The bells will ring for only us

In case you haven’t heard I’m planning a wedding. My own. I’m remarkably chilled about it because I’m too old for bridezilla. I’ve found a dress – ivory silk – and we’re more concerned about having decent wine than fancy flowers. It’ll be fun, Himself and I reckon, with all our favourite people together, happy for us, celebrating our official union after 20 years of waiting and wondering, with good food and no drama.

That’s what we thought anyway. But it turns out where there’s a wedding, there’s always drama.

We were certain we’d chosen our venue well. We’re not exactly religious, so we felt we were appeasing both the gods and our mothers by getting married in the beautiful old Dublin Unitarian church, which makes no demands other than respectfulness.

I knew it was the right place when I went to their Sunday service and their hymn book fell open on Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrica. A female reverend lead the service, and agreed to perform our rites.

Stage left: Enter Mother-In-Law (usually kind and lovely) who declared she didn’t want to come because we weren’t getting married in a Catholic church.

“I’m not Catholic,” I reminded her. “I’ve never even been christened.” But Himself is Catholic, she informed me icily.

Then there was the guest list, curtailed by space, budget, and the fact that neither of us wanted to look across the congregation and not recognise people. We wanted guests who actively like us, not those whose sole claim was shared DNA and perhaps changing a nappy once, 50 years ago.

Off stage: A rogue aunt loses all reason when she learns there’s a wedding and she isn’t invited, even after it’s explained we’re having immediate family and friends only.

“They’re putting friends ahead of family?” she ranted, this lady who I couldn’t pick out in a police line-up. Undoubtedly she’s phoned all the other uninvited aunts and uncles and cousins in high dudgeon…

Regardless, invitations have been sent out, noses are out of joint, and those who’ve complained in the past will find plenty to complain about in future.

Here’s the magical, liberating truth though: we don’t care.

Centre stage: It’s our wedding. Ours. This time it’s all about us.