Now, I love a good City wedding and the one I went to last weekend definitely didn’t disappoint.
The experience all started 18 months ago when a colleague hit the husband jackpot.
Her top-percentile-earning actuary boyfriend, having no doubt favourably assessed the risk, hired an island, yes a whole one, and whisked her away for the proposal. Returning with a diamond the size of a sugar lump and a smile like a cat that’d got the whole damn dairy, she then set about appointing a wedding planner, who thoughtfully arranged for the invitations to be sent.
Mine arrived at my desk in its own protective box, a portable DVD player, with a pre-recorded film of the happy couple excitedly welcoming me to their celebrity-themed wedding.
Of course, there were a few tears along the way, namely the entire office when we found out that the bride-to-be, in a moment of pre-wedding madness one presumes, had also invited our boss.
The worst of it, though, was bride-to-be’s reaction when she found out that her luxury spa-break hen weekend had been upstaged, as Actuary Man had booked an entire flight for his exclusive use. He then whisked his stags off to New York for a mini-break stag-fest.
Rumour has it that 12 lap-dancing strumpets were employed to provide the in-flight entertainment, and they definitely didn’t hold back on taking in-flight service standards to a whole new level.
Thankfully, I booked a major hair and make-up overhaul on the morning of the big day, as there was a bona-fide celebrity of the male film-star variety posing for guests’ photos. A friend of the family, apparently.
Proceedings got under way with a faux red-carpet event, with hired pretend paparazzi providing an authentic film-premiere feel.
Actuary Man arrived in a helicopter, of course, while the blushing bride regrettably opted for the windswept look that comes from arriving in a hot-air balloon.
Unfortunately, I was sat as token totty on Actuary Man’s single, male and “on-the-pull” friends’ table. Endless tedium ensued as I observed them try to outdo each other with their highly exaggerated income indications. Turning to one, I pointed out “how pleasant it is that the truly wealthy never discuss income”. He responded with: “Shame you got a brain inside that pretty head.”
After the usual gourmet delicacies and a nine-course lunch with vintage champagne, we were treated by the best man to endless recollections of Actuary Man’s jolly japers in and out of the Square Mile. The grand finale was the gift room, an Aladdin’s cave heaving with goodies where each guest got to choose three gifts from the array of genuine designer items.
After choosing a Cartier watch, a Chanel handbag and a pair of Christian Louboutin wedges, I spotted my boss sneaking a fourth gift into her Mulberry weekender bag.
No doubt wanting to recoup her expenditure on the wedding present, where the cheapest item on the list was a mere £575.