I’m sitting in my coffee shop trying to write about poverty and politics but there are wedding planners at the table next to me and it’s been pretty hard to focus.
They’re talking dresses, flowers and cocktails and well, I’m getting very bloody excited.
The bride’s going to wear pink, the groom white, and the Boston Terrier is bearing the rings. The wedding planners are flouncing about and super enthusiastic. They’ve totally taken over my table and I’m tasting wedding cake and trying out champagne too.
I have become a Wedding Planner.
Every time I agree with them I shout out YESS YESS and I guess because they don’t know my history of weddings and planning and dresses, men, husbands and disaster, they’re taking me very seriously.
We’ve just decided on Japanese whisky, tons of rose petals and flower crowns.
This is going well.
It’s a yes to the extra salmon as the groom just loves salmon, also caviar linguini as there has to be a carbohydrate in the mix.
And lobster. Anything lobster.
But it’s a no to the extra tier on the wedding cake and suddenly this has become a sad wedding.
How can anyone say no to an extra tier? Especially when there are only eight.
Especially when it’s chocolate raspberry vanilla cream.
‘We’re trying to keep the costs down, Violet,’ Chief Planner Number One minced at me.
‘Remember our goals.’
Fine, fine, I said, although I have no idea what our goals are and I suddenly remembered that I was trying to write about poverty and injustice and had somehow become waylaid by merriment and meringue.
I decided to leave them to the planning.
I moved to a different table. But not before suggesting I perhaps come to the wedding to officiate. Or at least give a speech.
I feel that by now I know the couple well.
They’re taking my offer under consideration.
Maybe I’ll crack an invite. Maybe I’ll get to try Japanese whisky.
Maybe I’ll just write about poverty.