The receptionist smiled blandly at me when we arrived, and there was a moment of awkward silence. I had expected Andrew to speak. "We have an appointment with the Registrar" I said, making sure to pronounce the capital R. "Rosie and Andrew". I don't know why I didn't give our surnames. I'm still trying to decide if I'll take his when we marry, and it somehow seemed important to introduce ourselves as a couple. She asked for them anyway, and I saw her finger trace the syllables in mine as she memorised the pronunciation, ticking us off in her appointments diary. She directed us through the hall, to an office down at the back.
I marveled at the seats. Fixed to the floor and bus station blue, there seemed to be so many of them. I wondered if our thirteen guests will fill the front row. I wasn't quick enough to count them. The Registrar's chair was down front, behind a desk and flanked by four more leatherette office chairs. We'll sit there, I thought, with our mammies. Behind them on the wall hung a reproduction of a romantic painting. I asked Andrew about it in the car on the way home. I wondered if it was Aoife and Strongbow. I was never very good at art history. Neither was he; he thought they had married for love. By chance, I saw later that the National Gallery have chosen the same image for the cover of their 2010 diary. There's a photo of it in one of the small advertisements hidden amongst the Irish Times' telly listings. So I look it up. The Meeting on the Turret Stairs depicts Hellelil and Hildebrand, who were indeed lovers. They died for it, though. There is no mention of them getting married. The painting seems an odd choice.
I marveled at the seats. Fixed to the floor and bus station blue, there seemed to be so many of them. I wondered if our thirteen guests will fill the front row. I wasn't quick enough to count them. The Registrar's chair was down front, behind a desk and flanked by four more leatherette office chairs. We'll sit there, I thought, with our mammies. Behind them on the wall hung a reproduction of a romantic painting. I asked Andrew about it in the car on the way home. I wondered if it was Aoife and Strongbow. I was never very good at art history. Neither was he; he thought they had married for love. By chance, I saw later that the National Gallery have chosen the same image for the cover of their 2010 diary. There's a photo of it in one of the small advertisements hidden amongst the Irish Times' telly listings. So I look it up. The Meeting on the Turret Stairs depicts Hellelil and Hildebrand, who were indeed lovers. They died for it, though. There is no mention of them getting married. The painting seems an odd choice.
In the back room, we met Síle. She was pleasant. I was anxious. I kept making little jokes, though I couldn't say for sure now how many of them I made out loud. She talked us through the paperwork and had us read over the his n' hers laminated sheets that outlined legal impediments to a marriage before signing a declaration to state that we were neither related to one another nor bigamists. I'm a quick reader. She gave us plenty of time, so I spent a few minutes of it working out who'd be what on the list of persons given. A woman may not marry her...Husband’s father’s brother. Father’s sister’s husband. Daughter’s daughter’s husband. The list is 28 persons long.
There was some confusion over the jumble of names on Andrew's birth cert. Síle compromised by putting two of them in brackets, though what difference that made neither he nor I was sure of. She then gave us a quick run-through of what to expect on the day; an a-la-carte menu for our ceremony. I got a lump in my throat when she mentioned vows. She gave us a slip with a reference number to give to the receptionist, and wished us well.
We kissed on the street before climbing back into the car. "She didn't ask me if I love Pussycat!" Andrew said, sounding surprised. He calls me Pussycat, from Edward Lear's The Owl and the Pussycat. I call him Kitty, because even before he bought the purple and turquoise jumper he reminded me of James P. Sullivan. I know, I know. People like us make me sick. Turns out he was expecting Green Card. A civil service quickfire round of Mr. & Mrs. An Interrogation. I laughed, thrilled that I am marrying this silly, sweet man who's dismayed at not being put through his paces to earn the right to marry me. He never misses an opportunity to declare his intentions. Nor, it would seem, do I.
There was some confusion over the jumble of names on Andrew's birth cert. Síle compromised by putting two of them in brackets, though what difference that made neither he nor I was sure of. She then gave us a quick run-through of what to expect on the day; an a-la-carte menu for our ceremony. I got a lump in my throat when she mentioned vows. She gave us a slip with a reference number to give to the receptionist, and wished us well.
We kissed on the street before climbing back into the car. "She didn't ask me if I love Pussycat!" Andrew said, sounding surprised. He calls me Pussycat, from Edward Lear's The Owl and the Pussycat. I call him Kitty, because even before he bought the purple and turquoise jumper he reminded me of James P. Sullivan. I know, I know. People like us make me sick. Turns out he was expecting Green Card. A civil service quickfire round of Mr. & Mrs. An Interrogation. I laughed, thrilled that I am marrying this silly, sweet man who's dismayed at not being put through his paces to earn the right to marry me. He never misses an opportunity to declare his intentions. Nor, it would seem, do I.
