Wedding, Margaret Instance and Julian Flitcroft.

Enter a blustery, rainy day on the outskirts of September, swaggering like a cowboy to the bar. Pan the camera to reveal a small sandstone church in a small sandstone suburb, the Rocks, Sydney.

Family and friends converge, scurrying past the rain as it looks the other way for a short time like a bored too small bouncer on a lazy Thursday night. Umbrellas held high and hair momentarily flirting with the wind. The priest, a plump Fr Bernard Gordan, untamed from his years spent studying in Rome, his thick Australian accent and layabout style proving too much for the style and pomp of the Italian capital.

Our groom, tall and handsome propped up by his best man Nero, and his second best man Mr Starr. The audience, playing the risk game of trying not too get to the church so early that they'll look too keen and might actually have to same some prayers in acknowlegement of the owner of the house while still making sure they get an OK seat in which to view the proceedings. Well, no matter what seat you have, you can't change it now, as I see the mother of the bride's face light up and the groom take a longing and beautiful gulp.

Torn between watching the groom and checking out the bride, the audience, looking like they're at a tennis match see the bridesmaids saunter down the aisle, the diminutive and impish Sarah Franklin, followed by Jane with hair so beautifully done that the flowers are jealous. And no, here she comes. Looking regal, looking tall, her father proud beside her, but no eyes are for him and his eyes are all for her, his second daughter to tie the marital knot. Her train nearly as long as she is tall.

The designated movie recorder, plucked from the 1920s picnic with style that flows round the room, and the photographer clickety clack and we are well and truly underway.

The priest takes the early lead as expected, but is quickly overtaken by the first and second readers, brothers Steve and Paul if I'm not very much mistaken. And now on the inside, Bronwyn has a few prayers of the faithful. As expected, the groom lengthens his stride and begins to move up the inside. The bride, not to be outdone starts to feel the pace and she too ups it a notch. The pacey preacher puts forward for a few short bursts and guides the philly and the stallion together before he drops to the back of the pack. And now it's the bride and groom, neck and neck. They eye each other, testing for strengths and weaknesses, as they round the 200 meter mark, with 100 to go they hit their strides in unison and it's going to be a photo.

Or rather, a lot of photos, which are taken mostly indoors as the rain plays its gentle music outside. The reception is to be held at the Lord Nelson, and it's an appropriate place to hold some drinks, nibbles and a toast or two to the bride and groom. With some beautiful words from the best man and some witty comments from the father of the bride it's eat, drink and be merry. With the occasional trip downstairs to check the footy score and beer flowing like the breeze outside, a few cheeky basketball jumps, a dance or two for the happy couple and it's off to Korea for them.

Congratulations Margs and Flit, I wish you all the best,