Leonard. "I'm not saying she's completely different or anything. It's just that...," he paused to duck beneath an overhanging birch, "it's just that..."

"She's started behaving like a normal women?" I said.

"Yea. It's not like her at all," said Leonard. He looked over his shoulder with a pained grin, as he rolled down the slope to one of the lower ponds.

"I shouldn't worry," I shouted. "I expect she'll be back to her usual eccentric self after the wedding."

"I don't know," said Leonard, suddenly serious. "I love her and everything and I don't mind getting married if that's what she wants. But it was different before. There was less...less..."

"Hassle?" I suggested.

"No not really hassle," said Leonard. "But everything wasn't so organised. It was just me and her,"

"In your only little world," I said.

"Yea, it was nice, just waking up and seeing her beside me every morning, without all this fuss. It wouldn’t matter where I was, just so long as I was with her, you know?”

"And now the big bad material world is closing in around you, hey?"

I drew my bike up alongside Leonard's as the path widened on the far side of the pond.

"It's not that I'm really worried about it or anything," said Leonard.

"No," I said. "I know what you mean though. It's like me andAmy. I mean, I miss her and everything. But she's away so often, I've got used to her not being there. So I never really have to worry about how she is or what's she's up to. But if she was there all the time, like Jackie - who I used to share that flat with - well, I expect I 'd start worrying if she was just a few minutes late home from work."

Leonard nodded.

"Do you reckon you'd ever marry Amy?"

"God, there’s a thought" I said, laughing, then pedalled silently for a few moments. "To be honest, I can't see it somehow. We might live together, I guess, if she ever gets a job round here."

Leonard nodded.

And we picked up our pace, skidding along the muddy path that ran through the wood beyond the lake, and headed towards the River West, which formed the southern perimeter of the nature reserve.

In order to reach the river, we had to dismount and carry our bikes through a pathless area of scrub known to locals as the Wilderness. Having jumped numerous ditches, scrambled over fences and waded through thick undergrowth, we eventually emerged at the river where it ran beneath the motorway bridge - a tranquil haven, which was otherwise frequented only by nesting swans and twilight graffiti artists.

Sweating and out of breath, we set our bikes down in the shadow of the bridge and sat together on the edge of a wide concrete embankment, surrounded by weeping willows and spray paint murals, and skimmed stones across the shallow green water as juggernauts thundered overhead. Although the motorway was perpetually busy, the noise of the traffic never seemed intrusive, but wild and natural as the wilderness through which we'd just walked, as if it were the rumbling of a distant waterfall or a gathering storm.

After we'd been sat in silence for a few minutes, I rose stiffly to my feet, went over to my bike and removed the water bottle, which earlier I'd filled with lemon Lucozade Sport. Zeph (who preferred to prepare his own sports drinks) called it over-priced flavoured fizz. But I liked the taste.

"Here," I said as I sat down beside Lennie again and offered him the water bottle.

"Cheers," said Lennie. He took a swig and handed the bottle back to me. "Actually I was going to ask you a favour."

"Fire away," I said. I removed the top from the bottle and took a large swig.

"It's kind of about the wedding," said Graham.

"Aha," I said, continuing to gulp down Lucozade.

"I was wondering if you'd be best man."

I spluttered half-a-mouthful of Lucozade down the front of my T-shirt, while the other half shot straight down my windpipe.

"I just thought I'd ask," said Graham, reaching over to thump me on the back. "I mean, If you don't fancy it. That's OK. I just thought..."

"No worries." I said, coughing the last of the regurgitated Lucozade through my nose. "It'd be a pleasure, really, I’m chuffed." I continued to splutter and pointed at my throat. "It was a bit of a shock, that's all."

"Nice one," said Lennie. He reached over to lock hands with me and gave my back another sharp slap.

Without really thinking about it, I put my arm round Lennie’s shoulder and gave him a hug.

And the tears, which had welled up in my eyes as I’d choked, suddenly spilled down my face. I pulled away from Lennie, laughing for no real reason, and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand.

"Fucking bubbles," I said. "Zeph’s right – I should stick to water"

"Yea, asphyxiation city," said Lennie. "I thought you were going to pass out for a minute there."

"Naa, I'm all right," I said and grinned through the tears. "What a day eh?"

Lennie nodded and grinned back.

When I’d finally recovered from my coughing fit, we wheeled our bikes to the old railway bridge - a bramble-covered arch of crumbling red brick that spanned the river about fifty yards beyond the motorway - then followed the overgrown remains of rusted track to the disused sidings adjoining Hallowsmere lane.

Originally, the lane had continued for two or three miles right into the heart of the Edwardian suburbs on the south eastern edge of Westing. But when the motorway had been built, the end of the lane had been blocked with bollards and converted into a pedestrian footbridge that crossed the motorway and became a cycle path that wound it's way through the massive housing estate where I lived.

Having turned the last corner before the bridge, we suddenly found ourselves cycling into a travellers camp, and had to brake sharply, before dismounting and wheeling our bikes through a gauntlet of trucks, staring kids and snarling lurchers.

As we cycled down the far side of the motorway bridge, Lennie made some comment about the oppression of gypsies; how they had been using the lane for centuries and how terrible it was that the council did not provide them with proper facilities.

In truth, I rather resented the travellers having blocked my cycle route. I found it hard to view the men in fluorescent coats – who we’d just seen tipping a truckload of tree cuttings down the motorway embankment - as romantic Romany gentleman.

However, as Graham pointed out, "We all have to find our own way.”

A few hundred yards beyond the end of the bridge the cycleway briefly re-emerged into Hallowsmere Lane, where a row of large Edwardian houses stood.

The houses and the adjoining hedgerows were surrounded on all sides by the modern cul-de-sacs of the new estate and always seemed to me strangely out of place. But (according to the free property paper that plopped through my letter box each week) they were 'much sought after' (a notion emphasised by the ubiquitous Mercs and 4x4s parked on their pristine gravel driveways).

When we reached the end of the lane, we stopped briefly at a small park where a group of boys were playing a cross between rugby and football, and where the cycleway split up and radiated out in several different directions (one of which led to my house and another of which led back toward the Fettlington Road).

"Fancy a coffee?" I asked.

"Well, I could do," said Lennie. "But..."

"You better get back and see what Leonora’s been buying?" I said, laughing.

Lennie shook his head.

"I’ve got to sort out the invitations. I was meant to have started writing them out last week, but I had to get some new ink for my calligraphy pen.”

"All sounds very technical," I said "You going to pop down the Lion for a quick one after?"

"I'll see how it goes," said Lennie.

"Well, I'll be driving past so I can give you a lift if you like. Bring Leonora along too and we can toast my best manhood so to speak."

"Yea, if we’ve got time," said Lennie.

"I'll probably be coming past your place at about half-nine. So, I can pop by anyway."

"I’ll see," said Lennie. "It all depends on these invitations."

"You'll just have to write a bit faster," I said.

"Well," said Lennie, putting his foot in position on the pedal. "I better get going, then."

"Yea," I said. "See you later OK?"

" OK," said Lennie. And with mutual nods we pedalled off in opposite directions.

I was made up about being best man. And, at first, it seemed like quite a laugh - writing a speech and organising the stag do (a Ganja tasting session, courtesy of one of Paul’s mates who split his time between Exeter and Amsterdam). What I didn’t realise was that I would be roped in to attend various meetings between Leonard, Leonora and her parents to try and get all the arrangements sorted. This would have been tedious enough if they all got on, but they didn’t, which meant we kept going round and round in circles. I realised fairly quickly that I was there as an impartial arbitor, a role which I tried to perform without prejudice.

I could see that it was Leonard and Leonora’s big day, and they wanted the wedding to be fun for their friends. I could also see that Leonora’s folks were stumping up part of the cash, and so had a right to comment on some of their daughter’s wilder ideas. But neither Leonora nor her mum would give an inch. Frequently, us blokes would convene to the kitchen on the pretext of discussing parking arrangements for the reception and making tea, but all we did was watch the kettle boil, and search the fridge and cupboards for snacks. I was quite glad Leonard was an orphan. I don’t think I could have coped with another set of parents.

Although Leonard sometimes joined in the arguments (on behalf of his side of the family, which obviously consisted only of him), fortunately Leonora’s dad, Malcolm, largely stayed out of things, other than nodding his head to agree (alternately) with his daughter and his wife. Malcolm was an agricultural scientist by profession and with his slightly untidy grey hair, tweed jacket and woolly cardigan, looked every inch the part.

For many years he had worked for some government agency that advised farmers on soil fertilisers. The agency had been privatised two or three years previously, and shortly afterwards, Malcolm had opted for early retirement. However, he still retained the persona of the civil servant. And I could imagine him rising at precisely the same time every morning and spending hours in his study sharpening pencils to regulation length while carefully analysing the latest statistics and legislation on the application of nitrate supplements to East Coast barley crops.

Leonora’s mum, Daphne, appeared to be several inches taller than Leonora’s dad (the difference in their heights exaggerated by her high heels and his stoop). Her hair was cut into a very neat, grey bob and she always wore lots of large jewellery, like some hostess off a tacky satellite shopping channel. I found it hard to imagine how Leonora had ever come to be conceived. But the fact was she was, and I was stuck with being best man, and having to try and resolve the arguments.

Whatever issue Daphne raised, Leonora always replied that the vicar said it would be OK, to which her mum always countered:

“Well he would, wouldn’t he. Honestly I don’t know how you managed to find such a crackpot curate!”

It was a question that the Bishop of the Western Valleys had voiced out loud on more than one occassion. However, the bishop grudgingly tolerated Foxy’s presence in the Parish of Fettlington, and often referred to him as the Heineken of vicars (although rather weak and not liked by everyone, he was, at least, able to reach those parts of the community that other clergy could not reach).

Eventually, the Rev Foxy had been called in to try and bridge the gulf between Leonora and her mum. Quoting extensively (and, to my mind, totally irrelevantly) from the bible, he managed to convince Leonora’s parents that a seventies theme wedding would in no way be sacreligious and that it might actually encourage some of the guests to ‘join the Lord’s flock’. Although Daphne succumbed (as everyone always did) to Foxy’s fiendish charms, she would not give way on the wedding cake.

“But all my friends like white chocolate,” pleaded Leonora.

Malcolm nodded.

“Don’t be ridiculous dear,” said Leonoras’ mum. “A chocolate sponge will just collapse. A good solid fruit cake is required, isn’t it Malcolm.”

Leonora’s dad nodded again.

“But we’ve already asked Grant. He does it for a living. He’s made a chocolate tower bridge, and an Eiffel tower and everything. Tell her dad, you saw the photos on the website.”

Malcolm nodded.

“Remarkable,” he murmured.

“But it will never take the weight of the icing, will it Malcolm?” said Daphne.

Malcolm shook his head.

“But he’s promised us a Taj Mahal,” sniffed Leonora.

“Oh for goodness sake, stop snivelling,” said Leonora’s mum. “We’ll have a three tier fruit cake and that’s the end of it.”

“But Grant’s promised us,” said Leonora.

Malcolm nodded.

“Who’s wedding is it anyway?” muttered Leonard.

“Well, I think Malcolm should decide,” snapped Daphne. “He’s paying for it. Fruit cake is the only sensible choice, isn’t it Malcolm?”

Malcolm looked uncertain.

“Look, it you’re that bothered, I’ll bloody pay for it!” said Lennie. “All right, with you Malcolm?”

He nodded.

“Malcolm!” snapped Leonora’s mother.

“Look,” I said. “Why don’t we make two cakes? That way everyone’s…”

“I’m not paying for two,” said Leonard.

Malcolm shrugged.

“I only want white chocolate,” whined Leonora.

“The matter is closed,” said Daphne.

“Well, why don’t we…” I chipped in. But I couldn’t think of any sensible suggestions, and at that point everyone stopped speaking to each other. In fact, they made no direct contact until the day of the wedding.

Leonora was upset, of course, but both Leonard and I were relieved.

“Thank God,” said Lennie, “I hadn’t even got onto the transport yet.”

“What transport?”

“From the reception…we had a bit of a surprise planned.”

“Don’t tell me, it’s a psychedelic Rolls Royce?”

Lennie shook his head.

“Nothing like that.”

“Alpaca drawn carriage?”

“Nope.”

“What then?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Yea, but you’ve got to tell me, I’m the best man.”

“Sorry, I am sworn to secrecy,” said Lennie.

And, in his usual stubborn way, he would say no more, not even on his stag do after four prenuptial spliffs of super strength skunk.

The morning of the wedding I woke up in the hedge outside the Daffodil Lion. I felt as if a sackful of badgers were scrapping in my guts and I’d been sucking on a truck exhaust all night. I also felt stangely calm (some might say sedated), so wasn’t too worried that no one knew where Lennie was. Fortunately, he was delieverd home by the caterers who’d discovered him a couple of miles from the pub, legs hooked over a branch, swinging upside down from a tree – which he claimed was a form of yoga designed to calm any prenuptial nerves.

Having, made sure that Paul’s wife, Diane, was not going to let Lennie out of her sight, I cycled home to shower, shave, collect Amy and put on my wedding clobber.

When I arrived back at his house, Amy was already wearing her seventies outfit - a knee-length dress of diaphanous purple and blue flowers. Beneath the dress she wore the frilly blue bra and knickers I’d bought her for Valentine's day (which made me wish I’d been able to spend the previous night with her). Adding to my torment, Amy's legs were enticingly bare and she was wearing her sandals with the sexy ankle straps. Her hair, which normally hung lankly over her shoulders, was all fluffed out and piled up on top of her head like that of some Greek goddess. She’d also spent hours on her make up, which she was still applying with the aid of a hand mirror as she perched on the edge of the sofa.

Although such superficial niceties as mascara and lipstick shouldn't make a difference, Amy looked suddenly so desirable that (despite my sickness) I felt a sudden urge to fling her onto the sofa and tear the flimsy fabric from her flesh with my teeth.

I was in the midst of this brief erotic daydream when she suddenly looked up, making me feel suddenly guilty, acutely aware of my own grottiness and altogether rather unworthy of her.

"You look nice," I said.

Amy sniffed as if to say, 'is that all?' But, as she returned her attention to the mirror, I saw a small, flattered smile flicker at the corners of her lips.

As I watched Amy adding the final touches to her make-up, I noticed she was wearing a new necklace - a long string of Peruvian ceramic beads, a mixture of cobalt blue and dark sienna, with a large Nazca Indian pendant on the end. The pendant was decorated with a squirming lizard, a smaller copy of an enormous design that the Nazca Indians had carved out of the Peruvian countryside hundreds of years earlier, and which could still be seen clearly by aeroplane passengers flying above Peru. The size and accuracy of the Nazca designs gave rise to speculation that they either had the ability to fly or had made contact with aliens who supervised the construction of those giant hillside carvings from their flying saucers. Although, personally, I didn't believe either of these explanations, the design on the pendant did radiate a mysterious, supernatural aura. And I could think of nothing more appropriate to wear to the two Lennies’ big day.

“Stunning,” I told her.

Unfortunately the same could not be said for my house, which had hosted the hen party, and looked as if it been visited by a small but very violent hurricane. The shelf in the bathroom was littered with tins of hair spray, styling mousse, shampoo and conditioner, blobs of each of which had been splurted onto every available surface. The sink was encrusted in a white cement of dried toothpaste and saliva, the plug hole was full of hair, and between the taps, fragments of a cream soap bar were slowly disintegrating in a dishful of water. Alongside the bath were piled a mound of soggy towels and a crumpled dressing gown, while the bath looked as if it had just been vacated by an entire rugby fifteen after a particularly muddy eighty minutes.

I could barely get into my bedroom, due to the area immediately inside the door being jammed with a deep litter of discarded knickers, bras and shoes, as well as the duvet. And when I did finally force my way inside, I rather wished that I hadn't.

In the middle of my bed was a small suitcase surrounded by pillows, pyjamas, more knickers, a hair drier (still plugged in) yet more cans of hair spray and styling mousse and a veritable jumble sale of crumpled clothes and clit lit.

Downstairs in the living room, the remote controls (for the satellite system, TV and video), which I normally kept in a neat row on a low table in front of the sofa, were nowhere to be seen. The table had been pushed back against the wall, and the space scattered with cushions, more women's mags than a dentist’s waiting room, and most of my carefully catalogued collection of CDs and cassettes.

But none of the chaos I had encountered in the other rooms of my house, quite prepared me for the state of the kitchen. If a group of food extremists ever decided to bomb my kitchen, at least I knew the kind of devastation it would cause. It was culinary carnage.

There was not a single utensil, item of crockery or cutlery that Amy had not used for some purpose or other the previous evening. The sink was full of dishes and saucepans variously covered in burnt vegetables or congealing cheese sauce or both. The draining board was host to a hundred half drunk cups of tea and almost empty glasses of wine. The area beside the sink was piled with plates covered in jam and crumbs and knives and unfeasibly large lumps of margarine, between which were soggy tea bags, various lumps of food (some cooked, some raw), packets of flour, milk bottles, half-empty jars and a large chunk of unwrapped cheddar.

The cooker and surrounding walls were so splattered with tomato sauce (it looked as if a suicidal chef had slashed his (or her) wrists and belligerently directed the arterial spray over the widest possible area). And the floor looked as if it had been prepared by someone with a perverse fondness for roaches, rats and other disease-carrying pests. Unable to summon up the courage to venture inside and make myself a cup of tea, I returned to the lounge where Amy was still preening herself.

"Made yourself something nice for tea then?" I asked with barely concealed sarcasm.

"Lasagne," she said casually. "There's some still left in the fridge if you want it."

Having not been able to down so much as a dry piece of toast, the thought of cold lasagne (and the undoubtedly disgusting state of the fridge in which it stood) did nothing to relieve my need to vomit. But I bravely tried to hide my discomfort.

"I've had some breakfast already," I said, "with Paul and Graham."

"What about Lennie?" Amy asked.

"Oh, he was up a tree," I said.

Amy nodded, and, with a quick glance at my watch, I went back upstairs to start getting ready.

I’d based my wedding costume on photographs I'd seen in one of Graham's books on sixties psychedelic culture. The book was called Emily's Playground, and was a pictorial history of the early years of Pink Floyd and the happenings of the London underground (events organised by the alternative music scene, that is, rather than interesting incidents that occurred on the Bakerloo). Modelling myself on Syd Barret (the Floyd's madcap front-man), I had acquired a mint green shirt with plain arms, a huge collar and a dark green William Morris style decoration on the front. Over the top of the shirt I wore a coat that had belonged to an old boyfriend of Amy's Aunt Sandra. The coat was patterned red and gold like the wallpaper in the dining room of a stately home, had a round collar and was fastened with large gold military buttons.

After casually tying a dark green and red Paisley scarf round my neck, I pulled on a pair of grey and black pinstripe trousers - the bottom half of a late sixties suit I’d bought for four pound fifty from the Cancer Care charity shop some months before. To complete the outfit, I wore a pair of slip on shoes with a huge buckle, which I'd also found in the Cancer Care shop. I couldn't decide whether the shoes were actually genuine Carnaby Street specials or merely a very large pair of ladies’ shoes. Either way, they looked suitably late sixties.

I’d grown my hair a little longer than usual for the wedding. And instead of brushing it back with a big dollop of gel as I normally did, I just washed it with a bit of Amy’s conditioner and blow-dried it with her hairdryer (which, as you may recall, was coveniently still plugged in on the bed) so that the fringe fell just over my eyebrows.

All in all (as Zeph later commented) I looked ‘fucking ridiculous, but also fucking far out.’

The wedding service wasn’t due to start until one, but being best man (and having delegated groom-guarding duties to Diane, the landlady at the Daffodil Lion), I was supposed to go to the church to greet the guests.

The church of Saint Leonard's in the eponymous hamlet of Saint Leonard's near Fettlington is probably the best kept secret in the diocese of the West Valley. The church is hidden among a group of small but very steep hills at the end of a farm lane that (rather like the lane that leads to the Daffodil Lion) should really have petered out of use many years ago. I had visited the church a couple of times already in the run-up to the wedding, but was still uncertain that I was driving the right way.

I knew I had to turn right over an old bridge near a big oak tree and then take the left fork at the top of a hill. The trouble was that every road near St Leonard's seemed to feature old bridges, numerous forks and large oak trees at every corner. Fortunately there was a dairy farm along the lane that led to church, and it being a warm morning, I was able to wind down the window and let my nose lead us in the right direction.

As we got closer to the dairy farm, which stood right opposite the church, the road became more cow pat than tarmac, and the cheesy smell of dried shit and straw became quite overpowering. But, even in my nauseous state, I was pleased to smell the farm, which signalled I was at last on the right route.

Despite the fact that I’d previously seen the church on two occasions, it was still with a sense of amazement that I rounded the final bend and suddenly encountered its huge tower. The tower, which was a couple of hundred feet high, was constructed of large flint-like stones and was covered in moss and lichens. Such was the depth of this covering that the seeds of various other plants had germinated within it, and sprouted with surprising vigour from the stonework. At regular intervals up the side of the tower were narrow windows like those in old castles. And I pictured portly monks in sackcloth habits fighting off marauders with arrows blessed by some medieval bishop.

Careful to avoid driving into the ditch that ran alongside the church, I pulled up on the grass verge and got out of the car. The surrounding countryside was deadly quiet, save for the buzzing of a billion flies and the cawing of a solitary crow. The only signs of civilisation was a maroon Citroen estate parked beside the graveyard.

As I anxiously paced towards the church (feeling as if I had somehow come to the wrong place, even though I knew that I hadn't), a man emerged from the Citroen and greeted me with a cheery wave. It was Leonora’s dad, Malcolm, who started to walk up the lane towards me, closely followed by Leonora’s mum.

"Hello again, Mr Wilson," I said as they reached me. "Been here long?"

"Oh just a few minutes," said Malcolm, shaking my hand.

"Over two-and-a-half hours," said Daphne staring quizzically at my florid outfit.

"Surely it hasn't been that long," said Leonora’s dad sheepishly.

"It has," said Daphne. "He insisted on leaving at four in the morning. Heaven only knows why."

"Well, we were very fortunate with the traffic," said Leonora’s dad. "Straight through from Leicester. Hardly saw another vehicle until we reached the M4. We were in Westing by seven."

"Half past six," muttered Mrs Wilson.

"Blimey," I said. "And you've been here ever since."

"Oh no," said Leonora’s dad. "We went and had breakfast in the what's it called now? The restaurant by the BP garage on the A431 whatever. Uhmm.."

"The Little Chef," I suggested.

"Yes, that's the one," said Leonora's dad. "Surprisingly good value - eggs, bacon, even mushrooms. Can't remember the last time I had grilled mushrooms. Well certainly not for breakfast anyway." He looked across at his wife with a small smile, as if to say, do you remember when you used to cook me things like that? But she just sniffed and pulled a face at her husband.

As ever, Leonora’s dad was dressed in dull brown. Although he was wearing a proper suit, and it did have unusually large lapels and no leather elbow patches. Leonora’s mum wore a smart, salmon-pink two-piece suit and a large pink hat. It was not particularly seventies in style, but she was wearing her usual excess of jewellery, which was unintentionally quite psychedelic.

Having not spoken to them since the contretemps over the white chocolate wedding cake, I was struggling to think of anything else to say, when Amy - who had grown bored of sitting in the car - came to my resuce.

After a polite exchange of pleasantries and mutual compliments concerning how lovely both ladies looked, Leonard’s dad asked,

"So, where is young Leonard?"

"He's still back at the cottage," I explained, "probably preparing his mountain bike."

"Oh no. He's not still insisting on riding to the service is he?" asked Mrs Wilson.

"I'm afraid so," I said. "But don't worry. Paul'll be with him." This assurance failed to placate Leonora's mum, who turned to her husband.

"Go on Malcolm, go with Dan and pick him up. He'll never get here in time otherwise."

"I've already offered several times," I said. "But he's made up his mind."

"I'll never understand that boy," muttered Leonora’s mum.

"Well if Leonard wants to cycle here…," said Malcolm. "After all, it is his…"

He was silenced by particularly unfriendly glare from his wife.

"Hmphh," snorted Mrs Wilson with another rather disapproving look at our costumes.

"Well I think he's taken this novelty wedding thing too far."

She suddenly gestured towards the church where another figure was emerging from a rusty 2CV, wearing a bright orange headband, a moth-eaten Afghan coat, a long string of wooden African beads, a pair of fluorescent green flares, three inch platform shoes and a huge stick-on Jason King moustache.

"I understand this is meant to be a fun kind of wedding," she said with a patronising smile. "But I really don't know what the vicar will say when he sees people like him turning up."

"Actually," I said, "I think that is the vicar."

I waved as the Reverend Foxy, resplendent in Hendrix wig and Elton John shades, stumbled up the lane on his platforms.

Leonora’s mum let out a shriek of shock of disgust. “Oh how re…”

“…freshing," interjected Malcolm. "Isn't it nice to see a member of the clergy who's actually in touch with what's going on today.”

We exchanged grimaces as the Rev Foxy reached us, beaming widely and looking as if he'd just stepped off the set of a particularly low-budget, early seventies sex film.

"Cool threads," said Foxy shaking me by the hand. "How's it hanging brother."

Mrs Wilson gazed despairingly to the heavens.

Shortly after the Reverend Foxy had made his rather startling appearance at the church, Leonard’s ushers, Big Tony and Saurav, arrived in matching usher outfits (black trousers, metallic lilac shirts and blue polka dot cravats with complementary blue lensed glasses).

They were soon followed by Zeph and his girlfriend Jenny who were, as usual, arguing (presumably about Zeph's choice of outfit). Zeph (predictably) was wearing a tight fitting top with short sleeves that enabled him to show off his gladiatorial physique and Buddhist tattoos to maximum advantage.

The top was made from pink tie-dyed cotton, and with it he wore a pair of obscenely tight purple trousers that looked as if they'd been cut from a pair of velvet curtains. Jenny was wearing a smart and very modern looking cream skirt and jacket. When she arrived, she stood close to Leonora’s mum. Together they formed a small pocket of normality among a gathering of garments that otherwise appeared to have been inspired by a deranged, avant-garde dress designer during a very, very bad trip.

I felt it was a good moment to start my organisational activities.

“Oh well,” I said to Leonora’s parents. “It’s been lovely meeting you both again, but I’ve got one or things left to check with the vicar, so…uhmm I’ll see you later.” And I took Amy by the hand and whisked her off towards the church.

The church of St Leonard's, as well as being very ancient, was also very small. It was barely big enough to accommodate the fifty or so people who had been invited to the wedding. I wondered to myself why such a small church had been built with such a huge tower? Was it so that the church could be seen from a distance by travellers in ancient times. Was the tower designed as a kind of impromptu fortress in which the local clergy and villagers could defend themselves from marauding bandits? Or was it simply built as tall as possible so that it was literally closer to heaven than any other building. I wasn't sure. But, as I stood with Amy inside the church and looked around, I doubted whether it would last many more centuries.

I had a sudden premonition of the proud tower reduced to a pile of rubble overgrown by the plants that had rooted in it's mossy crevices. And I shivered, as if touched by the clammy hand of a decidedly unfriendly ghost.

The church reminded me of the bedsits featured in documentaries on urban deprivation. The plaster was all damp and furry, so that woshippers who sat nearest the walls always left with white powdery lumps stuck to their shoulders. And the upper reaches of the ceiling were stained with large patches of dark green mould.

The church was lit by half-a-dozen electric bulbs (arranged in two rows of three like the dots on a six-point domino). One bulb was naked and the other five were covered by creamy, frosted glass shades. The shades (which were evidently too high to be reached for regular cleaning) were cracked and full of dead insects. Above the small altar at the front of the church was a single stained glass window.

The window was not the kind that illustrated the crucifixion and other biblical stories, but merely a simple arrangement of diamonds of amber, green and blue glass. If you looked closely, you could deduce the patterns that were once made by these colours. However, over the years, where individual diamonds had broken or faded, they had been replaced (seemingly randomly) with glass of whatever colour could be found. The resultant abstract patterns (despite their ancient origins) looked strangely late sixties in style and hence were quite in keeping with the wedding's theme.

When, following a puncture and a broken chain, Leonard eventually arrived, stained in oil and sat with his mountain bike in the back of a farmer’s truck, we hurried inside and the Reverend Foxy suddenly appeared beside the altar. He had removed his wig and false moustache, and changed into his ceremonial garments and looked almost like a normal vicar (although a portion of his African beads could just be seen poking above one side of his dog collar). He briefly confirmed that Leonard was ready (and willing) to proceed with the service and that I had the rings, then indicated with a nod toward the back of the church that Leonora was about to make her entrance.

As Leonora stepped into the church, her entrance was heralded by a startling blast of the church organ, an instrument which had originally been the pride of one of Westing's smaller picture palaces. During the war the palace had been destroyed by bombers. However the organ (which had been only slightly damaged) had been sold at an auction to the then vicar’s brother who had at first installed it in his garage.

However after his wife (and the neighbours) had finally got fed up with him alternately playing florid versions of Rock of Ages and I do Like to be Beside the Seaside every night, he decided to donate it to St Leonard's (which at the time had no organ at all).

The organist was an old lady from St Giles church in Fettlington, who seemed completely oblivious to the unusual appearance of the congregation (although I later discovered she was almost completely blind). As she launched (with great gusto) into a Whiter Shade of Pale, the members of the congregation turned their heads en masse to watch Leonora drift down the aisle.

Leonora was dressed in a white trouser suit covered in sequins, with a white fake fur cape draped over padded shoulders. She was naturally tall (like her mother) and had on a pair of white rubber, knee-high boots with four inch platform heels, which made her seem a giant. Her height was further accentuated by an ornate tiara with long diamante prongs that radiated like icicles from a wide silver headband. And her face was painted with white and purple stage make-up so that it resembled a Venetian mask. In essence, if some mescalin-crazed theatre director had, during the early seventies, decided to produce a glam rock musical based on The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, Leonora would have made a perfect snow queen.

I was transfixed by the vision of this Arctic ogress stepping through the gloom. And as the light reflected off the sequins and shiny satin of Leonora's costume, she seemed to float up into the roof of the church as if she were made of sparkling smoke that merged with the sound of organ, and the ancient walls around me crumbled to nothing and all I could see were her purple eyes, half a dozen of them bulging like a magnified photo of a spider's head, surrounded by wings of lace, arranged like the petals of a flower, buzzing closer and closer until I could feel them vibrating against my face and I was swallowed-up and drowned in whirlpools of coloured nectar.

OK, so maybe I should not have smoked yet more skunk, while waiting for Leonard to arrive. But, hey, I was nervous. Either way, I have no further recollection of the marriage service at all, and was only shaken out of my trance, when the ceremony had longsince finished and we were stood among the graves outside the church and someone started calling out my name.

As I jerked back into life, I saw Zeph brandishing an elaborate-looking camera and beckoning me over to where Leonora and Leonard stood with Paul, Diane and Amy beneath a Cypress tree.

"Are you all right?" asked Amy as I wandered over to join them. "You looked you were about to faint in the church."

"I'm just a bit dizzy, that's all," I said. "I guess it must be all the excitement.”

Amy gripped my arm and stroked it comfortingly through the silky fabric of my shirt.

"You feeling better now?"

I nodded.

"Yea, just needed a bit of fresh air."

"When you two lovebirds have quite finished," said Zeph impatiently. "I've been trying to take this photo for the last half hour."

"Sorry mate," I said, grinning wanly at the camera.

"Right, everyone move in a bit closer," said Zeph.

As Amy gripped my arm, her body pressed against me in an unexpectedly pleasant way. Normally, I would have found such closeness embarrassing in public. But on this occasion I found the warmth of her finely-dressed flesh incredibly sensual. And I put my arm around her waist and held her in a way I had not done for many months.

"That's it," said Zeph, flicking his dredlocks from the lens. "Just squeeze in a bit more. Come on you're meant to be mates aren't you? Yea, that's lovely, and smile." The camera flashed

"And one more. Great. Now then, Leonard, Leonora. How's about one of you with your mum and dad?"

Although everyone teased Zeph about his photographic pretensions, he was actually very good at taking pictures. He had specialised in photography as part of his art diploma at Westingshire College and had even won an award for his end-of-course presentation. Shortly afterwards, Zeph had been offered a job on the Westing Chronicle. But, whereas anyone else with half his talent would have leapt at the chance to embark on a career in photo journalism, Zeph preferred to spend his day swilling out the changing rooms in the leisure centre. It seemed such a waste. I would have loved to be something glamorous like a photographer or a magazine feature writer, rather than just a compiler of food reports. However, Zeph didn't seem the least bit bothered about his lost vocation, as he dragged Mr and Mrs Wilson somewhat unwillingly between the graves.

The graveyard outside St Leonard's appeared to double as a pasture. The area between the headstones was a mess of mud and flattened grass, and (like everywhere else in the vicinity) was liberally covered in cow pats. There were only a dozen or so headstones, arranged in two rows. One lot were very gothic (which I correctly deduced were from the mid Victorian era), and the other were polished granite slabs from the early seventies.

Strangely there was not a single grave dated before, after or in between those two periods. What had happened, I wondered, to those parishioners who had died in neither the eighteen sixties nor the nineteen seventies? Had they just been buried without ceremony in a field somewhere. Or had no one in fact died during those periods? I suddenly had a bizarre vision of generations of families crammed into the handful of cottages that were scattered around the hamlet, all slowly decaying like characters from the Night of the Living Dead, an image made suddenly vivid by the dregs of cannabinoid chemicals still dribbling through my cerebellum. I shuddered.

"Are you sure you're all right?" asked Amy.

"Yea fine," I said, hunching my shoulders in the breeze.

"It's just getting a bit chilly, that's all…"

When Leonard had mentioned that he had arranged a special way for himself and Leonora to travel between St Leonard's and the Daffodil Lion some seven miles away, I had (as I mentioned) envisaged an antique Rolls Royce painted with kaleidoscopic patterns or, perhaps, a similarly decorated Mini Moke, or perhaps even a tandem. I was rather surprised therefore when (after Zeph had eventually finished his photographs) Leonard led the entire congregation down the lane and into a deserted farmyard of semi-derelict barns and stables.

My first thought (as an agitated whinny and the sound of stomping hooves emerged from one of the stables) was that Leonard had arranged some kind of horse and trap to transport the newly weds. I was concerned that, given the twisting, hilly nature of the road that led between the church and the pub, it would be both cruel and impractical to expect any horse (however powerful) to pull a cart that distance.

However, without pause, Paul led the congregation on past the stables and down a stony, track lined with tactfully high hedges to a field where a Land Rover was parked. Beyond the Land Rover were three men who appeared to be unravelling a huge yellow tent from a huge picnic hamper. It was not until we got closer and saw two propane gas cylinders propped up against the back of the Land Rover, that I realised the men were, in fact, unrolling the fabric of a hot air balloon.

"Fucking spectacular," said Zeph as we stood and watched the men using a giant fan to inflate the football-pitch sized globe of fabric . "

"Did you know about this?" asked Graham.

"No," I said, "We thought Paul'd organised a Roller."

"I think it's quite romantic," said Jenny. "Floating away like that." She gestured over to where Leonora and Leonard stood arm in arm, eagerly waiting for the balloon to be fully inflated. "They seem to be very pleased about it."

"Well, rather them than me," said Zeph, pulling a face. "I'm up for most things, but dangling in a picnic basket two thousand feet up in the air is not my idea of a laugh."

"Nor me," I said. "You wouldn't get me up there for anything."

"It does seem quite dangerous," said Amy who had wandered over to take a quick look at the basket. "There's nothing to stop you falling out."

"And what happens if the balloon bursts," said Diane. "Or that burner thing fails."

"I shouldn't worry," said Zeph. "Lennie's so full of hot air I'm sure he could keep it up there for hours. And if they started sinking too quick they could always throw Leonora out…that would lose a few pounds."

Jenny gave him a little punch on the arm.

"Don't be horrible," she said.

"What?" said Zeph innocently.

"I shouldn't worry," I said. "I'm sure they must strap you in somehow. And there must be loads of safety mechanisms, otherwise they'd never be allowed to get them off the ground in the first place."

"Why don't you ask the man," said Amy. "Look, he's coming over this way."

Sure enough, one of the three men was heading across the field towards us, striding through the long grass with a hand-carved walking stick. The man wore green wellingtons, jeans, a check shirt and an oil-stained Barbour coat with a floppy corduroy collar, unlike his two companions - one old, round and bald headed, the other tall, young and dark - who were both in blue boiler suits.

"Hello there," said the man, his voice matching his thin, aristocratic features, giving the distinct impression that it was he was the balloon’s owner.

"Lovely day for it," said Zeph mimicking the man's voice.

I smirked.

"Grow up, or shut up," muttered Jenny, and smiled politely at the man as she elbowed Zeph in the ribs.

"Hi," I said. "Quite an impressive sight isn't it."

The man turned and gazed lovingly at the balloon which was now semi-inflated and billowed in the breeze as it lay across the field.

"Yes, she's a beauty."

"We were just wondering," said Amy. "How you were fastened to the basket, when you were up in the air."

"Fastened," said the man. He chuckled. "Fastened? Heavens no. That would take all the fun away. Besides there wouldn't be much room for straps and things what with the burner and the cylinders. On no, we can barely get four people in as it is."

"So you mean you're just dangling around up there," said Zeph, eyes bulging.

"I suppose so," said the man.

Zeph snorted.

"You must be crazy man."

"Oh it's quite safe," he said.

"What happens if the balloon gets a hole in it," asks Amy.

"Well then you come down," said the man.

"What you just fall out of the sky?" I said.

"Depends how big the hole is," said the man.

"Aren't you scared," said Amy. "That you might crash."

"Yea and be spread all over the countryside," said Zeph mischievously.

"No, not at all," said the man, a hint of arrogance creeping into his voice. "We've been all right up to now, touch wood." He tapped his walking stick gently on the side of his cap and unleashed another hearty chuckle.

I shuddered.

"Lennie and Leonora must be nuts going up in that thing."

"Nonsense," said the man, who was evidently starting to find their comments rather tedious. "It's tremendous fun. Now, then," he added, looking at Zeph, "which of you chaps is the best man."

"Oh, that's me," I said.

The man looked rather disappointed, but forced a smile.

"Well we've got a spare place in the balloon," he started to say. "And Leonard suggested that you might like to..."

"No way," I said, "are you getting me up in that thing."

"There's honestly nothing to worry about," insisted the man, as Zeph and Jenny collapsed into fits of hysterics. "Don't worry about what your friends have been saying. It really is good safe fun."

"What about your guys?" I asked, gesturing to the man's two companions who were busy wrestling with ropes. "Won't they want to go up."

"Oh no, " he said, "They've been up hundreds of times before. Besides they have to follow us in the Land Rover. Pick us up when we land."

"If you land," said Zeph.

I shuddered.

"How far up does it go?" asked Amy slightly nervously.

"Oh, only a couple of thousand feet," said the man.

"I don’t know," I said, shaking my head.

"I don't mind going instead," said Amy.

"Hey, hang on a moment - I never said I wasn’t going to.”

“Well you'll have to make up your minds soon," said the man impatiently gazing back at the balloon which was almost fully inflated.

"Looks like we're just about ready for the off, and we need to stay ahead of the weather."

There was a moment's silence as everyone stared expectantly at me. I swallowed and turned (to quote the lyrics of the Procul Harum ballad that had accompanied Leonora into St Leonard's) 'quite ghostly.'

"OK then," I nodded. "I'll give it a try."

"Yea, go for it man," said Graham.

“Can I have your CD collection?” asked Zeph with a grin.

Amy gave me a quick kiss and a hug.

“Don’t fall out,” she said.

With a helpless shrug, I followed the man back across to the balloon. It was not until I got right alongside the balloon that I appreciated just how big it was. Of course, I'd seen hot air balloons floating through the sky, and had once driven past a balloon that had come down in a field beside the Fettlington Road. But I'd never stood right next to one before. And as I watched the balloon finally billow into an upright position - with Suarav, Paul and Big Tony helping to hold the guy ropes - I felt dwarfed beneath the cloud of yellow fabric.

"OK clamber aboard," said the man in the cap, who was already in position inside the basket. "That's it - use the step and just hop over the edge."

He gave a quick burst on the burner, as Graham, Leonora and I squeezed into position between the cylinders of propane gas that stood in each corner of the basket. I was just about to ask how soon they would be departing, when the posh ferret unexpectedly shouted,

"OK chaps. Chocks away!"

And, with a slight jerk, I suddenly saw the field disappearing beneath me - the Land Rover and the Wedding guests, the farm buildings and the church, shrinking as the balloon rapidly rose into the air.

Probably the ascent was quite slow and gradual. But I felt as if I was in a rocket hurtling into space. I gripped the edge of the basket so tightly the pattern of the wicker work was embedded into my hand like a Masai tattoo. And my heart thumped like a thousand watt bass bin. However, after a few minutes, I stopped worrying about how far off the ground I was and started to survey the landscape below with increasing fascination.

From a couple of thousand feet above Fettlington the countryside looked incredibly flat. And the hills around St Leonard's, which the car had struggled to climb, seemed little more than ripples on a patchwork quilt of fields and woods, punctuated by the occasional small hamlet or farm. As the balloon rose higher, the landscape became less and less real until it seemed like one huge miniature model. I wanted to reach over the edge of the basket and scoop it up in my hands.

This feeling of unreality was accentuated by the sky's quietness. All I could hear, besides occasional bursts from the burner in the centre of the basket, was the drone of thousands of vehicles streaming down the motorway, which stretched from one horizon to the other, dissecting the landscape in two (although the noise was so muffled it didn't really sound like traffic - more like the sound you hear if you stick your fingers in your ears in a quiet room; a buzz of blood and electricity flowing between a billion neurones).

In fact, that was not far from how I felt. It were as if were actually alone in a room with my eyes shut imagining it all, as if the sky and the balloon and miniature Westing town looming into the middle distance to our left were all just part of some crazy day dream. And as the balloon drifted in that silence, for a few moments I felt more relaxed than I had felt for years.

I felt as if all the stresses and fears I had accumulated had been burned up in the propane or dumped overboard, and I was suspended in a bubble, as if I were a foetus again floating in the warm, grey womb of the sky.

"See, I told you it wouldn't be too bad." The unexpected voice suddenly pricked at his bubble. And it took a couple of secs to focus on the balloon man's grinning face.

"Brilliant," I said. "The best thing I've ever done."

The balloon man nodded.

"Hard to explain isn't it," said the man. "Unless you've been up you can't understand what it's like."

He paused and bit his lip as he did a quick calculation on his fingers. "This is my one hundred and eighty-seventh trip. No, one hundred and eighty-eighth. And it's never lost that, you know, that sense of...."

"The buzz," I suggested.

"Yes, if you like," said the man, his face flushed with a sudden overwhelming burst of enthusiasm. "The buzz, the sense of adventure, the bloody thrill of it."

"Well, thanks for giving me the chance," I said, with an apologetic grin. "I guess you must have thought I was a right idiot, back there."

I waved my arm vaguely over the edge of the basket to where the balloon's shadow skimmed across the fields in the fleeting sunshine.

"Not at all," said the man. "There's plenty of people who wouldn't come near one of these things."

"Don't know what they're missing," I said.

"Absolutely," said the man. He gave a quick blast on the burner.

"Actually, we've been very lucky. I was expecting a storm," he gestured to dark clouds gathering in the distance. "Didn't think we'd get up today. But it seems to have held off."

I nodded.

"Well I'm glad we did."

I was so engrossed in his discussion with the man and the all consuming sensation of floating, I'd almost forgotten that Leonard and Leonora were still in the basket with me. And as I turned around, I was quite startled to see them both stood there hand-in-hand in their psychedelic finery.

"Enjoying it?" I asked.

Leonora smiled and nodded vaguely, as if her mind was also floating away.

"Weird," said Leonard. "Especially when we were rising up over the grave yard. It felt like I was a kind of spirit rising up to heaven. Like I could seem myself down there for a moment with everyone else watching. It was weird, I tell you."

"Yea," I said. "Well weird."

We were abruptly interrupted by the balloon man.

“I think we may be in for a bumpy one,” he said, and pointed to black clouds smothering the once blue horizon.

The balloon only just made it to The Daffodil Lion before the storm broke, blown by a violent wind to land in the steep field behind the pub, as the first drops of rain began to dampen its yellow fabric. Even the balloon man with all his experience and nonchalance had seemed slightly worried as the cloud mass raced towards us like some huge black predator

The basket jerked about as it descended lower over the upper branches of the daffodil woods behind the pub, leafy limbs waving like the arms of frantic air traffic controllers. After the basket had first touched down, it bumped aloft again a couple of times, lifted by angry gusts of wind that rushed across the open meadow. It finally came to rest at the foot of the hill, where we were unceremoniously tipped from the basket and into the long, damp reeds beyond the back of the beer garden, where the congregation and the balloon man's companions had gathered to watch our arrival.

Leaving the men to pack away the balloon, we hurried inside to watch the storm from the shelter of the conservatory, where we were plied with glasses of champagne as Leonora’s mother dabbed at Leonora’s mud-smeared bridal gown and muttered “runied, ruined” over and over again.

Having rapidly downed my champagne, I stood with one hand gratefully around Amy's waist and the other clutching a pint of lager and watched the men wrestle the balloon from the evermore violent clutches of the wind. Despite having already had rather a lot to drink, Saurav and Big Tony had gamely gone out to try and help the men. And although they seemed to spend most of the time on their backs in the wet grass, they eventually succeeded in rolling up the mass of yellow fabric. Their efforts were loudly applauded from within the conservatory, especially when they traipsed in covered in mud like some victorious psychedelic, rugby team.

"I don't know why they bothered," said Leonora’s mother, as Big Tony tripped over for the umpteenth time. "They were hardly able to stand, let alone be any use out there."

"All part of their ushers' duties," I said, gulping at my pint. "Organise stag night, guide guests into church, get pissed, fold-up hot air balloon, shag bridesmaids."

"Hey you," said Amy, punching me on the arm.

But before I could be further admonished, we were interrupted by a sudden downpour that beat down on the glass of the conservatory like screws and nails.

"Jesus," said Zeph. "Listen to that man."

"Yea," I said, turning to Graham. "You know you always wanted to visit the rain forest. Well it looks like the rain forest's coming to visit you."

We peered out at the mass of black clouds moving rapidly overhead like smoke billowing from some huge celestial chimney

"I wonder where it's come from?" said Amy

"It's retribution," said Zeph to Leonard, "God punishing you for desecrating the church with your weird wedding ceremony."

"Maybe," said Leonard.

As we stared up at the swathe of dripping blackness ploughing through the sky, a strange thing happened. It was Paul, the landlord, who, from his central vantage point behind the bar, first became aware of the bizarre meteorological phenomenon that was occurring

"Hey come and have a look at this," said Paul. He poked his head into the conservatory and beckoned us to follow him. "I've never seen anything like it."

We all processed through the bar and gathered in the car park at the front of the pub staring up in amazement. Although rain drops the size of billiard balls still hammered relentlessly into the conservatory at the back of the Daffodil Lion, the front of the pub had suddenly become bathed in brilliant sunshine. And as we looked up in bewilderment at the curtain of rain that fell rather like a waterfall a few feet away, we saw that the sky was neatly spliced in two, one half black and the other bright blue. More amazing still was the rainbow that had appeared like a bridge stretched between Fettlington and Westing directly over the Daffodil Lion. It was wider and more vivid than any rainbow any of us had every seen before

"Well," I said. "Looks like God's forgiven you after all."

"Maybe he can't make up his mind," said the Reverend Foxy, who had just joined the reception, zooming through the rain on his Triumph. "He's like that sometimes."

Slowly, the worst of the rain subsided. The column of dark clouds disappeared toward the horizon and the rainbow splintered apart, the two halves of the sky merging into milky greyness smeared with patches of sunlit blue. And one-by-one the women clutching their hats and the men all shivering in their shirt sleeves returned to the back of the pub.

Eventually, the sun burned through the clouds, reducing them to distant grey whisps. And the male and female guests migrated into two groups. The women sat contentedly in the conservatory with the champagne, and the men congregated noisily around the barbecue in the beer garden. As the afternoon grew warmer, most of the men stood in their shirtsleeves, enjoying the heat of the sun and the ash-white charcoal - a heat which seemed all the more pleasant after the earlier downpour, the residues of which still dripped slowly from roofs and trees.

In typical fashion, Zeph went one further than anyone else - stripping off his tie-dye T-shirt and donning a pair of skimpy black shorts. He stood over the barbecue wearing a blue and white striped apron and a chef's hat, which he had purloined from behind the pub's food counter, occasionally turning vegeburgers with a charred metal spatula

"I can't see why we can't just use your one," said Paul, who had been forced to construct an impromptu carnivores' barbecue from half-a-dozen damp bricks, two yards of tin foil and an old beer barrel

"No way man," said Zeph, flourishing his spatula as if it were a sabre. "You keep your shit away from my vegeburgers."

"I only want a bloody corner," protested Paul. "Anyway, I can't see what the problem is. It's only a bit of chicken and a couple of sausages. It's not as if I'm going to put a bloody pigeon there or something."

He lifted a chicken wing with a pair of tongs and pretended he was about to deposit it on top of Zeph's veggie kebabs

"Fuck off, man" said Zeph. "You'll drip fat all over them."

"I'll wrap them in tin foil," said Paul.

"That's not the point," I said.

"What is the point then," asked Paul?

"Well," I said, "This is meant to be a vegetarian barbecue.”

“It’s meant to be my bloody pub,” grumbled Paul.

“It's what Leonard wanted."

I looked to the groom for support. But in his usual noncommittal way he just shrugged and took another slow slurp of beer

"Food Fascists," muttered Paul. "You know Hitler was avegetarian, don't you."

"Oh was he?" said Zeph sarcastically.

"Nazis," said Paul. "That's what you are. You'll be stopping us from smoking in the pub next."

"Depends what you're smoking," said Big Tony with a wink. And, so saying, he pulled a six inch long spliff from the pocket of his shirt

"Fucking hell," I said laughing. "Must have taken you all day to roll that."

Big Tony offered the spliff to Paul who slowly sniffed the length of it, as if it were a Havana cigar.

"Good gear," he said, admiringly

"The fucking best," said Big Tony. "Anyone got a light?"

"Hold on a second," said Graham. He delved into a box behind the barbecue and, after a bit of fumbling, produced a large handful of his famous ‘herbal rollies’, causing everyone to burst into laughter.

"Fucking hell," said Zeph. "Where did you get that lot from."

"Well, I like to do my bit.”

“Do your bit?” I said. “That’s half the GDP of Jamaica you’re holding there.”

“Hey, I ain’t into that GDP,” sniffed Zeph. “Don’t like those designer drugs.”

"Hey, go easy, " I said, as Saurav grabbed a couple of spliffs. "I’m still recovering from the one Graham gave me earlier.”

Deaf to my warning, the others all reached out greedily to help themselves from Graham's outstretched palm (all of them that is except Big Tony who, slightly peeved that his huge comedy spliff had been somewhat overshadowed, ostentatiously lit-up by poking it into the hot coals of the barbecue).

A few minutes later, however, any animosity there may have been was subdued by the effects of the herb. Even those who declined to try out Graham's special creations directly, could not escape the intoxicating clouds of aromatic smoke that hovered over the charred vegebangers like some magical mist. As the men continued to get more and more off their heads (and the food on the barbecue became more and more burnt), I went to tell the ladies in the conservatory that they should come out and rescue some food, before they were all put on an enforced diet.

"There is a lot of smoke coming from the barbecue," said Amy as she peered out through the conservatory's damp glass.

"I expect they've burnt everything already," said Diane, who sat wearily beside her on a wicker two seater. "They normally do."

"They always do," said Jenny. "They wait until everything goes black, then cook it some more."

"Perhaps we should go and lend a hand," asked Amy, who had a particularly good appetite and was worried that her dinner might be literally going up in smoke. Diane rested her hand on Amy's arm

"No, just let them get on with it," she said. "You know what they're like with barbeques. It brings out the savage in them."

“A wedding barbeque,” snorted Leonora’s mother. “Ridiculous.”

The others pretended not to hear.

"Just look at them," said Diane who was stood by the door to the beer garden. She nodded towards Jenny. "Your boyfriend seems to be enjoying himself."

Jenny winced. "He still got those shorts on?"

Amy sniggered

"He's like Lynford Christie," she said. Then, realising she may have made more than one faux pas, quickly added, "Sorry, I don't mean because he's, you know. I meant with his muscles and everything he looks a bit like..."

"Oh don't you worry, girl" said Jenny. "You can say what you like about that fool. There's only one thing he's good for and he ain't much good at that."

Amidst much chuckling, Diane nodded sympathetically and looked across at the men who were still doing their best to simultaneously explode their minds and the food.

Noticing her stood there, Big Tony, waved a charred chicken leg and shouted, "All right darling?"

Diane smiled demurely and raised her champagne glass. Then turning to the other ladies muttered, "You know why they call him Big Tony!" and waggled her little finger.

Amy and Jenny collapsed into hysterical giggles.

“Really,” snapped Leonora’s mother.

And there followed a moment of awkward silence, during which they tried to stifle their laughter by sipping champagne.

Leonora's mum turned to Amy and said, "That really is a lovely frock. Where did you say you got it from?"

"I made it," said Amy.

"Did you?" said Leonora’s mother. “How brave."

"Well we have to make most of our clothes for our plays," saidAmy modestly

"Well good for you. It may not be a popular thing to say, but most young girls expect far too much. You see them at the Post Office, queuing up for their Giros wearing designer outfits and and pushing those ridiculous three wheeled prams." She swigged her champagne. "When we were their age we had to make the most of what little we earned. If we couldn't afford something, we had to make it ourselves or we went without. It was as simple as that.”

"So you're telling me," said Jenny. "Just because these girls are poor they should be made to dress like scarecrows and carry their babies on their backs?"

"Besides," added Amy. "How do you know they haven't worked for those things or been given them as presents?"

"Oh, you can tell," said Leonora’s mum. "You only have to look at them smoking and swearing. And the filthy looks they give."

"I can't imagine why?" muttered Jenny. Leonora’s mother continued unabashed

"I'm not saying that they're all like that, dear. But when you see the way some of them dress and the way they talk. It's little wonder they get involved with the wrong crowd."

"I think you're being a bit unfair," said Diane.

"Am I?" said Leonora's mum. "I caught a few minutes of that terrible Trisha programme the other morning. I don’t normally watch it, dreadful people. But, I turned on late for the news and it happened to be on. And the girls they had on there. No education, no manners, and proud of it. One was no more than seventeen, working as a stripper. Quite blatant she was. Covered in gold, like some kind of Egyptian whore. And what really annoys me is that they’re using tax payers money to encourage this kind of thing - the television, the teachers, those dreadful social services.”

“What’s so dreadful about Social Services?” asked Diane (who had spent several years as a Home Care manager before becoming a full time landlady at the pub).

“Well, it may not be PC to say this, but I just think if some of these girls were made to work a bit harder at school and went on to college, they might find it easier to find proper jobs. Then they wouldn’t have to take their clothes off.”

"Hmmphh," said Jenny. "I think you'll find most of them strippers are students trying to pay for their fees."

"Yes, that's right" said Amy. "One of my friends - well, this girl I knew at drama college, Millicent Walters, she joined one of those escort agencies. And she did a lot more than just take her clothes off for the men she went out with."

"Really?" said Jenny. "She slept with them and everything."

"Oh yes," said Amy. "She was a rubber mistress. Honestly, she used to dress up in black and chain these men up and everything."

"Well, I can only think she must have been on drugs," said Leonora’s mum dismissively.

There was an awkward pause, as a fog of high-strength grass filtered in through the conservatory doors.

"Oh no," said Amy. "Millicent wasn't into drugs or anything. In fact she was quite straight. You know, prim and proper. I think that’s what the men liked about her. Honestly, she made a fortune."

"How much she make?" asked Jenny.

Diane grinned, "You thinking of giving it a go?"

"No I'm just interested," said Jenny. "It's got to be a lot of money for that kinky stuff.”

"Yes, loads and loads," said Amy. "Honestly, we were all living in these typical student places, with disgusting kitchens and that horrible green mould on the walls."

"Urghh," Jenny pulled a face. "Oh, I can't stand that stuff."

"I know, it was dreadful," said Amy. "But Millicent had this amazing flat and a car and everything."

"Well," sniffed Leonora’s mother. "I can't see that it's anything to show off about."

"Oh, I'm not saying I agree with it," said Amy. "I wouldn't do it. But she did make a lot of ..."

"Well," interrupted Leonora’s mother. "The poor girl was obviously being exploited."

"Or was she exploiting the men?" asked Diane provocatively.

"Don't be ridiculous," said Leonora’s mother. "It's not something any normal women would choose to do."

"You'd be surprised," said Jenny. "You read about these bored housewives who do that type of thing just for a bit of company."

Leonora’s mother shook her head.

"You know what really worries me is what happens to the children when these girls are entertaining all these different men." She tutted loudly. "Taking drugs and stealing cars. It's a total lack of basic family values."

"Oh here we go," said Jenny, rolling her eyes

"Personally, I think it’s unfair to demonise these girls," said Amy. "I mean, if a man sleeps with lots of women he's treated like some kind of hero. And even if he forces himself on a women, the judge (who's normally male and probably senile) will say she was asking for it because she was wearing a short skirt. But as soon as a women starts to pick and choose who she sleeps with she gets called a slag. It's all to do with power."

Diane nodded and cupped one of her ample breasts.

"You're right. Men think they have some God given right to stare at these things, just because I work behind a bar. I can't remember the last time one of them actually spoke to my face. Even in this place."

"That's right," said Jenny. "Men just think women have a body and nothing above here." She gestured with her hand as if gently karate chopping her neck. "But no women wants to stare at a man's privates all day."

"Mind you," said Amy. "They do have a lot those male strip shows as well, now."

"I know. But personally, I can't stand the thought of it," said Jenny shuddering. "I like a man with a nice athletic body. And I don't mind if he move a bit when he dancing." She chuckled and gyrated briefly in her chair. "But I wouldn't pay to see no man shove his bum in my face. Right?"

They laughed.

"Did anyone see that programme on BBC2 the other night about the guy they called the elephant man?" asked Leonora.

“What the one with the bag over his head who shpoke schlike schat.”

“No it was a male stripper. He was revolting," she said. "Enormous!" She swung her arm back and forth in front of her face as if illustrating the dimensions and dangle of a baby elephant's trunk.

"And the women," she winced. "Honestly, it was really horrible. You wouldn't believe the things some of them were doing to him. There was baby oil and whipped cream everywhere. I had to turn it off in the end."

"What? After you'd watched it for an hour?" said Jenny.

Leonora blushed

"No, it wasn't like that. It was quite an interesting programme. But honestly it wasn't nice."

"You mean," said Diane, nodding understandingly. "It doesn't turn you on."

"Not until you watched the video the fifth time, eh?" said Jenny mischievously

"Oh no," said Leonora hastily shaking her head. "I didn't video it. Really - it's not the kind of thing you'd want to watch twice."

"I think she's teasing you," said Diane

"Oh," blushed Leonora. She bit her lip

"So," said Leonora’s mother haughtily, turning to her daughter "you didn't have one of these hen parties or whatever they're called."

"No not like that," said Leonora.

"Hey, we could easily have hired you the elephant man," said Diane.

Jenny giggled

"Another drink anyone?" asked Diane, picking up the champagne bottle that was on the floor beside her. Amy grinned and Leonora nodded

"What a good idea," said Jenny.

But Leonora’s mother covered the top of her glass

"No thank you," she said. "I think I've had quite enough!"

Meanwhile, out on the edge of the football field, the men had gathered like a bunch of hungry school boys round an ice cream van, which had suddenly appeared at the back of the pub. The van was a particularly fine example of the late sixties' stop me and buy one' design, resplendent in vanilla coloured livery and complete with tinkly Eidleweiss tune and ‘Mind That Child’ sign.

Originally, Paul had ordered the van to arrive early that afternoon, when they all returned from St Leonard's. But due to the storm, he had asked the van's driverto wait until later to provide desert after the barbecue. As the ice cream man served up diesel-fume flavoured ninety nine cones to the ravenous hordes, I strolled back over to the conservatory to inform the ladies that the burgers and vegetable kebabs (or rather the charred remains of them) were now ready to eat.

With much yawning and stretching, the ladies rose tipsily to their feet and, champagne flutes in hand, wandered across to the edge of the field where they intermingled with the men, most of whom already clutched polystyrene plates piled ridiculously high with the varied results of Zeph's slightly over-enthusiastic open-air cooking

"You might have waited," said Jenny to Zeph. She shivered slightly in the breeze, which seemed much cooler than it really was after the glasshouse warmth of the conservatory

"No point eating it when it's cold," said Zeph

Diane, who stood beside Jenny in front of a trestle table next to the barbecue, sniffed derisorily and poked at the blackened slab of southern fried grill with which she had been served.

"Not much chance of that," she said. "We could use this in the fireplace."

"Yea, sorry," said Zeph, "I'll get you another one.

He reached across the barbecue with his spatula and flipped various burgers and sausages until he found a sausage that