Edition 71, Volume 1

since the wedding was outside on a lovely fall day all my daughter wanted to do was cartwheels. It’s all we heard all afternoon. Never mind how beautiful they look: What else should flower girls at outdoor ceremonies wish to do? Cartwheels.

It’s no wonder weddings are such feats of engineering these days; must be life’s only major event we feel we actually have any control over. And how does this manifest itself? With matching dresses and balloons, conspicuous centrepieces and white linen; as excess. The wedding in this case was my niece Allie’s, and she and the groom looked fabulous. King and queen for a day, as the tradition goes.

At the reception I had two glasses of red wine too quickly and perhaps this accounts for what followed, because, as I sat there looking at the pageant all about me, I was unable to stop myself wondering how much longer we can go on like this, pretending we aren’t on the verge of some kind of collapse. I come over like this all the time these days, though I rarely share it with others. I’d liked to have turned it off for that one day. But I couldn’t.

At our table was family mostly, though off to my right was this one soul who apparently held no special allegiance to either bride or groom. He was married to one of the bride’s maids. His name was Brent. Young and bright and cocksure; spirit, father and child of the industrial revolution.

He was talking to my wife. I listened for a while. He was this, he was that, he played badminton, he studied law, he had a small business importing sportswear from someplace naughty: Indonesia, Bangladesh, Haiti.

I listened while I watched my daughter. After the ceremony, after all the pictures were taken, we’d let her change her shoes, but foolishly insisted she keep the dress on. Between courses she was up and down the aisles with the other flower girl. We’d allowed her a few cartwheels before coming inside, evidently too few. Or perhaps too many, the poor dress was not doing at all well.

I overheard this Brent saying how our waste sites will likely prove fascinating to future archaeologists. Before I could stop myself, before I registered that I was having the thought at all, I said: “But it’s not likely there’ll be any archaeologists in the future, is it?”

Brent looked at me quickly, evidently unaware I’d been listening.

“No one’ll be doing that,” I said, “We’ll all be scrambling to stay warm and find enough to eat.”

Brent looked at my wife, apparently checking to see if I was on the level. She smiled politely, this being her way of showing she’s along for the 20