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‘Quiet’ weddings: My ceremony took 20 minutes and afterwards I went back to work

With the average cost of a wedding now €26,000 and many people in their 30s struggling to afford a stable home, it’s no wonder low-key ceremonies are becoming popular

After the ceremony, we walked around the corner from the Twickenham registry office, where a civil servant in a crooked tie declared us married in the glassed-over eyes of the British state and enjoyed breakfast in a local cafe. Photograph: Agency Stock
After the ceremony, we walked around the corner from the Twickenham registry office, where a civil servant in a crooked tie declared us married in the glassed-over eyes of the British state and enjoyed breakfast in a local cafe. Photograph: Agency Stock
Laura Kennedy
Sun May 12 2024 - 07:00

In early March of 2020, the world was on the cusp of falling apart. None of us knew how bad it would get but while the rumour of the first lockdown was hanging over London, I was preparing for my wedding. “Wedding” is a strong word; almost a dishonest description of a 20-minute ceremony with two witnesses one greyish Wednesday morning. It was not at all what most people think of when they imagine the usual ritual, orchestration and expense. After the ceremony, we walked around the corner from the Twickenham registry office, where a civil servant in a crooked tie declared us married in the glassed-over eyes of the British state and enjoyed breakfast in a local cafe. French toast for me – it was a special occasion, after all. There we sat together, three suits and a cream dress. Two witnesses were legally required so we had entrusted two close friends with the secret in advance. They lent us their eyeballs and their signatures. After breakfast, we all parted ways fondly and went back to work. It didn’t feel like a big deal. That was how we wanted it.

I’m conscious that despite an increase in “secret” engagements, low-key weddings and celebrities like Anya Taylor-Joy announcing their marriage two years after it took place, our wedding was probably the worst nightmare of many brides. Every girl who has imagined what her wedding might look like. Every bride who has spent time online researching locations and photographers. Everyone who views a wedding – as opposed to a good marriage – as an achievement or a sacrament. We had decided to get married four months prior. I wanted himself to be the person to decide whether or not to pull the plug if I’m ever pitched to the brink of death by a rogue cyclist.

During the ceremony, fire exit signs flickered coolly above the doors. It felt as though someone might pass through the room at any moment on their way to use the printer. We’d discussed the prospect of various kinds of weddings for weeks after we quietly agreed, over dinner at a Dublin restaurant one freezing December night, to get married. It became clear very quickly that sharing our engagement would result in managing people’s expectations of what the wedding should look like.

Weddings are a female-led industry in our part of the world. The idea of being at the centre of a ritualised event filled with pressure to manage everyone’s experience and organise with military skill and accuracy horrified me. For some women, wedding planning is a deep source of pleasure resulting in a joyous event they’ve spent months or years looking forward to. I’m not that woman. I would have been committing to all that stress and work solely to please other people, none of whom I would actually be marrying. Himself, though a better organiser, was no more inclined for the job than I was. The average cost of a wedding in Ireland is now €26,000. I can think of better uses for that money, especially in a country where many people in their 30s cannot afford to start a family and don’t have a stable home.

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Considering that neither of us are religious, it didn’t make sense to us to declare before others that our relationship is serious or meaningful. Surely they knew that already. Neither did we feel the relationship would be somehow elevated by a registrar in a creased shirt and a few legal documents. We didn’t want the fuss.

While the reality of every relationship is deeply private, weddings are public. For us, the incongruity of the two was too hard to parse

When we phoned my mother-in-law a week or so into the first lockdown to tell her we’d eloped, she burst into tears. “You got to have the big wedding with my sister, and this was the right choice for us,” my husband told her gently. “I thought that if you knew we were engaged, you’d spend the months until the wedding tirelessly trying to get us to do it the way you thought we should.” There was a brief pause. “Yeah, I would have,” she replied. When we called my quiet Irish brother and told him the news, he inhaled softly and said, “Yeah, that seems like a thing you’d do. Congratulations, so. Great stuff.” He might have felt relieved to no longer be my next of kin.

While the reality of every relationship is deeply private, weddings are public. For us, the incongruity of the two was too hard to parse. Weddings are expensive, time-consuming and – like all big events that bring family and friends together – can be complicated. Whether great aunt Mildred is still refusing to talk to cousin Margaret. Whether uncle John is off the wagon or you have to invite everyone at work (even Debbie from accounts, who you loathe). The diplomatic emergency generated by that old schoolfriend you’ve grown apart from somehow expecting to be a bridesmaid. It’s hardly any wonder that in an Ireland and a world that looks less and less like the ones our parents came of age in, some millennials and Gen Z are choosing to opt out of a particular kind of wedding and leaning into something quieter, cheaper and more private. Easier. Weddings shouldn’t be work when you’re the people getting married.