Or, How the Lobster Saved Us All
The vicar cleared his throat for the third time, his spectacles slipping down his nose as he peered at the assembled guests. The groom, a man who had until that morning believed himself to be attending a garden party, stood frozen in the aisle with the expression of a walrus unexpectedly invited to recite poetry. The bride, meanwhile, was engaged in a spirited debate with the organist about whether Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” could legally be replaced by a sea shanty. It was, in short, not the wedding anyone had planned, but it was unquestionably the one they were having.
The trouble had begun, as trouble so often does, with a perfectly reasonable assumption. Reginald Ponsonby-Smythe had received an invitation to the Marquess of Wexford’s summer garden party, an event renowned for its cucumber sandwiches and its strict prohibition on sentimental displays. Reginald, who had once been asked to leave a funeral for excessive cheerfulness, considered this his natural habitat. He arrived promptly at three, only to find the marquess’s estate transformed into something resembling a bridal magazine’s idea of a rustic fever dream.
“Ah, Ponsonby-Smythe!” boomed the marquess, seizing his arm with the enthusiasm of a man who has just spotted a life raft. “You’re the best man!”
Reginald opened his mouth to correct him, but the marquess was already halfway down the aisle, bellowing for someone to locate the ring bearer, who had last been seen attempting to ride the family spaniel. It was at this point that Reginald noticed the lobster.
The crustacean in question was perched atop the cake, its claws raised in what might have been a benediction or a threat. The caterer, when questioned, admitted that the marquess had insisted on “something nautical,” and that negotiations had broken down after the third draft of the menu. The lobster, he explained, was a compromise.
Meanwhile, the bride - Miss Penelope Ffoulkes, a woman of formidable intellect and questionable judgment - had concluded her debate with the organist by simply playing the shanty herself. The guests, many of whom had also believed themselves to be at a garden party, responded with the polite confusion of people determined to pretend they were exactly where they meant to be.
Reginald tried to mouth “Wrong wedding” to a footman carrying a trifle; the footman nodded solemnly and placed the trifle atop the vicar’s head.
Reginald was on the verge of surrendering to the inevitable when the lobster made its move. With a sound like a sigh, it slid gracefully from the cake and landed in the punch bowl.
The effect was instantaneous. The marquess, who had been mid-sentence about the virtues of maritime symbolism, let out a cry that might have been distress or admiration. The organist abandoned his post to assist in the lobster’s rescue. Penelope, seizing the opportunity, announced that the ceremony would now include a traditional sailor’s blessing, which she proceeded to invent on the spot.
By the time the lobster had been restored to its rightful place - balanced precariously on the vicar’s lectern - the entire affair had taken on the air of a particularly whimsical hallucination. Reginald, who had by then been handed a ring, a bouquet, and a small child of uncertain origin, found himself standing at the altar with the serene acceptance of a man who has seen the universe’s sense of humor firsthand.
The vicar, sensing that further delay would only invite fresh chaos, pronounced them married. The lobster, perhaps sensing its work was done, tipped gracefully into the marquess’s hat.
It was, all things considered, an excellent party. The lobster, now resting in a basin of champagne, raised one claw in silent salute.