A Perfect Day

"Didn't you hear the minister?" Delta chided me yesterday, "during the ceremony, she confirmed that you're supposed to make me coffee every morning."
I narrowed my eyes at him suspiciously.
"Yep," he said, looking into the distance as though searching his own memory for confirmation, "and right after that, you said 'I do' ".
I scowled and pouted and generally made dramatic expressions until Delta realised it would be a far simpler task to just get out of bed and make his own coffee on himself.
"Make me one while you're at it?" I asked, grinning like a cheshire cat.

Welcome to the life of Ficali McDelta (nee McPipe).

The wedding ceremony was the shortest (and by that logic the sweetest) wedding ceremony I've experienced. Not that I've experienced that many, of course. It took all of ten minutes to wait our turn in City Hall. It took three more minutes for the minister to actually marry us.

"You do?" (to Delta)
"I do."
"You do?" (to me)
"I do."
There was a moment of faffing around with the rings.
("Delta, you're putting it on the wrong hand!"
"Crap! Yeah! Give me your other hand!"
Minister pretended not to witness this.)
But then, all of a sudden, there we were, as woman and hubby.

We were just leaving City Hall, when suddenly we were accosted by an entourage from New York Magazine.
"Hey there, can we do a photo op with you? We're doing an article on people who get married at City Hall!"
So of course we did our share to oblige the paparazzi. I mean, even people who choose to get married in City Hall like their fair share of glitz and flashing bulbs, you know. Update on this to follow if, by absolute fluke, we actually do make the it into the magazine.

And then we did what I think every New York couple should consider. We had our wedding as a picnic in Central Park. Green grass, blue skies, balmy air, close friends, it was absolutely perfect. Absolutely perfect.