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‘Is it farmhouse? Or French farmhouse?’
‘Is it farmhouse?’
‘Er…yes. Definitely farmhouse.’
‘You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?’
When it came to organising my upcoming wedding, I fully intended to give as good as I got. I had seen too many good men on their way to the altar, strong men, broken and beaten, just because they’d taken their eye off the ball.
Now we’re a couple of months away from the wedding. Things are booked, there’s a thousand things still to do, and I’m starting to see how these men got blindsided in the rush. It really doesn’t take much.
Maybe life had got in the way. Maybe you’ve had a busy patch at work, or a relative had got ill or something. Next thing you know, you’ve been squeezed into a lilac tuxedo, your hair’s in a perm and you’re on a hilltop in the Cairngorms.
There are roughly a thousand people present, some of whom you know, and all one thousand will soon be legless on free booze. Who’s paying for that? You know who’s paying for that.
Fortunately, M’s eccentricities do not include extravagance. If anything, I’m the daft one when it comes to flashing the cash. And she’s got a simplicity to her tastes that often translates to a much healthier bottom line. We were at the seaside two weeks ago with the kids, collecting flat stones to write the names of our guests on, to use as name-cards on the table. Costs nothing, and it’ll look really homely, along with all the other little touches that she’s so good at. As much as I hate to admit it, maybe she’s better off holding the reins on this one. The perm’s not happening, though.
Family man from Bolton, guitar teaching exercise enthusiast, due to get married any minute now so watch this space.