There comes a time in everyone’s life when the excitement sparked by a friend’s “WE’RE ENGAGED!!!” message is swiftly followed by immense dread. This time tends to be in your thirties, when it appears everyone decides that now is the time to commit, and to do so in the most expensive way possible.
The first wedding you attend is fine. You shrug off the cost of that round of baby Guinnesses and think nothing of having dropped near-£200 on an outfit for the occasion. Sure, the hotel was expensive, as was the train ticket up to the middle of nowhere, but hey, it’s a special occasion, right? You’ll shoulder the expense for your pals.
By the time the fourth wedding in the space of 12 months rolls around, you are a simmering cesspit of indignant rage and resentment. How dare your mate get married in the south of Italy, with multiple days of festivities (pre-wedding party! Post-wedding curing session!) necessitating almost a week’s worth of hotel fees? Why on earth would the bride ban the colour green, knowing that the one dress that hasn’t already had its outing is lovely shade of sage? And wait, they’re expecting contributions to their honeymoon, too? And the hen is a £200 spa day? And it’s not even a free bar?
