I do understand that weddings are some people’s idea of hell. There are the screaming toddlers, the standing around on uneven, sodden grass sipping warm wine, the plethora of rock-hard sugared almonds. There are pissed uncles, miniature Yorkshire puddings that are both wet and dry and often an alarming amount of bunting. Let’s also mention here the dodgy sound systems, the whispered or shouted speeches (gang, can we use normal voices please), the flesh-coloured tights and usually a dress code.
Some people would prefer jury duty, babysitting a four-week-old with colic or a sexy weekend away with Matt Hancock (OK, maybe I’ve gone too far here). Well, that, ladies and gents, is not me. I love the receiving line, the posing for photos, the hymns, the weeping mother-in-law, the conga, the flowers, the discussion about the weather, the vicar/rabbi/registrar, the ex who’s scowling at the bar and the toasts.
I love the emotional dad and the friends who have never met, the person who decided to go off piste and bring a personalised wooden goat for a present (where shall I put it? Uh, in the bin?) and the overtired bridesmaids. I’ll even wear a hat for god’s sake, I love weddings that much (this is quite major – I really dislike hats).
I’ve been to fancy ones and not fancy ones and I can’t really tell the difference. At some you will be served organic, artisan walnut bread next to four-tiered Murano glass candelabras; at others there will be a bag of crisps next to a tea light. At one wedding I went to there was a bowl of mini Boursins on all the tables and it was one of the best nights of our lives. We drank, we danced, we all smelt of garlic and woke up the next morning with tiny pieces of foil down our tops. Let’s be frank, nobody leaves a wedding and says, ‘You know what, that chicken was exceptional.’
The wonderful thing about weddings, when all is said and done, is the extraordinary, the quite frankly ridiculous atmosphere of optimism. They’ve known each other for six months, cheers to them! He’s absolutely on the rebound from the love of his life but let’s raise a toast to the happy couple! They don’t seem to like each other very much and have argued solidly for the last six years but they’ve decided to do it anyway. Masel tov! I reckon he’s already flirting with her friend but here we are in a tent in Cumbria and may they find lifelong happiness! Hip hip hooray.
In the real, normal world we know that relationships should last, you know, just a bit. We realise that if we’re incredibly lucky we’ll still be talking in five years, maybe eight. With our brains turned on and focused, without all the wedding white noise, we know that the odds are stacked against us – if we glance at statistics we’ll see that it’s likely he’ll be back on Bumble within eighteen months and she can only have sex if she fantasises about the bloke she still loves from college. Marriage is a preposterous proposal. I get bored of sweaters after four years, how on earth can I stay with an actual human for so long? I’ll know them too well, they’ll be too annoying, they’ll wind me up as only they know how. Seriously, how – HOW? – will this ever work? But so far, for me anyway, it has. Nobody is more surprised than I am.
Getting married feels like betting on a donkey in the Grand National, it’s like buying a lottery ticket, it’s baking a Victoria sponge without a recipe (only one in ten turn out edible – trust me, I’ve tried). It’s like assuming it will be sunny on your one day off, it’s like trusting the boiler will work for ever.
Now, of course we cross all our fingers we’ve chosen someone kind. Someone who will deliver a Lemsip and a Toblerone at 4am, who will say we look amazing when we are wearing jeans two sizes too small and a comedy sweater with a robin on it (I told you I love Christmas), who will carry us to the cab after one too many tequilas and who will rub our back after we gave that ‘it looks a bit pink’ chicken a go.
We pray we’ve got a person who is willing us on to tell a funny story and won’t look at us flabbergasted from the other side of the table, only to pipe up at the last minute, ‘But love, it didn’t happen like that, you’re exaggerating again.’ We can only hope against hope we’ve opted for someone who won’t have a system for filling a dishwasher (guys, give it up – stuff goes in and then it comes out. Yes, I’ve been known to put a frying pan over the cutlery box but here’s the big news, we all survived) and we really hope that we’ll actually want to get old with the person we’ve chosen. But we have to admit, it’s a bit bloody nuts.
And yet at weddings any niggles, any worries are thrown out of the window. The joy and happiness in the room is contagious; we cheer when they kiss after their vows and we watch them dance their first jig/waltz/stumble full of adoration and love. And of course there’s the dress.
A wedding dress might be my favourite piece of clothing ever. The cumulative gasp as she walks into the church/barn/pub. It doesn’t matter if it’s lacy, green, puffy, low cut and red or actually shorts and wellies. It’s all about that outfit. I think the reason I love them so much is that they’re totally secret. If you’re close to the bride you might have chosen it with her, might have been there the first time she tried the dress on but if you’re one step removed you’re all being let into this wonderful first show. She also didn’t need approval from him, she might choose something she drew on her school maths book when she was six, she might go with more of a nightie vibe. The absolute best bit about it is that it doesn’t matter. There is no ‘perfect’ wedding dress. It’s her pick, it’s her choice and in a world where we ask ‘What do you think babe?’ we don’t with this one. We drink tea or booze with our mum and our mates and just go, ‘Yeah, that one.’
I was young when we got married. We didn’t have money and I found a lovely dressmaker who made me a dress that resembled an enormous meringue. It was, let’s be serious, absolutely disgusting but here’s the thing – who cares? We did it (I had to have a nap halfway through, weddings are great but long) and here we are. It doesn’t make any sense, but best not to analyse it, eh?
So here’s a toast: to bonkers, nonsensical, are-they-out-of-their-minds confidence. Screw statistics and let’s raise our glasses to an unfathomable leap of faith. In a world that has to make sense, getting married doesn’t make sense at all and that’s great.