I was never the kind of girl who had planned her dream wedding from childhood, or ever. Last night, However, I had my dream wedding. I’ve never given flowers, guest lists, menus, gowns or venues any thought. It’s just not in my culture. I do have a huge ability to fantasize, but this is usually channelled into other kinds of showing off. In terms of visualising ones future, the strongest fantasy self image I can remember dates from when I was about 17 and envisaged myself in my twenties living on my own and being able to do the splits. Neither of these things ever happened. I have been married though. Every night for a month, on stage in Newcastle. It was a gypsy wedding. Mostly it meant being thrown around, lifted, spun and danced with. The downside was my husband being murdered just after the wedding every night, and having to bury him myself with stones. However, the Pina Bausch style grieving was excellent fun.
Last night, I had a nightmare. The kind where after you’ve woken yourself up and persuaded yourself that you probably won’t die if you leave the bedroom and walk through the hall to the loo to have a wee, you leave the light on once you’ve returned to bed. This way, you hope, the dream won’t continue when you shut your eyes.
I was getting married. Only I couldn’t figure out what to do with my hair, and it wasn’t behaving. In fact, as I swept it up in the mirror, I mostly see scalp, with a brown spot by each hair follicle. I had no jewellery. I’m desperate for the loo. I’m in my friends’ house – a house I know intimately, and I cannot find a toilet with a door. My friends are being horribly casualist about the whole thing, and are cutting it very fine for getting to the ceremony. I’m not even sure they know what time it starts or where it is. Eventually I find somewhere to have a wee, not without first bumping into those Mitchell and Webb people off the telly for god’s sake. Pulling down my knickers I see that I’ve got my period a week early, and that they are very ‘soiled’. This is what comes into my head – ‘soiled’.
I know why this is. The other day in real life I was discussing the uses of the words ‘dirt’ and ‘soil’ in American and English. I’ve always found the word ‘dirt’ for ‘earth’ rather distasteful. But then we started thinking about the word ‘soil’ and realised that this is just as bad, and talked about the phrase ‘I’ve soiled my knickers’, and visualised a heap of powdery earth in the gusset of some pants.
Anyway, after the upsetting pants, I have to get into the ceremony which is through the back entrance of a museum. What I notice is that there are lots of guests, and I couldn’t give a shit that any of them are there, and it’s probably not that interesting to them either. Then I woke up – all hot, heart racing, terrified.
No wonder I have no interest in getting married. It’s obviously a terrible idea that people get inveigled into because of constantly being asked, ‘When are you two getting married then?’ to which the answer should be, ‘Why don’t you fuck off and die’, rather than a pathetic giggle followed by crazed private discussions with your partner to set a date, get it done, and shut them all up.
One day, however, my friend K and I have planned a little commitment ceremony for Mr B and myself. K will dress as her alter ego, George, a Greek club singer. George will perform the ceremony. We’ve thought of many details – outfits, moustaches, perfect weather on Hampstead Heath. We don’t have Mr B’s agreement, but I’m sure we can strong arm him somehow. Perhaps I do need to show off even more than these traditional wedding types. It’s really a ceremony dedicated to how funny K and I think we are – ‘You just have to be different, don’t you.’
