Open Writing

‘Three times a bridesmaid means never a bride’ is quite possibly the reason I never married. The last wedding I attended made me realise how fortunate I am. I usually try to get out of social outings but pressure was put on me by my family. So I put on my glad rags and presented myself at ‘Heckmondwike Registry Office’ at the appointed hour.

My niece, Penelope, was a real beauty. Honestly, she could have had any man in the world. We all said that going to college had spoiled her. She brought home this hulking beast of a man that she’d met at ‘uni’. I can’t imagine what he’d been studying he couldn’t string more than three words together. I suppose it could have been golf or maybe politics.

Penelope decided to make her own wedding dress. You could say that as an accountant she made a good seamstress. The venture was only a qualified success. I don’t know if she was a perfectionist or if she was trying to delay the happy day but it seemed to take forever to produce the garment. Every time we checked Penny had taken out the hem or re-done a series of darts. Her mother was banned from the sewing room. As the big day dawned Penny declared the dress finished. Actually, it looked a shambles.

The groom’s mother, Sylvia Midas, put my sister-in-law to shame. I was embarrassed when the group photographs were being taken. Sylvia was dressed in a shimmering fabric suit, her hat sported a gold feather and her jewellery was to die for. She could never have passed through a shop security without setting off alarms. Her husband could not be present as he was away making a packet in the Middle East. Apparently everything he touches turns to gold. I’m not impressed. Family should come before work; he should have been at his son’s wedding.

The Matron of Honour was Salome; beautiful in her own way but a bit too tall for a woman in my opinion. She’d taken one look at the set menu and demanded special food. Earlier in the week she’d placed an order with a butcher in Manchester. When I saw her plate I fairly gagged. I’m not a vegetarian myself and enjoy a good cut of meat with the best of them. But I draw the line at a full bloodied head.

Little Red was trouble from the outset. Teenage punk at it’s worst with her bright red hair, long fingernails and outrageous make-up. When we were all having our hair done down at ‘Cut n Trim’ in the village, she launched into a tirade about breaking free from the chains of patriarchy, whatever that means. It didn’t stop her making off with one of the ushers even before the wedding the wedding had even begun. Luke was from our side and was reputed to be a bit of a wolf.

Everyone was concerned about the behaviour of Valerie Herod. She seemed unduly interested in James, the little page-boy. She kept asking all and sundry his age. I know it is usually men who are paediatrics but I reckon you can’t be too careful. She needs watching does that one.

The groom’s aunt Eurydice had been drinking during the service possibly even from day break for all I know. She was unsteady on her pins. Her husband, Orph, had almost carried her to the table. Food had not interested Eury she had concentrated on her liquid refreshment. Early on in the meal, as expected, she had answered a call of nature. When she did not return Orph spent a couple of hours trying to find her. Apparently she had taken a wrong turning and ended up in the basement. He found her in tears in the boiler room.

I noticed Alice Sisyphus in the far corner of the room. She had been helping to serve the food. Alice is a pensioner but, as she says, her husband is a workaholic and part-time jobs get her out of the house. He used to be a traffic warden but now devotes his life to removing dog muck from streets and pavements. A thankless task, she says, you might as well roll a boulder up a hill. As I left I remarked to Alice ‘all’s well that ends well’. Mrs S. gave a shriek and said ‘it’ll never last. He looks like a serial killer. Any road up, he’s from London.’

There are several classical allusions – plus I have shamelessly purloined THE IDEA from Carol Ann Duffy’s collection of poetry ‘The World’s Wife’.