The Tyrany of the Photographer

Last weekend I attended a family wedding, held in a church on the South coast of Devon.

Afterwards we were at the mercy of the photographer.

At first he treated us gently, ushering us to and fro outside the church. Then, having accustomed us to obedience, he led us up the hill beside the church. First there were steps, then just a narrow path that eventually turned into a muddy rut leading through a gap in a hedge. I found it hard to keep my footing, and I'm not sure how the bridesmaids managed it at all - they were wearing little white shoes with stiletto heels.

Finally we emerged on a bleak hillside sloping down to the sea. I guess the temperature was around 8 C, with a stiff breeze to add wind chill.

Then we were moved about, arranged and re-arranged, and the poor bridesmaides in sleeveless dresses huddled in their diaphanous shawls.

The photographer on the other hand was very well wrapped up.

I wonder what difference it would have made to the proceedings had he been dressed in just a pair of shorts and and a singlet. Perhaps the stripping of the photographer should be added to the frolics associated with weddings.