So I’d eventually got the dress, a top and skirt in fact. Shoes were a whole other story. They were procured three days before. It proved a nightmare to find something suitable, not too plain but just the right side of tart if you know what I mean. Anyway eventually we found them but I have to say I teetered, not being a great heel wearer.
Come the big day I had a full flight of stairs as my “aisle” and then a few metres of gravel to cross to the “altar”. I spent several hours training my oldest who was giving me away to hold me up through the journey. We had to buy extra stocks of TCP just to clean the wounds on his forearm where my nails were digging in.
Bridezilla the movie
Anyway the morning was spent with my hairdresser desperately trying to calm me down and do hair at the same time. Unfortunately, and I have no idea why, but I had started to lose my voice. I had also sprained my wrist moving furniture around earlier in the morning. So there I was sounding like a bad Bonnie Tyler impersonator with laryngitis, with a wrist swelling at a rate of knots. More of the choking bride than the blushing bride. The hairdresser and I were holed up in the bedroom. Someone/everyone was sorting out the children, all to be dressed in white shirts and white dresses respectively. Now kids and white clothes go together about as well as Sid Vicious and the Pope. Consequently I didn’t want them dressing more than two minutes before the ceremony at 4.30. At 2 someone came in and asked” Shall I get the kids ready” No, not until 4 I told them. There then followed a stream of the well intentioned at 15 minute intervals asking the same. There I was, voice rapidly disappearing, ice pack on wrist, suffocating in a cloud of Elnett, desperately trying not to speak and having to repeat this instruction time after time. When the last one came in my hairdresser was more stressed than me by then. Before they’d got past “Shall I….” she bellowed at them “NOT TIL FOUR!!!” So as you can see it was all about as calm and collected as the first day of Harrods sale.
And it was getting hotter by the minute. Early June should be comfortable but the mercury was rising about as fast as my blood pressure. Aisle time arrived and I actually made it without landing on my face at the bottom of the stairs. There was my beloved at the altar with sweat patches the size of Asia in his pits. Sexy. On all the photos you will notice my middle, armpit height child strategically placed in my hubby’s pits to hide the stains. Poor boy, I’m not sure how he lasted the day without passing out. I stood there, sweat dripping all over the place, make up sliding off my face and croaked my way through my vows. We made a lovely couple.
It wasn’t until after the ceremony however that one of the guests enlightened me to the fact that the top of my skirt was in fact pretty transparent in the sun and my skimpy wedding knickers had been visible through the whole affair. Along with the tattoo on my ass. I spent the next hour asking around casually of the other guests “So did you enjoy the ceremony and by the way did you notice my knickers?” Unfortunately the answer was a resounding yes. Little did they know they were about to see a whole lot more.
Have a coke and a smile-not
I was standing chatting to guests with my daughter and someone said something, more than likely pertaining to my knickers, which made her laugh. Things then took on that slow motion quality of bad films, American cold case series and presumably the last 30 seconds of your life where it all flashes by in glorious Technicolor. The laugh made her cough, the cough jolted her hand and the whole damn glass of coke she was holding sprayed out of the glass like a brown fizzy tsunami straight down my cleavage and the front of my lovely white dress. After the initial few second “Oh my God” frozen moment I dashed into the downstairs loo. I ripped off the top, not easy when it involves thirty hooks and eyes, and ran it under the cold tap.
100 metre dash
It was then I realised I had sod all to put on, we’d forgotten to put a towel in the downstairs loo and the only way to my room was back outside and up the stairs through all the assembled guests. Left with no choice I stood by the loo door radiant and half naked in my skirt, heels and bra waiting for an opportune moment. Needless to say in a garden packed with our friends and relatives, it didn’t come and I just had to make a dash for it. Weirdly several people tried to hail me for a chat along the way seemingly not noticing that I had my hands clasped across my bosom and was in fact half dressed. I hurled myself into the bedroom and availed myself of another dress. Then with as much dignity as I could muster I rejoined the reception. I then attempted to explain why the guests, who had previously had an eyeful of my underwear throughout the service, had just been treated to the bride streaking through her wedding reception. Luckily they all knew me so I don’t think any were too put out. All in all we had a lovely day even if it turned out to be a bit more informal than even we had intended. In retrospect maybe I should have gone with the bikini bottoms I wore at the dress fittings given I had spent a small fortune on a dress I ended up wearing for all of two hours!