It all started with a kiss.
Madison, the forced upon us matron of honour, came screaming into the reception, hair all a fly, sobbing and bleating about there being no cake left. Being a porky little beast and prone to a good dose of histrionics, I paid little attention to her.
Until I kissed her and quietly suggested into her right ear that she harden the fuck up.
Through her constant babbling at me I deciphered words that made me want to kill the best man, Madison’s own darling husband.
He had cut the carriage cake in two, right through the picture of my daughter and her delightful new husband. He was in love, Madison bawled, with the pastry chef groom…my new son in law. It seemed that Madison's dumb-arsed, burnt-orange-convertible-driving husband had apparently had enough of her histrionics, and now wanted to have his cake and eat it too. He wanted my princess, and Madison, out of his life and instead wanted my princesses new husband in it. Oh my God!
My princess, not one to suffer fools or circumstances that took the attention away from herself, was surprisingly calm. As I shot the daggers of death to all of the orange convertible family members and friends, I noticed my princess on her mobile. In her advanced CEO manner, I could tell she was delegating specific tasks with a time lined ultimatum.
Princess delicately lifted her dress, just a tad so as to make walking easy, and headed toward her husband. She was so beautiful. Her perfectly straight white teeth (they cost me a small fortune, I can tell you), her flawless skin and her eyes all a sparkle, she was truly elegant and gorgeous. With her persuasive beauty and envious cleavage she coaxed her beloved away from the madness and indicated for the band to start playing the bridal waltz. Her pointed finger to band leader so expertly spoke volumes of control and immediacy that I mentally noted that I should take lessons from her.
As they waltzed around the room, all eyes turned to them. Cheers and clapping from the one hundred guests covered the noise of Princesses’ ninja background retribution.
My angel and her handsome husband magically slid around the room, skilfully greeting and acknowledging their guests, while the horse and carriage driver carried out her angelic instructions.
As the band ceased its play and guests unembraced their dance partner, a different genre of music wafted into the room. The mechanical clanging of a tip truck tipping was off set to a waft of manure. Guests fell quiet and all eyes turned to the unknown music of my utmost delight.
We looked on, helpless and unable to do anything. A load of horse manure was unloaded into a little burnt orange convertible, open roofed for such a delightful summer evening. The orange convertible was not seen by the truck driver who had turned off his headlights so as not to disturb wedding guests as he backed in to unload into his usual spot. The reception was held at a very swish landscapers show ground and how were we to know that the landscaper used fresh horse manure as fertiliser for his magnificent gardens. How were we to know that a delivery had been arranged for the night of the wedding?
Damn that girl did good. If only she’d arranged for a cement truck though!