Family weddings are supposed to be funny. They’re also dangerous, nasty events fraught with the risk of near death. It’s much like poking a stick at a grizzly.
The wedding at the weekend was no different. We all assembled to see my dear cousin get spliced -–when I say all, I mean both families and assorted friends.
Families included four sets of parents (one for the bride, three for the bridegroom) and the rest of us hanger-onners. Friends seemed largely to be composed of the cast of Hollyoaks (or the OC, depending on which side of the Atlantic you woke up on this morning) such was their beauty and youthfulness.
We all battled our way through the most awful weather – it seemed like Gustav had made his way over to the UK for a two-day shopping and theatre break in London – and got to the venue wet, sodden, drenched. Ladies stood by the radiators, shivering and trying in vain to dry out, and perk up their fascinators. In fact, the fascinator seemed to be the fashion must-have of the wedding – standing at the back (as I was, giving up my seat to someone more needy) all I could see was an ocean of pheasant plumes and rhinestones on wires. It was like a bomb had gone off at the Folies Bergeres.
Beyond the fascinators, the outfits were a pretty mixed bag – from my other cousin, a vision of sartorial elegance in an understated Donna Karan number, through to the groom’s mothers, who – faced with their nemeses – had gone to town on their individual ‘look’. Even if the opposition was a group of Vegas streetwalkers, these women would still have won the ‘dress like a hooker’ competition.
The wedding all went according to plan (apart from the weather) and the ceremony passed smoothly into wedding breakfast and speeches. As the best man stood to make his speech, I looked at the groom’s parents who seemed incredibly uncomfortable as they shared the top table. His mother looked particularly uncomfortable, but then that’s not a surprise.
Of the five men sat at the top table, one was her son, one was her son’s new father in law and the other three, well… God bless her – it’s pretty awful going to a wedding knowing that you’ve slept with half the guests.
Trust me, I know.