Mr Magorium's Wedding Emporium

There is a sign outside a church down the road from where I live that reads: "WHATEVER YOU PUT ON, WEAR LOVE." Just like that. In capitals. Now I've never been shy of a bit of gentle sartorial experimentation; I indulged the shell-suit trend aged 8, the tracksuit trend aged 10 (a local phenomenon) and now own a pair of leggings. But love? Now, that is one thing that has never quite fit properly. Throughout this blog I have brushed past the odd mating catastrophe as if it were nothing but an irritating fly in my gin and tonic but the truth is, well..that I haven't been completely truthful. The truth is that, if love can be worn, as my Christian neighbours say it can, then it is as becoming on me as a pink mini-skirt on a rugby player; chafingly uncomfortable, amusingly carried off, and with the wearer secretly desiring more time to walk round in the ill-fitting garment despite everyone else telling them to PLEASE REMOVE THAT THING NOW. In my case, and taking a relieved step away from the simile, this manifests itself through friends' gentle coaxing: "Put the phone down NOW", "Step away from Facebook poke", or just "You're being a dick. Stop it." So, it is hardly surprising that with these seemingly helpful preventative measures, my acquaintances have unwittingly allowed a love-aversion to grow and fester. Callous! I hear you cry. OK, I may have flourished this with some fictional elements, namely, my friends' involvement, but the fact still stands, I am love averse. Now, before you brand me a witch, let me take you back to my favourite metaphor - the rugby player and the mini-skirt. It's not that he doesn't like it - au contraire - he loves it. But it just doesn't look right, however pretty it (or he) is. To be quite frank, his involvement with the skirt causes so much distress to those around him that they cannot bear for him to don the garment again. Is this in any way any clearer? Thought not. Now, I could live with this, just about. I mean, if I want to get myself all trussed up in an emotional mess then that's my prerogative is it not Britney Spears? "Yes!" she beams reassuringly, the word tinged with the dying embers of 90s Girl Power. People can spit and shout and wail that I'm making a mistake but who cares? Live and let live! Laissez-faire! And all that.

However, something has changed. The hypocrisy of our late twenties is beginning to show it's ugly face. I have started to receive signs that point to a sea change in opinion, a move away from 'carefree' as an adjective to describe our crazy youth and towards, well, 'settled'. These beacons of change feature fairly high up those portentous words "...request the pleasure of the company of..." Reading my name followed swiftly by "...to celebrate the marriage of..." I barely have time to gulp before I'm forced to stoop to pick up a slip of paper that has fallen, at once accidentally and deliberately, from the white glittering card. Picking it up I immediately discern the silver lettering which can only mean one thing: The John Lewis Gift List. And that's it. The full hit. The complete and bloody blow to the head. The obvious questions flash through my mind: Do I know these people? How long have they been together? Was I expecting it? What will I wear? And will there be an item within my budget on the Gift List that isn't a toilet roll holder? Once these questions have been posed and the first (and most important) ones have been answered in the affirmative then I'm left pondering the other stuff, raking it over in my mind...Are these the people who have been discouraging me from forming meaningful relationships with men they disapprove of, only then to run away and secure a life-long bit of company for themselves..? I mean honestly, I could if I wanted to, I mean I'm just going to go and find myself someone now, I mean there's no reason why I can't make it my project to secure someone before the wedding day and take them along and who knows maybe it'll be us this time next year...I mean... Oh, wait a minute, how am I ever going to pull in my current condition? The word "unemployed", when uttered, has never to my knowledge turned anyone on...Ah, but hang on a minute, this invitation is addressed to me. I mean, just me - no plus one. NO PLUS ONE! This is an abomination. (And that word is only ever used in cartoons.) No plus one. No plus one. The words ring in my head. I say them over and over as if it's wrong that I don't have an invitation for an imaginary plus one. I'm fighting an imaginary cause. It's getting more like a cartoon all the time.

Needless to say I got over the initial distress and, if I'm honest, I'm pretty excited about this wedding. I like the people (which is always a start) and it's an autumn wedding and I like the autumn. I could do with a bit of light end-of-summer dress shopping as well. That never hurt anyone. Especially me. Once I had secured a date for parting with some of my dwindling cash, the thought of going alone didn't seem as painful. And anyway, what was I whinging about? I had at least two other friends who would be going alone. I aired my concerns with one of them and I was almost bowled over by her insightful response: "Listen, we're good quality guests, you know?" "No," I replied. "I don't know what you mean." "Look, we're good quality guests because people know what they're getting with us. They don't have to worry about expecting some crazy lunatic plus one. They get us. In a nice dress. That's good value for money per head." With the simplicity and clarity of this statement, the clouds lifted.

I don't know what it was that made me feel better, the fact that I was amused or a genuine belief that I was excellent value for money, but it didn't much matter. My bizarre hissy fit deserved an equally bizarre response. And that was perfect. It IS weird to moan about other people getting married, plus ones, relationship histories and those over-priced, unnecessary presents. It's like the grown-up version of saying that someone's stolen your ruler or pulled your hair. I know that. I just ask one thing: that when I reach my thirtieth birthday, each of my friends selects a gift for me from my John Lewis Birthday Gift List. Well, I've got to furnish my one bedroom flat somehow.