Weddings, as you already know, are events that call for remarkable theatre. Thus, to endure the ordeal, I have a theory: arrive early enough to be seen, leave early enough so you aren't missed. And, come Sunday, I was all set and colour-cordinated to attend the wedding of mum's friend's son. Theory in head, I marched out, gift-laden, lip-shimmering, and hair-flowing, to St. Patrick's Church, where I was to wait for another friend.
I walked around the car park. Smiled at unknown people. You know, the usual. Then, ten minutes into the classic clacking-around cars-and-adjusting-hair routine, my feet began to feel rather sandy. I leaned against a car, reaching down to dust off my footwear.
Holy. Mother. of. Ten-headed. God.
It wasn't sand in my feet, but my footwear - crumbling. Literally. Crumbling to pieces. Breaking into bits like old biscuits. Self-destructing like the Terminator. Committing shoe-suicide. As if my evening wasn't going well already, a stray heel even decided to simply wrench itself off. Drowning in self-pity, I bravely yanked off the other heel, and walked all the way down to Brigade Road to buy a pair of cheap sandals.
At a quarter past seven, I arrived at the wedding; gift-laden, lip-shimmering, hair-flowing and - feet-flat. And I realised -
I'd no idea what the host looks like.