My sister always plans everything to perfection.
“Quentin and I will be married on Moonlight Island as soon as it gets dark,” she told me. “I shall be Ophelia, and he, Oberon. Fairy lights will twinkle in the trees and the lake will be full of our guests, watching from candlelit gondolas. There will be swans and mermaids -”
“Mermaids, yes. And afterwards, the new Mr and Mrs Farquason-Smythe will be rowed sedately back across the lake to the sound of haunting music.”
“What, as in ‘whoooo’?”
“Don’t be silly. We’ll proceed to the magical gazebo - ”
“A tent that does tricks?”
“Jane, you’re not taking this seriously.”
“Sorry. Carry on.”
“Proceed to the gazebo, where we will partake of a sumptuous buffet, followed with starlit dancing on the lawn until the small hours.”
You see, that’s the problem with Marcie. She never does things by halves; her wedding day is Midsummer’s Eve, so now we’re up to our necks in Shakespeare, impractical gossamer gowns, mermaids and fairies. I swear she’s even organised a balmy summer evening.
I tried to sound a note of caution, but she would she listen? Would she heck!
Nothing would go wrong, she assured me. Her wedding was planned to the nth degree. Everything was sorted, from the bridesmaids disguised as flower fairies to shower the newlyweds in rose petals to her exquisite designer stilettos and matching fairy wings. Woe betide anyone or anything that spoils her dream.
But there are some things you just can’t plan for.
It rained anyway.