So, I am currently on a train back to London, nursing a champagne hangover and feeling more single and depressed than ever. The catalyst for both ailments? A family wedding aka - the single girl's emotional Guantanamo bay. A chamber of torture, a minefield of bombs just waiting to explode in your face and remind you, once again, that you are resolutely alone. I literally have no idea why Jason Derulo was so chipper when he was crooning about 'riding solo' – you Jason, have clearly never attended a family wedding without even a sniff of a plus one, have you? Optimistic prick.
Don't get me wrong, I had the time of my life. Firstly, watching my beautiful cousin walk down the aisle to marry a man that loves her unconditionally, was one of the most amazing things I have ever witnessed. I've never really understood why people cry at weddings, but this time around I was sobbing from the first bar of 'Here Comes The Bride' and continued to cause a scene throughout the entire ceremony, my tear ducts even refusing to let up when the registrar gave an unemotional speech about the legalities of the marriage certificate. It's encouraging to know I am yet to reach the level of spinster hood where I am so bitter and twisted I can no longer find joy in being in the presence of true love, although I'm sure this phase will come in its own sweet time, probably around the time I forget what a real life penis looks like.
Secondly, I just love a good wedding. I was almost definitely given more than my fair share of the bride gene, reports claiming I came out of the womb whistling 'The Wedding March' and clasping a blue garter in my fragile, newborn hand. I'm not ashamed to say that I probably spend at least 15% of my day thinking about my hypothetical wedding, my lack of prospective husband being completely irrelevant. I've toyed with the idea of Beyonce themed nuptials, and more recently settled on an Ibiza cliff top ceremony where The Wanted shall sing an exclusive, acoustic version of 'Glad You Came'. Magical stuff. So yes, being in close proximity to an ivory dress, tiaras and table settings released a heady amount of endorphins, usually only achievable by extensive exercise or orgasms, neither of which I have been acquainted with lately.
However, the only thing that could piss on my wedding day parade was the dreaded issue, and my distinct lack, of a plus one. And piss it did. Whilst everyone else had their better halves arriving for the evening reception, I had my best friend Charlotte. An intrinsic part of my family, she would have been invited whether I was avec or sans boyfriend, however, the distinct lack of man in my life gave her presence a slight sinister edge, I swear I could almost hear the whispers of 'lesbian' over the chink of champagne flutes. To add insult to serious injury, Charlotte has recently jumped ship and left me on the sinking spinster dingy to join HMS Happy Couple. She's been dating her Essex boy for about 6 weeks now, and they are very much in the blood curdling stage of unhindered happiness that is likely to ruin our 17 year friendship and be the reason Charl wakes up one night with me holding a pillow over her face. But that's another gripe, for another blog post, and for the impending court case.
My lack of boyfriend did not go unnoticed by my extended family. Many asked where he was, some referring to my ex (they clearly didn't get the memo that his true arseholeness had come to fruition and we have been separated for nearly 6 months), others blindly assuming that a girl like me would/should have a doting man in her life, their optimism and faith in my power to seduce men heart-warming, if totally unwarranted. But whatever their reason for asking, my answer of 'I don't have one at the moment' was met with the same look of heartfelt pity only usually reserved for abandoned puppies or malnourished orphans on Oxfam adverts.
However, I wouldn't say the wedding was a complete romantic disaster, I mean there was the drunk uncle who spent an uncomfortable 3 minutes miming the lyrics to Rhianna's 'SnM' whilst circling me on the dancefloor, and the 16 year old bar back that I'm pretty sure got an erection when I asked him to pop a straw in my vodka cranberry, so I supposed I shouldn't complain. But to the numerous relatives that consoled me with a cheery 'You'll be next, sweetheart!' I can still safely say, don't hold your breath - I don't want to be responsible for mass death by self imposed suffocation.