A very modern day. I receive a free digital camera in the post, which I suppose is a fairly modern thing to receive. It is in response to a coupon I sent off months ago for some product whose name escapes me. It does not have one of those handy screens at the back where one can instantly check the picture, and has no flash facility, but then it is free. I look upon it as a sort of digital Lomo, the analogue vintage toy camera favoured by arty sorts, and take it with me to my first engagement of the day.

Today's engagement is a wedding. It's the second wedding I have been invited to in my thirty-two years. The first was of my cousin, who married a TV chef from the Carlton Food Network. I feel a little sad that I'm not invited to more weddings. It's true that I rail and rant against coupling of any kind when given the air space, but that doesn't mean I don't enjoy a good wedding. At base, after all, I am a romantic. A new-new-new romantic.

I received my wedding invite via Friendster.com on the Internet. This, surely, makes it a very modern wedding indeed. A marriage made in Friendster.com.

The couple in question are a Ms Esther and a Mr Paul. Mr Paul is the drummer in the band Franz Ferdinand, who are that rare thing – I band I like who manage to be liked by real people too, even though they don't wear trainers onstage. My faith in humanity is tentatively restored.

Despite being Scottish, Mr Paul has not brought his weather with him, and today appears to be warm, dry and gently pleasant. Spring finally starts in London.

Like any self-respecting fictional scientist, I try out the camera upon myself first, in Moorgate Tube station:
<img src="http://www.fosca.com/friday-april-2nd19.jpg"></img>

The ceremony takes place at Bromley Public Hall in Bow Road, well within the sound of Bow Bells. This is deep within London's East End, and so signs of this kind, a few steps from the hall, almost have a sick, romantic tinge of their own, if you're in a dark, Kray Brothers mood.

"Mug me, mug me do! It's been so long since I last felt the touch of a man…"

<img src="http://www.fosca.com/friday-april-2nd15.jpg"></img>

Inside the registry office, Mr Paul is sporting a rather fetching hat with a feather in its band, and signs the marriage register with the gorgeous Ms Esther. Then, fully bonded within the eyes of The Law, they retire to the grounds outside for more photographs. I have rice in my pocket ready to throw. An American Girl tells me this is bad for pigeons, and makes them explode. This makes me throw the rice with more gusto than ever.

Many more photos are taken, some with myself ("Okay, now, let's have all the people who like The Monochrome Set").

I spend time chatting to everyone who will speak to me, and retire to the nearest pub with Franz Ferdinand's manager, Mr Cerne. Apropos of nothing, he shows me the latest list of Franz Ferdinand merchandise awaiting approval. It includes mugs, dart flights, and underwear for both genders. I suggest he adds pens and ties – not ties with a logo (far too tacky), but ties in the logo's striped colours, a la Eton. If such articles become reality, you heard it here first.

Disembarking at Highgate Tube Station, I call in at the Boogaloo for an ill-advised additional drink:
<img src="http://www.fosca.com/friday-april-2nd20.jpg"></img>

My flu appears to have vanished, and I am keen to go out tonight. Club "Soul Mole" at the Enterprise in Chalk Farm it is, then.

<p><i>Postscript, April 6th.</i>

I originally illustrated this entry with more equally atrociously blurred photos from the wedding, but on discovering they had been featured elsewhere, out of the diary context and without my knowledge, I thought it was better to remove them. Also, on reflection, my photos really didn't do the occasion an iota of justice. Far superior snaps were taken by others present. So, my apologies.</i>