Last month I got married at London’s St Paul’s Cathedral. (Yes, really.) Nothing to do with my humdrum family history – rather, it was my new wife’s illustrious parents that gave me the chance. As anyone who’s seen my profile pictures (“shot in the back of the head”, every time!) across the web knows, I prefer anonymity and the shadows to letting it all hang out; you do better work for longer that way. And religion is no part of my life. So why did I go for a ceremony guaranteed to have me appearing in 100 strangers’ selfies when we emerged onto the steps of one of the world’s most famous buildings?
For the story.
Life is about big stories. Sequences of events that make everything make sense. Marrying later in life than most (although I still feel too young to settle down) I wanted that big moment when it all came together, something we’ll remember forever. A full-length thriller not an espresso short. Something to anchor the memory to the reality with a big thunking CLANG, setting me up for a new life with my beautiful bride. (A girl whose stories started a lot earlier in life than mine, and involved events far more dangerous.)
And it was a big day. I can’t remember a moment when I wasn’t smiling. To over 100 guests who flew, drove, and sailed thousands of kilometres to be there for us… thank you.
And also as proof that life’s adventures don’t have to stop. I’m writing this a month after the big day, in Florida’s Fort Lauderdale airport, about to head home after an adventurous honeymoon involving driving, drinking, shooting, swimming, and getting my SCUBA certification in Key Largo. The stories don’t end. But this phase of my life started with a building.