September 1st, 1991
At home, England
It’s hard to believe that this time next week, Sarah will be married and the pastel, puke inspired dress, she’s insisting I wear will be rolled into a ball and stuffed in the back of my wardrobe.
She caught me off guard when she asked who I’m bringing to the wedding, something I hadn’t given any thought to.
“You can bring anyone you want,” she said. “Just not Ben!”
“Like I’d invite him!” I said, much too defensively.
“You should invite Jon.”
“Why not? He’s really nice to you and-”
“He is…was, but he’s heavily involved with someone.”
“I bet he’d come if you asked him.”
“I just told you he has a girlfriend!”
“I still think you should invite him.”
“No, absolutely not. I guess I’ll be coming alone.”
“Well in that case I’ll get my husband to be on it and he can fix you up with one of his friends.”
“Ehm, thanks, but no thanks,” I stuttered remembering several occasions where Sarah thought it’d be a good idea for me to meet “someone they already know.”
“You say that now,” she smiled, “but you know after you see me getting married you’ll feel all romantic and want to snog somebody. That’s what happens at weddings!”
All I could do was roll my eyes as she continued. “Where is it you’re going tomorrow?”
“And when are you coming back?”
“That’s cutting it a bit close, don’t you think? What if you get delayed or something?”
“I won’t,” I said, inwardly chuckling at the thought of not having to wear “the dress,” but knowing she’ll kill me if I miss her wedding.