I don’t

I love weddings, actually. I can’t understand why I never get invited to any? I mean, I think they’re a bizarre anachronism, but I don’t think that’s the reason. One of the last weddings I went to was my brothers, when I was heavily pregnant with the twins – so we’re talking a seriously long time ago.  Our oldest was just a toddler, and she was invited along. Although, actually, was she? I don’t have the invite on me so cannot confirm. She was terribly cute in her Pumpkin Patch dress, and no one even minded when she picked the sugar flowers off the wedding cake. Or did they? My memory may not be reliable on that point, either. Another brother was best man, and I was really looking forward to his speech. (The speeches are the best part of any wedding to my mind, although I realize that may not be a popular view). Unfortunately, just before he was due to go on, I noticed terrible smells coming from my lovely daughter’s nappy. I hustled her off to the bathroom, but sadly at that stage I was too inexperienced to know that pull ups could just be ripped apart at the sides, and instead I made the rookie mistake of pulling them down like a normal pair of underpants. As any experienced parent (or, indeed, anyone with a working brain) could predict, this resulted in poo smears all down both legs. By the time I’d cleaned that mess up, the speeches were all over. Heartbreaking, and I’ve never got over the disappointment. Every time I see him, I ask him to do it again for me, and he promises that he will – one day, when the time is right. Still, I guess that’s what children are for – to crush your hopes and dreams – oh no, hang on, that’s not right! – to remind you of what’s important in life.