In nineteen-ninety-nine, I was planning our second-wedding date.
We could marry in church or in registry. But you cut short my debate:

I only want step inside and sign on the dotted line
And carry you back home to bed, so the registry’s just fine.

The only date that the registrar could offer us to wed
Was my birthday. You'd forget them both together, then, you said.

I wore brown, and you wore the green you’d worn first time around.
No congregation, one witness each, and a fee of a hundred pound.

Our daughter gave us a red bouquet, which she’d had specially made.
The registrar outshone all of us, in a waistcoat of fine brocade.

“Are you both free to wed?” he asked. We firmly agreed we were.
“And how did your first marriage end?” You said: “I was divorced, by her.”

We filled in forms, and we gave him tapes of the music we wanted played;
“Happy Birthday,” sang the registrar in his waistcoat of fine brocade.

We stood and repeated the formulae, line by pre-scripted line,
You watched the registrar’s face throughout; he said you should watch mine.

He seemed disappointed when at the end you didn’t pick up the cue
That now was the moment you ought to kiss your bride, so he prompted you.

We walked down the road, just four of us, on that blue-grey English day,
For a wedding breakfast made by Chunu in his Indian takeaway.

We ate papadoms and mango sauce, fresh curries and steaming rice,
And the CD player frequently stuck so we heard all the music twice.

We drove back home, very matter-of-fact, and extremely soberly;
So at winter’s dark we drank champagne with our fish and chips for tea.

And that’s how we went to the registry and re-wedded with little fuss –
When we nearly married the registrar instead of him marrying us.