I don’t like weddings. Have never found them easy and it gets worse as I get older. Better avoided but this is not always an option, especially if close family are involved and the invitation is something of a three-line whip.
I don’t know what it is exactly but the whole format sets my teeth on edge. Inevitably there must be a degree of formality on an occasion when so many are gathered together, but I cringe when I get the first salvo across my bows – the “Save the Day” card. What’s that about? To give us time to buy a present and/or an outfit? Or just another way of winding me up?
The day, when it eventually arrives, follows a well-rehearsed routine with ushers dividing the congregation on the basis of his or her friends. Why? Surely the main point of the ceremony is to join two families together? And who owns a morning coat? All the main male participants seem to have to hire one at considerable expense when they probably have a perfectly good dark suit at home.
We wait patiently in the church for the bride to make her fashionably-late appearance. We wait outside after the service in the rain or the sun or the midges while the photographer makes a meal of posing every conceivable grouping of people. We finally arrive at the designated venue for the reception, consult the table plan and find, predictably, that we are seated at a table which we (and in this case I revert to the singular as I am alone at these events) share with strangers from "the other side". Finally we are encouraged to meet them. They are usually perfectly nice people but any meaningful social interaction is hampered by the fact that I know nothing about them and am unlikely ever to meet them again, and vice versa.
After the meal (possibly the one part of the day I actually look forward to) come the speeches. The main object of this exercise seems to be to embarrass the bridegroom as much as possible with tasteless tales of youthful excesses or misdemeanours. Champagne flows, toasts are made and the noise level rises accordingly.
Finally we come to the dancing part of the evening. The happy couple lead off with a solo demonstration of their lack of prowess in this field. I find that the young these days just can’t dance. If it is a slow, romantic number they tend to clutch each other and lurch around for a bit. If it is a bit more upbeat they gyrate separately in an arrhythmic, graceless travesty which in any other setting would surely prompt someone to phone for an ambulance. Having done their duty, the rest of us are now expected to join them on the dance floor. Nobody dances with the old biddy on her own – and my knees wouldn’t take it anyway. The band is so loud now that conversation is a non-starter so I plaster on the smile and nod to this one or that one as I work out how to escape without anyone noticing. In the days when I smoked this was a lot easier because you could go out for a cigarette, chat sporadically to other smokers in the twilight zone and slope off. Can’t do that now. There’s a down side to everything!
To any of my friends or relatives who read this, please take note that I consider it an honour and a privilege to be invited to be with you on such an auspicious day in your life. I will accept with alacrity, fish out the fascinator and appear on the day to heap on you my love and good wishes. Just don’t be surprised if I leave early!