It's the summer so the choir must be...

... doing weddings.

Yes, gentle readers, I regret to have to shock you and admit that we aren't above sullying our artistic integrity and singing endless versions of I vow to Thee, my country, Love Divine, All Loves Excelling and Jerusalem in the interests of dipping our mitts in the bottomless till of wedding funding, thereby replenishing our perilously-empty choir coffers. As a Welshwoman I'll leave it to your imaginations to guess how fulfilling it is for me to chirp away about building Jerusalem in England's green and pleasant land (sic), but suffice it to say I have contemplated doing considerably more uncomfortable things to keep the choral financial ship afloat.

Anyway, the sun dawned bright yesterday, and late morning saw Fleur and I heading off down the M4 to Castle Combe to participate in the latest display of conspicious consumption. And conspicious it was... down to the white-horse drawn carriage shipping bridesmaids and protagonists the whole 300yds from the manor to the church (I've never been able to fathom why putting on a wedding dress renders women incapable of walking more than the 20 yards or so up the aisle, thereby meaning their hapless families have to shell out for the cost of hiring whichever bizarre mode of transport takes their fancy/is the fashionable option; but there you go, perhaps I'm just unromantic).

Now, call me old fashioned (and you probably WILL) but to me, a wedding is a religious ceremony - a sacrament - not a college ball, and therefore it goes without saying you should dress appropriately, respectfully, and not as if you are about to take part in a Danny la Rue floorshow. (Unless, of course, it's a civil ceremony in which case as far as I am concerned you can turn up looking like Fifi the Wonder Dog). Certainly I can remember when I was a little chorister Father Snell insisting (to the great distress of the bride) any suggestion of a bare shoulder or plunging neckline be covered up with one of his housekeeper's lacy hankies. So you can imagine my horror when yesterday's bride (who otherwise looked and sounded like a nice enough person) turned up not only in a strapless number, but also one so tight as to make me fear for her respiratory capabilities. The bridesmaids too were revealing acres of fake-tanned flesh which I felt was a bit of a low blow for the one amongst them who had a figure which might politely be termed rather too ample for the amount of fabric allocated to comfortably contain. We will not mention the tattoo-ed arms.

Now I've probably got you all writhing in distress now, saying it's the bride's Big Day and she should be allowed to wear what she wants. Sorry guys, but I'm completely unrepentant - I repeat, my attitude is very much that this ceremony is taking place in the House of God and at least a nod should be made towards a bit of respect. I've nothing against strapless gowns (at least three of my performance gowns are strapless) but if you absolutely have to wear one for your wedding I would suggest it wouldn't kill anybody to make, say, a bolero jacket to be worn during the ceremony which could be taken off for the reception? I've seen absolutely beautiful versions of this sort of garment, with all manner of beading, lacework and general embellishment which would not detract from 'the Look' in the slightest (and in the case of tattoos would considerably enhance it). So feel free to disagree with me, but I'm with Father Snell on this one... just be grateful I don't have any suitable hankies, lacy or otherwise...

Whilst on the subject of weddings, WHY OH WHY do women fondly imagine fascinators are a good alternative to hats? Never in a million years will you catch me wearing one of those things off the stage... if I want to walk around looking like a giant bug has landed on my head I'll go to the Amazon thank you very much. There were some fab hats there yesterday... my hands were itching to make off with at least one particularly gorgeous large black feathered number... but an equal number of quite bizarre fascinators. Thank goodness I didn't have my fly swat on me or in my church-induced state of absentmindedness I would not have been able to help myself taking a swipe at the bleddy things. Another thing to add to the List Of Things I Will Ban When I'm Made Dictator methinks.

Apart from the above, it was a generally good wedding, not least because the female vicar bore a startling vocal resemblance to Dawn French in her Vicar of Dibley mode; even down to the truly awful jokes she was cracking throughout. Fleur held my hands down as I passed the horses and carriage - having overheard my stated wish to give one of the nags a slap on the rump, leap on board the resulting runaway carriage and start my legendary rendition of 'Oh the Deadwood Stage is a-coming on over the plain...'; the pub close by served an acceptable Chablis and the biker-rally had thankfully sorted itself out and had stopped blocking the traffic through Calne by the time we were travelling back. Tim is also a smiling bunny as he has the happy couple's cheque for our services in his hot little hand. Everybody happy then...