I thought I would be safe there, up the back and to the left, robbed of all coordination due to wine and too-high heels. Then I looked up, blinked slowly, and realised it was coming right at me, a blur of blue red orange gerbras and irises.
Holy fuck I am gonna catch the bouquet. I don't want to catch the bloody bouquet. Not for another five to ten years, and maybe not even then.
But I held out my arms limply and accepted my fate. Until she came out of nowhere, her squeal piercing through my champagne fuzziness. She lunged across the dance floor, sending half a dozen girls crashing to the floor in a tangle of bare arms and strappy shoes. She plucked the flowers from the air just as they grazed my fingertips, bellowing in triumph. She waved them around her head then galloped happily over to her boyfriend who gave a tortured smile.
Strange day. It was my first wedding that wasn't one of my parents getting remarried. The bride was nervous and grinning and the groom had wet eyes and cracking voice during the vows. They looked so happy to be there. Imagine that, someone tolerating your crap enough to want to be with you for the rest of their life. I can't imagine anyone feeling like that about me. It's too bizarre.
But if I did ever get married, I would exclude the following: prayers, flowergirls who won't sit still, prawn cocktail where the prawns look like severed fingers, vol-au-vents, steak diane, fruit cake, John Farnham songs, the local Golf Club.