Who buys those glossy society magazines… well, hello?
(See what I did there?)
Celebrity glossies sit wrong with me – it’s my inner snob.
I don’t buy the glitzy magazines. But if the hairdresser insists in piling them up on the table, then who am I not to nosy at the celebrities with their espresso tans, their magnificent mansions and their gorgeous guck-free babies.
You never see a celebrity mamma with baby throw-up on her shoulder.
I’m a true sucker for celebrity weddings.
If, like me, you’re on your trusty iPad – I’m thinking of marrying mine because we’ve slept together for years – then you can’t have missed the society wedding of the year, the marriage of those two children of the super rich, Brooklyn Beckham and Nicola Peltz.
Brooklyn, his parents have pointed out, was not given his name because he was conceived there. Still, Buckna Beckham doesn’t have the same ring.
Society weddings such the Beckham/Peltz extravaganza are my “thru-the-keyhole” secret pleasure.
This one was lavish and fairy tale and designer. The groom was gifted a diamond chain and there was talk of a special Jaguar – car not animal – but it could have been either.
Long ago when we were in London, I bought a ticket for a V&A exhibition of Princess Grace’s outfits.
The man I married politely refused to join me on the couturier trail.
How could he not say yes to the dress?
Grace’s story is spell binding – the beautiful blonde movie star marrying her prince – from Hollywood to Royalty.
Here was her trousseau – the very word whispers French scent and true romance.
The world of the society rich is so far removed from reality.
It’s a world where wind is never bodily… it blows in from the west and has a fancy name like “Zephyr”.
It’s a world where somebody else tweezes the clump of straggly hair out of the bath plughole and nobody ever has a strounce over bin night.
And that is why I like a little escapism with a glossy magazine at the dentist.
The ache of a root canal fades when you’re looking at an exquisite bride dressed in Givenchy posing beside sparkly turquoise waters on the Amalfi coast.
Everyone wants a little of that for their wedding these days.
Money can’t buy you love but it can buy you a day, or three, to remember.
Weddings have stretched out limo-style from a quick ceremony and a bite of dinner to three full days of dinners and nuptials, dances and brunches.
You can get married in a castle or a beach in Bali – your dog can carry your rings to the altar, you can have a wall of iced donuts or crisps – anyone for champagne and prawn cocktail?
You and your beloved can release white doves – I’ve heard they’re really white homing pigeons, but doves are more romantic.
I remember a friend’s wedding where we went outside and released balloons into the air – two red ones for the bride and groom and 100 white ones for the guests.
In an effort to recreate the joy, I thought I’d nick the idea for our wedding.
The balloons would burst and land in the fields and the cows might choke on them, a dour fella told me. He was probably from Buckna. I didn’t fancy murdering cows in the pursuit of happiness.
Another fella said our wedding venue was close to the airport, a pilot might get distracted by the balloons and…
I did not fancy marking the occasion with a plane crash either.
It was a beautiful day minus balloons and even if no-one gave us a Jaguar.
“Money can’t buy you love,” I tell our boy.
“If I’m going to be miserable, I’d prefer to do it in a Ferrari,” he jokes.
I tell him to find someone who makes him laugh. If they remember bin night, that’s a bonus.
It’s wedding season – Spring is in the air and so is love.
It’s been 27 years. We can still make each other laugh.
I follow him out on the mission to crack if it’s blue or brown bin night.
Good luck to the Brooklyns and the Nicolas – hello young lovers wherever you are.
I channel my inner Abba for my other half… they sing it better than I do.
“Remember our wedding day?” I ask, tuning up for a song… “If I had to do it all again, I would my friend Fernando.”
“Who’s Fernando?” says he.
