Back in January my future mother-in-law asked if we needed a ring cushion. She’s handy with a needle and a bit of gold thread. She’s won competitions for it.
But still we turned her down. “It’s not going to be that kind of wedding,” we said.
Though we’d set our hearts in a wedding in the highest chapel in Europe, we didn’t want a church service.
We didn’t need to declare our commitment in front of any sort of god. It was our families, our friends, and us that we were doing it for.
But then we met the sweetest, kindest, funniest vicar in the entire world and she asked for a cushion so that she could bless the rings.
How could we refuse?
So on a rainy Thursday after a quick trawl of the shops, followed by a picnic and a glass of wine in the shelter of our rented chalet, a plan was hatched. Fabric was bought, fonts were chosen. We had the thread and the cushion. All we needed was an award winning needlewoman.
Luckily it poured with rain all afternoon and into the evening. Otherwise the guilt would have been too much as we met up with Dumbfunk and Keksofant, ate strudel and rösti washed down with a glass or two of beer.
And in a hotel room, just across the way from our chalet, a goldwork expert sewed into the night.