The taxi took a turn. Moving onto a side street flanked by bland architecture and recycled Victorian splendour selling insurance and legal advice to a scurrying population bent against an oppressive sky, it stopped somewhat abruptly by the curb.
“That’ll be five pound fifty – six quid if you’re feeling generous.” The taxi driver twisted in his seat. “Rather you than me mate,” he added with a cynical smirk, nodding recognition at the fake carnation pinned to Roger’s lapel.
The comment flew ominously to the back seat, causing Roger’s heart to sink a few more inches towards his freshly polished shoes and severed shoelace.
There was no turning back now.
Quite a group had gathered outside the registry office, standing in the freezing drizzle like hunch-backed flamingos. Roger only recognised a few of the faces, but knew they were all Irene’s friends bound to her like he was by her wildly unpredictable and infectious nature. Butlins was the first to rush forward waving his arms like a windmill, screeching something about him being late and not seeing the bride before the ceremony.