A grey Limousine rolled effortlessly through the Registry Office gates and purred to a stop followed by a dented white Vauxhall with a ribbon tied in a bow on the aerial. All eyes turned and watched as a tall man in grey tails clutching a top hat slid out of the Limousine and directed the Vauxhall toward a space at the far end of the car park.
The massed flamingos broke formation, turning in panicked circles, some breaking off and falling back as if they’d suddenly remembered they’d left the gas on. One of them escaped and teetered out of the car park onto the road, her three-inch heels scraping on the tarmac as she spun from side to side waving her clutch bag at passing cars. All seemed lost. There was no Irene and already another wedding group was arriving. Roger was hanging onto Butlins arm imagining the worst while the flamingos tried to sound hopeful.