Yay. Weddings.

I awoke this morning to a kind of bodily revolt. Even wrapping myself around a large mug of coffee genuinely couldn’t seem to keep my eyes open, and I ended up dozing on the couch, coffee still in hand.

Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately) I’d mistakenly set my alarm twice, half an hour apart, so my phone managed to rattle me from my slumber within a few minutes. And I didn’t spill my coffee all over myself. It was always going to be a hard day to have a wedding.

The rain has been insistent over the past few days. Not enough to be a flood, but enough to constantly remind one of its presence. Even if it held off today (and there appeared little hope of that) the grass was soaked, and having the lawns mowed during a break in the weather two days ago had just left it full of soft pats of clippings… and still too long. It’s spring. The grass is growing.

I’d met this bridal couple a few months ago when they came in for a site meeting. They were nice, but their respective parents were very involved in the event (which is so often unhelpful from an Event Manager’s perspective). It is always so much easier for us to have one point of contact. Events run by a committee (especially a committee of people who don’t ordinarily run events) seldom work. They just end up being a mash of different people’s egos and desires to exercise power. Already, I knew that the bride’s family wanted tight controls on the bar tab, while the groom’s family (being mostly cops) wanted to drink. A lot.

When you run events for many years, and events that often involve eating and drinking, you do get a feel for the broad stereotypes of people who tend to drink themselves into a stupor (and who want to fight the barman about the laws which prevent him from serving people in such a stupor). Lawyers. Cops. Fire Service. CEOs. White collar men and women under 25. In that order. People who tend to always get their way. People who have a really hard time with personal responsibility for their actions.


However, I had set my face to a default smile and decided that whatever happened, I would just keep grinning. One of our other managers came down to tell me that the groom’s family had been very rude and demanding with her, so we’d better watch out. Yay. The groom’s mother wanted us to somehow vacuum the lawn clippings out of the lawn. Yay. The bride’s sister (or cousin or something) wanted us to get the salt spray off windows despite the fact that it was blowing a gale off the sea. Yay. Our new head chef yelled at the kitchen hand so he quit. So the dishes started stacking up in pyramids. Yay. What’s that? The cake isn’t gluten free but the bride is? Can we just sort that out for her? Oh fuck my life.

Actually, on a scale playing with bunnies to thermonuclear war, this wedding was altogether much closer to the playing with bunnies end. The family were generally very happy and very nice. The couple were too. And it didn’t rain during the ceremony. I’ve had much worse, and much more demanding weddings. This is why most of the people who work in the wedding industry don’t stay there very long. Or they’re just to sort of people who are very good at cooing affirmations and playing kissy-face with brides while really not giving a fuck about you and your damn ugly centerpieces.

After 13 hours and 30 minutes, my body had returned to a state of revolt. My lower legs wanted to fall off. I couldn’t eat. I had a migraine. And I came home to write…

And then awoke 9 hours later unsure where I was and whether I had just dreamed that I’d been writing. Yet here is my computer. And here I am. And the cursor was flashing half way through a sentence.

What was I writing about again?

Oh, yeah. Weddings.





Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s