Weddings, tears and me

But there were two moments in London.

The first was when my son made his marriage vows in the famous Chelsea registrar's office on the King's Road. The look he gave his wife to be, and the way she looked back at him, was so gloriously intimate and joyous, that all my long-held, and adhered, to cynical views on marriage, felt somewhat shabby and mean.

I have never seen Pierce look so proud, so certain - so happy, in truth.

And to see her confident, equally balanced gaze in return, gave me a late, very late, understanding of what marriage can and should mean.

That was only part one.

At the end of August, surrounded by friends, and not just the tiny, immediate family group present in London, they will do the full ceremony in Provence, in a 14th century church.

But, being France, the paperwork required, plus the recording of the official civil ceremony, means that time had to pass between both ceremonies.

My French friends can't get their heads around the longish gap between both 'weddings.'

Here, one marries in law in the Mairie and by the maire, and then the couple walks across to the church for the religious ceremony.

Only the civil counts as legal. Separation of state and church is so central to the French identity.

I explain, and God knows they should know in their document-ridden country, that all the official paper work; the copies of birth and baptism (in P's case) certificates; the statement from the parish priest that both have been attending over the past months; and numerous other odds and sods, have to be in place.

Pierce's wife, for now she is, grew up in Monaco and her family own a house in the South, but that carries little weight without all, all, the documents.

The planning has taken a year. The priest has been seen and now has all the written proof of life required under French law.

In turn they have been sent to the Bishop, who, after close inspection of the missives, has finally stamped his seal on the permit to wed

It is not a full Mass as such - but near as damn it - because the bride is not Catholic.

And the priest is Polish and desperate to show off his limited English in the ceremony, although both want the lyrical French and, me, a fair chunk of the old Latin.

The organist is a very, very, old Belgian. She worships the ancient instrument with a possessiveness verging on mania.

She refuses to try any new hymns beyond the two unknowns to all of us she plays extremely badly.

There is a plot to sneak in a musician friend but it is so fraught with problems. Will the Belgian bar access? Will she go totally nuts and smash the pipes before she allows another to play them?

The priest has hinted that she considers the splendid organ to be hers, and hers alone.

Meanwhile, I'm getting the blame for not suggesting the 'right' music.

Why don't I know more wedding hymns to suggest, anyway, says my son?

"Because my friends didn't bloody marry," I reply. "I've been to three weddings in my whole life. Three.

"But funerals. Now you're talking. Loads.

"I'm an expert at funerals."

I tell him I'll leave instructions for mine, but perhaps on the eve of his civil wedding that is not the right moment to discuss the Vienna Boys' Choir and their part in it.

He and I were staying in his father's flat, sticking to the old tradition of separation the night before the marriage.

His father, after we all had dinner together, went to his copine's house for the night.

He's too old for a girlfriend, so I'm using a French word to describe her. She's really nice. This is 2015 after all. Many years, and water, have passed under that bridge.

In the morning, my son is stressed. He starts to iron his shirt and trousers as the minutes tick by.

I'm dressed. His father is dressed. His father takes over the ironing and the son finally gets in the shower.

The time ticks on. He's still in the shower. I suck hungrily on my e-cig.

He has no concept of time. Let's just say we eventually scream to a halt in the King's Road and he runs the last stretch.

By now, hobbling on the small heels, I'm ready to put a plaster under the bit that goes across the top of the foot. I do. It looks ridiculous.

The bride's family is tall, toned and gorgeous. Merde.

I'm in bloody black. All I could get into, as I saw it. And it's hot and I could have worn my linen. Merde.

I never, these days, quite get it right.

Hopefully I will in Provence. My country.

Second time I nearly cried?

M&S mini food hall, Gatwick. Luxury mashed potatoes.