It's been a fortnight of weddings. One of two good friends, the other of a nice bloke to A Girl Who Is Not Right.
At the first wedding, I realised many of the guests were finance PRs. These are strange creatures. The women are stick thin salad chasers. The men all look jolly. A typical male PR thing to say is "You know Duffy, surely? Cambridge man, but a good stick. Had lunch with him the other day and knocked back quite a few jars, I can tell you."
At one point I sat talking to a particularly cherubic example. He stared at me glumly. "Did you act much at college?" he asked, sadly. "I was Romeo, once. In Romeo and Juliet, you know. Great fun." And then he sighed.
It must be terrible, actually, to be sentenced to a life of endless lunches talking about what fun there was to be had in the old days.
The other wedding (Nice Boy to Nasty Girl) was about what you'd expect. The groom looked sweet, the bride looked sour. The men stood around slapping each other on the back. The women sat in a row.
The cake had monogrammed napkins, which looked lovely. "Ah yes," said the groom, "But they're brown. The printers were supposed to do them in silver but they came back in brown. The Mrs went mad. It was hell." He glanced away, clearly contemplating a grim scene of primal rage, with torn brown napkins fluttering like soiled confetti.
I could never plan a wedding. Quite apart from my inability to form a relationship that last longer than the half-life of Francium, i can't stand the idea that it could shatter just because of the wrong colour of napkin.