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different.

Chapter Three
    Different people have different criteria by which they judge a successful wedding. When Matt’s elder sisters got married a year apart, I’m told his mum simply counted the thank-you letters afterwards and declared that daughter one’s wedding had beaten daughter two’s by a factor of eighty-nine to fifty-four. His dad preferred daughter two’s, though, because it cost £1,237.57 less and he didn’t have to prompt that set of in-laws to go halves.
    Personally, I like to judge an evening on how much carnage I’ve caused. On that basis, at least, Lisa’s wedding was a roaring success.
    â€˜Are you proud of yourself, Sam?’ Alan had asked on a rather awkward journey home.
    â€˜Of course.’
    â€˜I think Alan was being sarcastic,’ added Jess, helpfully. I don’t think I had risen much in her estimation over the previous twenty-four hours.
    But what wasn’t there to be proud about? The best man mentioned me in his speech – at least I assume he intended a dig in my direction when he said how glad Lisa’s family were that she had,
at last
, found a suitable life-long partner in Timothy. After the speeches had finished, Matt and I embarked on a bet to see who could dance with every woman in the room first; a bet which I celebrated, gloriously, by giving him the finger over the shoulder of Timothy’s waltzing 96-year-old grandmother as Matt attempted to make up lost ground by dancing with two toddler bridesmaids at the same time.
    Then there was the Christian girl, Mary, with whom I spent an amusingly heathen few hours in Mrs Geoffrey Parker’s bedbefore Mrs Geoffrey Parker herself decided that she would quite like to sleep in it, although probably rather less acrobatically, with Mr Geoffrey Parker and, understandably, threw us out. This, apparently, was all my fault, so Mary drove off in a self-righteous huff – it was fine for her; all she had to do was say sorry and she’d still go to heaven – to her friend’s house nearby, leaving me with dubious mobile reception and precious little battery as I tried to remember which B&B the other three had booked themselves into (I couldn’t afford a room so had decided to take my chances at the wedding – I find it helps focus the mind). Matt always sleeps with his phone on silent, Ed had passed out and, when I finally got through to Alan, Jess yanked his mobile away to tell me, rather harshly I thought, that I had got myself into this mess so I could get myself out of it as well. Taking the initiative, then, I settled down in the dog’s basket – a rather apt metaphor – until the deceptively docile-looking Labrador padded in from the drawing room and decided he wanted his basket to himself, leaving me to steal half his blankets and settle down in the hammock in the garden instead.
    The ‘proud’ incident to which I think Alan was referring occurred the following morning when I emerged from the bottom of my ex-girlfriend’s parents’ garden, still clad in my rented morning dress, its jacket lightly dusted with leaves and dog hair, and found myself in the middle of an apologetic lunch party for all the people in the village who hadn’t been invited the evening before. Mrs Geoffrey Parker hastily showed me out, her firm goodbye more of an
adieu
than an
au revoir
.
    All in all, then, it was a highly successful wedding. Life is short; you have to chase the anecdote. One day, when you’re slowly fermenting in an old people’s home, calling the matron by your aunt’s name and dribbling liberally into your soup of no identifiable origin, it would be nice to have something amusing to look back on before you lose your memory altogether andyour grubby little grandchildren finally get their hands on your money.
    *
    The only problem with attending such a fun wedding is that the aftermath always feels so depressing. Timothy James and