My cousin is getting married next year (I know, I don’t look old enough do I?), and recently asked me to be a flower girl for the occasion.
She did it with a smile, but I thought she had a bit of a cheek.
Having been to a couple of weddings already, I was pretty sure the flower girl was the lady in grubby jeans and a t-shirt, who busied herself making sure all the petals were pointing in the right direction before everyone arrived, as well as ensuring that all the boys sport matching floral decorations on their suits, while the bride and all her maids have something pretty to hold and smell.
Now I don’t mind pitching in when it comes to family occasions, but I was more than a bit peeved at the assumption I wouldn’t want to make the most of my cuteness with a pretty dress (complete with appropriate attitude of course) and/or that I wouldn’t mind missing all the fun. And the cake. I also couldn’t help thinking that cousin Flami had missed a trick with regard to the photo opportunity I present (see pic at the top of the page as exhibit one).
As is so often the case in these situations, Big Bro Fred’s life experience put me straight before an embarrassing family feud ensued.
Apparently a ‘flower girl’ is just off-centre when it comes to attention-getting on the big day; gets to wear the second best of the dresses; and gets first dibs on the cake once Mr and Mrs Happily Ever After have sliced it up.
I hadn’t been that relieved since I woke up and realised me running over Peppa Pig on my scooter had just been a bad, bacon-heavy dream.
To be honest, I should have known Flami wouldn’t have sidelined me... or Fred, who will be taking on page boy/ring-bearing duties like his life depended on it.
I would imagine he’ll be approaching the role in a similar way to the team of Pages of Honour who were chosen to make sure the Queen got down to the bottom of the parliamentary aisle without tripping on her cape this week.
Yep, it was that time again when Her Royal Highness rocks up to Big Ben, wearing a sparkly crown (which must surely require some sort of neck support) and proves to the world she can read out loud, by telling everyone what her government has told her, about what their plans are for us, for the next year or so.
Everything was going swimmingly for all involved until the Queen started talking about how her government would work towards a “comprehensive nuclear agreement with Iran”.
This was clearly too much for 12-year-old Charlie Hope (or Viscount Aithrie if you happen to bump into him on a Sunday) who promptly fainted, causing what was described as a ‘loud thud’. Embarrassing.
Apparently the standing up for a long time, in what can only be described as a pantomime costume, with extra padding, had got the better of the pre-teen, who made a full recovery after being carried out of the chamber, but who must have been dreading going back to school the next day. It’s a knocking bet he’s just coined himself a nickname that will probably follow him for life.
Thankfully for all concerned, while Prince Charles and his missus offered a synchronised (but thoroughly useless) ‘reach out’ in the vague direction of the horizontal Charlie, the Queen barely broke her sentence stride. What a pro.
Tell you what though, if I go down like a bag of hammers when Cousin Flami is getting married, and the bride and groom carry on with their vows regardless, they can expect the mother of all stampy tantrums when I come round.