Last weekend the Pickwicks had the grand excitement to attend a wedding. Fr Pickwick went early to organize the music, and Mrs Pickwick followed with the children. Keeping them clean and pressed and driving them through torrential rains to arrive on time to an unfamiliar church in an unfamiliar state was no problem at all.
The wedding service itself went well, also. The music was lovely. So Mrs P heard tell, anyway. She was next door with Baby P, who was absolutely determined to add his two cents to the recording, as a permanent memento of his presence for the bride and groom to enjoy for years to come. She also heard that Feisty had persuaded a nice gentlemen previously entirely unacquainted with the Pickwicks to lift her up on his shoulders so she could see better. Then stand on a pew. Then take her up to the choir loft. Hopefully the bride was flattered.
Once at the reception, Fr and Mrs P relaxed and enjoyed lovely drinks and fancy hors-d’oeuvres. Right after they confiscated 29 forks and knives from tiny Pickwickian place settings, sopped up a goblet of spilled water with all the napkins at their table, fished the baby out of every place imaginable except his highchair, broke up several minor altercations about party favor ownership, explained that wedding cake takes a loooong time to be ready, and took innumerable trips to the ladies’ room. Mrs Pickwick always finds herself taking innumerable trips to all the ladies’ rooms in the world, but this one was extra attractive, because there was a fancy basket of mints in it. It is empty now. Eventually, about the time that Busy had decided to pose as a replacement for the elaborate centerpiece, a grandparently sort of couple asked if they could take the darling, sweet, blessed little Pickwicks on an excursion outside to pick flowers. Of course they could.
Fr Pickwick set out to refurbish the cheese and cracker supply, and look for more of something wrapped in bacon, with an elegant name, but the important part was the bacon. Mrs Pickwick took a few sips of unspilled lemon water out of an unbroken glass and savored the peaceful three and half minutes before the volunteers were exhausted and the Blessings returned. Which they did, laden with buttercups and sticks and a rock or two, and all sorts of outdoor spoils, just in time for the toasts.
As Mrs P raised her glass, she glanced down at one of the sylvan treasures from the excursion, and watched in horror as Shelob herself skittered across 29 forks and ten soaked napkins and took refuge under a party favor. She did not scream. Really. She dexterously chased the uninvited guest back and forth between the goblets, finally caught it under a coffee cup and then frantically texted Fr P to drop his bacon and save Table 3.
No, waiter, thank you. I am not quite finished with my cup. You may take it after I leave.