'And there's the one about the two inexperienced newly-weds who went to see their doctor for a demonstration of the sexual act,' I said. A tipsy auntie tittered.
'The doctor made love to the woman and asked the groom if he had any questions. And the groom said - yes, how often do I have to bring her in?' It got a laugh. Eamon smiled proudly. But I felt the postcards slipping through my trembling fingers. I didn't really need my notes any more. I couldn't use them.
'But what I really want to say is that I hope - I know -that Siobhan and Marty will remember that a life without love is no life at all. Nancy Sinatra said that. And if you find someone to love, then you should never let them slip away. I said that.'
I raised a glass to Marty and Siobhan. Cyd looked up at me and then ducked back down behind her hat.
'Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, please charge your glasses and drink a toast to the gorgeous couple.'
Eamon grabbed me as I came off stage. 'That was really great,' he said. 'But next time throw in a couple of jokes about the groom shagging sheep.' It wasn't until the music started that I realised I had never seen her dancing.
I had no idea if she was a brilliant dancer - like her namesake - or if she was completely yet endearingly crap.
I didn't know if she twirled and glided with infinite grace, or if she just stood there taking those embarrassed little half-steps and wondering what to do with her arms. I didn't know if she danced like Cyd Charisse or Sid James. But I knew I didn't care.
Seeing Cyd dance badly would wrench my heart just as surely as seeing her dance brilliantly. I just wanted to dance with her.
The DJ was playing, 'Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go' and there was something about the goofy euphoria of that old record that filled the floor.
Marty and Siobhan were doing a dangerous-looking jitterbug, the groom's face turning coronary red as he attempted to lift his bride off the ground. Eamon was standing rooted to the spot and throwing his arms around as though he were rat-faced on Ibiza instead of half-cut in Clerkenwell. Mem slunk around him, pouting and grinding and looking dirty, doing the only dance she knew.
Gina was laughing with Pat and clapping her hands as he did this dance that he had just made up, which consisted of these strange little jumps that turned him completely around. Richard was slow-dancing with one of the bridesmaids. My mother was waltzing with the vicar.
And there was Sally, heavily pregnant now, shuffling from side to side in an ironic sort of way, because this was music to make old people feel young again.
And there was Glenn, his eyes closed and waving his arms around as if he was freaking out in the mud at Woodstock. Suddenly it seemed like a perfect party. Because Glenn danced in exactly the same way as Eamon. But I couldn't see Cyd and Peggy.
When Marty put Siobhan down to take a breather, I touched her arm, shouting above George Michael's voice. 'Siobhan, where's Cyd?'
'They had to leave early to catch their plane. They're going back to America.' 'For how long?' 'For good. Didn't she tell you?' I abandoned the MGF on the hard shoulder of the motorway somewhere west of the green suburban sprawl of Osterley Park. A few days later I tried to find the place in the A to Z, but it was too far out of the city to be included. It felt as though I dumped it at the end of the world. Or maybe the start.
But it was clear that I wasn't going to make it in time by car. The traffic on the road to Heathrow wasn't moving. Yet every few seconds another jet as big as an ocean liner roared off into the heavens above my head. It was no good. The MGF couldn't help me any more.
I got out of the car, realising that I didn't know what airline they were on. Virgin Atlantic left from Terminal 3 but British Airways were at Terminal 4. There wasn't time to go to both. What was it to be? Did I go for Richard Branson or the world's favourite airline?
I ran by the side of the motorway, the planes screaming into the blue sky above me, the tails of my morning suit flying. In the end it didn't matter what flight they were on. The day's planes to America had all gone by the time I reached the departure hall.
The crowds were thinning out now. Those travelling were in the air. Those seeing them off were on their way home. By the international departure gate, sweating heavily inside my morning suit, I hung my head and sighed. I had been too late.
Then I saw him on the ground, a little lavender party man. Disco Ken. I picked him up. His silver trousers were filthy. He had lost his remaining shoe.
And then Cyd and Peggy were standing in front of me, their boarding passes still in their hands, their suitcases at their feet. They were both still in their party dresses. 'Great speech,' Cyd said.
'You don't think that it should have been a bit more traditional? You don't think I should have - you know -included some stuff about the groom and sheep?' 'No, it was good.' 'You missed your plane.' 'We let it go.' I shook my head with disbelief. 'It's you,' I said. 'It better be,' she said.
Peggy took Disco Ken from me and looked up at Cyd, as if wondering what happened next. In the early evening, the black cab headed slowly back towards the city. Cyd stared out at the first of the tower blocks along the Westway, lost in her own thoughts, and Peggy slept in my arms.
Sometimes this child could seem so grown up, so self-possessed and assured. But sitting on my lap with her head resting lightly against my chest, she felt like no weight at all. As though she were still a baby, with all her life still stretching out ahead of her, a life still waiting to find its shape.
She stirred in her sleep as she heard an ice-cream van ringing its bell somewhere in the endless streets of west London. More than any birdsong or blooming bud, this was the sign that the days of cold and dark were finally drawing to a close. Spring must be coming soon, because the ding-dong man was out there somewhere.
From the back seat of our black cab, I couldn't see exactly where he was in those quiet suburban streets that stretched out in every direction. But the echo of those chimes rang in my head like a memory of childhood, or a dream of wedding bells.