It was time to pay a visit to the department of hatching, matching and dispatching. I had a duty to do: make sure I would be legally married in November. It only occurred to me recently that there would be paperwork for getting married. No good just turning up to the church, walking down the aisle, kissing the bride and then when it comes to signing the register realising that the “register” wasn’t there at all and that they’d be this awkward moment when somebody, or several people, rushed around looking for something that could be a “register”.
So I had to apply by filling in a form that asked me all sorts of questions about me, my wife-to-be, my parents, my in-laws-to-be, my pets (none), my address, date of birth, occupation etc. The form had an interesting box at the end about whether this marriage was actually legal and lawful and checked that I wasn’t marrying my cousin.
But it wasn’t enough to tick the boxes. I actually had to make a verbal declaration. I waited in line to be called and thought all I’d have to do would be to present this form to the lady behind the glass, sign my name, part with money and be done with it. But, no. This was going to be a veritable production. First, she had to check that everything I had written was kosher. So she did that by reading out what I had written down and asking me whether it was a true and accurate record (and asking me in such a way that if it were not a true and accurate record, I would be getting very familiar with a part of the world called Siberia).
This process struck me as a slightly odd way of verifying the facts; since I was the one who wrote it I was hardly going to say ‘oops, sorry, no, that’s not the name of my fiancee; her name is Sally or Jill or Maureen, not Yvette. What was I thinking? Thanks so much for showing me the error of my ways’. I mean, really! It’s a little like those arrival forms when you’re travelling on a plane that say ‘tick this box if you’re a terrorist’.
And then the woman behind the glass (who moonlighted as a travel agent for Siberian Travel Ltd) read a section at the end of the form in very sombre tones. I seriously had to withhold laughter. She asked me whether either Yvette or me were eighteen (despite, earlier in the form, I both wrote down and verbally agreed to the dates of our births; and if she thought I looked eighteen then my new haircut really does make me look younger!).
She also asked whether there was any legal impediment to us getting married. And before I could answer ‘no’ she turned over the page to the list of all the relatives you’re actually not allowed to marry (mother, sister, niece etc.) so I could be sure that marrying someone to whom I am not related (yet) was legal. I also had to state that I was not already married or had any aspirations toward bigamy at all. So having established that I was neither a bigamist nor unhealthily close to members of my own family, I said there was no legal impediment to getting married to Yvette, signed my name and then the lady behind the glass went to print me my receipt. At which point the printing machine jammed and she had to manually take it apart, piece by piece until, several hours later, she printed my receipt, and wished me good-day.
And so, having established that I wasn’t marrying my sister, I went on my way, out into the blistering southerly, content in the fact that, come November 22nd I will be legally married and that they’ll be a bit of paper that I can sign to make it so. But also, frankly, a little worried about the reasons behind the long list of types of people you’re not allowed to marry (and believe me, this is a four column list in small print). I mean, how many people really go fill in the form, roll up to the desk and say ‘I’d like to marry my sister. Is that okay with you?’ Well, perhaps people that listen to talkback radio, come from Tasmania or Invercargill and speak real slow. Perhaps those people. But, for the rest of us, well, for me anyway, I can say that truly I am marrying Yvette, she is not my sister, doesn’t look anything like me, is over eighteen, and is not married to somebody else.
I can only imagine how difficult it must be to register a birth or death: “were you really born? You sure you didn’t just dream it?”, “so, you say you’re ‘born again’; does that mean you weren’t actually born the first time?”, ”how do you know the deceased has really died? I mean, are you sure? Did you check his pulse?” So, it seems, such is life (death and marriage) at the department of hatching, matching and dispatching.
