A wedding in Hiroshima

We sat in our finery, separated from view by a concertina partition that had seen better days. Us and them. Our side was providing the groom; the lot we couldn't see yet were supplying one blushing bride. To my right sat an old relative. Back ramrod straight, a medal pinned on his left breast. It was hot. Children fidgeted, adults made polite talk, we all wiped at the sweat forming on our brows.

The wedding hall organiser made his entrance, all stiff and ever-so-humble. His bony face wore a complacent, self-satisfied look, and the rest of him wore a mourning suit. With a nod and a flourish, he drew back the partition. We, in all our sweaty glory, were revealed to the other side, and they in turn were revealed to us. In their seat of honour, at the front, the bride looked bashful - and very hidden - in her traditional white costume. In our seat of honour sat no-one. Whoops! The organiser's hollow cheeks took on the reddish hue of the celebratory carpet. The smug, self-confident features concertinaed rudely out of shape. He bowed ever-so-humbly low, nose almost to the floor, and made repeated moshiwakegozaimasen apologies to us. Hastily he closed the concertina partition, and hurried out of the room.

Some giggled, some laughed, and one or two even guffawed. The closed partition could no longer fulfill its separating function. Two halves had become whole. We were as one. The tension, along with the organiser's cool veneer, had been cracked wide open.

Ten seconds later the hapless fellow returned, with a bemused looking groom tightly in his grasp. The partition was re-opened, and we were re-united visually with those we had already joined through laughter.

It was a good wedding.