Fit in the world else could possibly go wrong?
That’s what I asked masellie on the morning of my quine’s wedding after the earring-doon-the-drain hullaballoo had finally been sorted.
Tears wiped. All lugs successfully studded. Pop the pink champagne. And relax.
Just as if … All around, heidies being rollered, facies foundationed, frocks unbagged. Button lost? Naebody’ll see.
Then the bridesmaids revealed the video the five of them had made for the bride, filmed at all the old haunts of their long friendship.
So funny. So fond.
Well, 11am, and that was me already in bits.
What timing, as my quine presented me – a known blubberer – with a hunkie, embroidered: “To dry your happy tears, as you have always dried mine.”
Thanks be I hadn’t got to the mascara stage …
And boy, was that a handy hunkie for the rest of the day.
I dabbed my een when the bridesmaids were all dressed. I was fair overcome when my ex arrived to give his “princess” away, finally persuaded to wear a kilt for the first time in his 72 years.
But how I grat when my quine and her wee girl appeared from the bedroom in their stunning dresses.
Waterworks again at the ceremony, when the piper struck up Highland Cathedral and the flower-girl and page-boy, hand-in-hand and smiling (exactly as per oor rehearsals) led everyone down the aisle.
To the two-year-old fell the task of handing over the rings, prompting some concern he might pull his favourite stunt of chucking them up in the air.
He was page-boy perfection. His sister – as a surprise to all but her mummy and daddy – said a moving wee poem, The Fairytale.
Hunkie sodden, I’d to move on to my stash of Kleenex. Ta-ta Mrs Glam Eyes. Hello Chi Chi the panda.
The rest of the day was glorious; the first of so many laughs starting with the groom, ever the heart-and-soul, who began his speech: “Those of you who know me well, seeing me with this mic in my hand, are probably expecting me to start singing Agadoo.”
The dance floor packed with kids, parents, pensioners. Wee boys with kilts on the droop. Barefooted wifies, slaves to their bunions.
At stovie-time, I realised I was still wearing my substantial feather-and-floowers hat (so bendy were its outreaches, I suspect that, during the meal, the fine gravy on the plate of the best man next to me was perilously close to being sopped up).
When I finally removed the creation, to sport mortally flattened hair, the groom’s ma confided: “Women guests usually leave their hats on until the bride’s mum takes off hers. We’ve had our eyes on yours for hours. Then gave up!”
Oor gallant page-boy zonked out in his buggy around 11pm but the flower-girl was still standing for the final dance, happy dance.
As the new Mr and Mrs continued the celebrations in the residents’ bar, Nana and Grandma took the babes up to bed, all asleep in an instant.
Next day, a hillock of folk were together for a post-wedding breakfast, everyone recalling their favourite bits.
I knew it had been the perfect day for my wee girl.
Nothing left for me to stress or sob aboot.
But here’s a secret, when I came home, I had a bloomin’ good greet!