shadows of echoes of memories of songs

I've e-mailed you, w/o anything on What Is Done or Not Done, but I am minded of what i wrote O all that long while ago, which is that anything is better than drinking warm champagne in a dreary marquee on a rainy July afternoon in the country and emerging half-cut to get on a train back to London at 5 p.m. in no shape for one's dinner but equally in no shape for anything else *either*. And that whole rant is A.P. Herbert's, not mine, anyway, and you're avoiding all that by getting married *just* within daylight hours at a very reasonable time indeed for a party afterwards.