Carol’s Column

Three down and only one to go ...

We have just returned from London where our son Ralph married Lisa Swerling.

As I might have mentioned before, this is the third wedding in as many years. So sad, only one child left and we're running out of weddings.

"We should have had eight children," I remarked to my husband. "Then we'd have plenty more weddings. Perhaps we should quickly have another four."

"You're joking. Anyway, you're past the breeding stage," he grinned.

Until I reminded him of other, more mature, mothers who had given birth in recent times.

The granny in Italy aged 68, the babuschka in Russia in her seventies.

"I'm a spring gosling," I said.

He twitched.

On our arrival in London, I discovered the creation I'd chosen for the occasion had shrunk.

"You look like a straight-jacketed hippo," said my daughter flatteringly.

With the rate of our rand at least 10 to the British pound, it was a feat finding an outfit. But I did.

A stunning nightie with sequins. Worn with a velvet jacket, I looked like Tannie Evita at her best.

As is traditional, Lisa's mother held a sabbath dinner prior to the wedding. Exquisite dish after dish danced from the kitchen as we met our new relatives to be.

"Our son is marrying a complete tribe," whispered my husband. "There must be at least 300 of them. How will we ever remember their names?"

The following morning, as is customary, the wedding party departed for the Bevis Marks synagogue where Ralph, the groom-to-be, was called up to read a portion of the Torah.

As a married women, my head had to be covered so I'd borrowed my daughter's misshapen Annie Hall straw hat, wet, reshaped and dried it with a hairdrier. Tres chic I thought.

The Sephardi synagogue, London's oldest, built in 1701, is quite beautiful, with giant old candelabras in which candles are lit.

The congregation is of Spanish and Portuguese descent, the present rabbi Moroccan, and behind me sat an old Egyptian lady, most informative.

"The large beam across the ceiling was given to the Jews by Queen Elizabeth I," she whispered. Then added: "Can you believe that in 1701, women sat here wearing wide crinoline skirts which is why the pews are so wide."

What a continuity of history, I thought.

"And," she giggled, "they stank!"

A pre-wedding braai for "about 30 friends" (my son had said), grew to 130 when news got out in London that there were large quantities of Customs-evaded biltong, wors and dried mango to be had at a small house in Highgate.

Traditionally, on the wedding day, the women leave from the bride's home, the men from the groom's.

The female Lazars found the only ignorant taxi driver in London and after a panicky two hours of travelling (it should have taken 20 minutes) made it by seconds.

All went well, even when the bride, radiant in cream satin with delicate beaded sandals, stood in a particularly expansive bird dropping.

There was a last-minute toe scrub and "it's good luck!" we all exclaimed.

The wedding was so joyous that Lisa and Ralph could have floated out of the synagogue on collective tears and smiles.

We partied aboard a boat cruising the Thames, serenely floated past the Millennium Dome, the New Tate- and beneath the wobbly Millennium bridge.

"What a pity, with one child left we have only one more possible wedding. We should think about the options," I suggested to my spouse yesterday.

He was silent, but this morning I observed him packing.

"Have to get away for a short break 10 years or so," he muttered.

It must have been something I said.

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