May 2000. I’m invited to a wedding in Hampshire, which involves buying an affordable half-decent outfit in town. Shoes are a particular problem: I end up getting some black desert boots in Stead and Simpson, in the precinct. There are three of us who go to the ceremony in a pleasant country church, but are not invited to the daytime reception at the bride’s parents’ place. Only the afters in the evening. We ask the groom where we can go in the meantime, and he suggests a pub. We feel rather forlorn, and left out.
Half an hour later, a phone call. They can make room for us at the reception after all. We are picked up: but when we get there feel that perhaps this has not been a universally accepted decision. The bride’s mother, who looks like Cruella de Vil, is noticeably offish when we arrive, but we thank her for her kind hospitality.
Before the meal I’m standing in a small group chatting.
“I bought some desert boots exactly like that”, says one guy. “They were rubbish. They split in no time at all”.
At this point Cruella de Vil joins our circle, and the conversation gets awkward. I compliment her on the wedding arrangements, the bride’s dress and her excellent choice of husband (the reason I’m invited in the first place). I thank her again for letting us come at such short notice. Then the conversation dries up. We are subject to one of those excruciatingly embarrassing stretches of time when nobody dares to break the silence. I choose to return to the previous topic of conversation: the shoes.
“How long till they split, then?” I say. It takes me a moment to realise the double-meaning of my question. Cruella’s face darkens. I realise it’s going to be a long afternoon. AL