A piece of cake

THERE is nothing quite like a good ceilidh to boost your spirits — I’d say it was on the same par as a ride on the waltzers.
For this particular wedding hooch and tchooch, there are not enough superlatives in the Oxford dictionary to describe what a good time was had by all.
The last reception I’d been to before this one was reminiscent of a Peter Kay sketch: the drunk dad dancing with any skirt that moved; little boys sliding over the dance floor with their ties round their heads; granny in the corner moaning that she wanted to go home, but managing to hang around long enough to moan about the buffet, and then that she couldn’t get a taxi to take her home.
To avoid fooling myself into the need of buying something new, I’d planned in advance exactly what I was to wear, thus cancelling the need to have the usual alternatives on hand, just in case.
So you can imagine the panic-filled stupor I found myself in two minutes before I was due to be picked up, when the zip on my chosen skirt burst. I don’t just mean a little burst at the stitching — I mean a fat-spilling, earth-shattering point of no return burst, and not something that could be fixed with my makeshift sewing kit I’d got in the Brownies.
Up until this point my hair had been sitting lovely, my make-up was done and I’d been sitting about in my scabby old dressing gown, waiting until the last minute to get dressed.
It wasn’t just a case of changing the skirt — the top, shoes and bag only went with THAT skirt so it all had to change.
By the time I was en route, tear-stained and feeling fat and frumpy, my entire wardrobe forming a bleak layer on the floor, I convinced myself I was not going to enjoy myself.
However, whenever I walked through the door and was approached by said drunken dad brandishing a bottle of white wine/vinegar he’d acquired from the meal table, the one man band played Dire Straits’ Walk of Life as if he was waiting for my arrival, and I was on top of the world.
By the time I was heading home, I couldn’t give a monkey’s what I had on, what I looked like, or where I’d been. It’s funny that isn’t it? I’ve resigned myself to the fact that it doesn’t matter how great I look when I go out, I still return home in the same hair-up, shoes off, mascara-massacred state.
To avoid the chaos of these previous nuptials, I had several options of outfit, and accessories on hand. I even invited my ‘partner’ round early for him to advise me, after all he had to be seen with me all evening.
Knowing it was a ceilidh I was preparing for, my mother had put a piece of elastic into the bust of my beautiful dress to keep it up, and I relinquished the chance to wear a pair of beautiful shoes, opting instead for my old, scuffed dancing faithfuls.
And I’m so glad — I was not off the floor all night, and thanks to the said old faithfuls I wasn’t ‘on’ it either.
By the end of the evening, I’d provisionally booked the band; telling them I would have to get back to them with a date, venue and groom’s name as soon as I knew it.
I then proceeded to mingle amongst the post-bar/pre-bus company, inviting anyone who would listen to my wedding; telling them I would have to get back to them with a date, venue and groom’s name as soon as I knew it.
I joked that by putting the cake I had neatly wrapped in a napkin under my pillow that night that I’d know who the man was at least. By their blank reaction I thought it may have been one of those childhood stories mothers are duty-bound to tell you don’t exist.
But no — it seems I just wasn’t doing it right.
You are supposed to take a small piece of wedding cake, pass it three times through a wedding ring before you put it under your pillow.
Alternatively, I could have put the cake under my pillow and put a borrowed wedding ring on my wedding finger. Before going to bed I should have arranged my old, scuffed dancing faithfuls in the shape of a T. Again, my groom should then put in an appearance in my dreams.
The only thing I got from the experience was an unsettling dream about one of my dancing partners that evening and a stained pillow case. Somehow I don’t think a borrowed wedding ring would have helped matters.
Still, until the next time I am enticed into borrowing rings and wrapping cake, I’ll settle for dreams about the dreamy Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson in tuxes.
Go see Wedding Crashers if you haven’t already.