Our mission was in 4 parts and is outlined as follows:
Part 1:
Take our original guest list, double that number, subtract three, add forty five and then multiply by three. This number should equal that of a small village and is the amount of family that need to be invited to the wedding.
Part 2:
Take a deep breath, close your eyes and resist urge to spiral into insanity.
Part 3:
Find a reception centre that is classy, yet contemporary, funky, yet fun, that offers flexibility and is able to fit the hordes we affectionately call our relatives.
Part 4 (optional, yet highly recommended):
Elope!
Upon reading this mission statement Marina and I had to take more than a few breaths, because we quickly realised planning an Anglo Indian wedding was like diffusing a bomb. You make the wrong decision and it will most certainly blow up in your face.
To avoid any wayward explosions our search began in earnest. Okay I lie. Marina’s started in earnest.
During the course of the week, we had organised appointments at various reception centres, with the first one being timetabled at 11. Before I continue let me just make it clear for those who don’t know me that I set my watch to Australian time and not Indian time, and therefore, am usually running on or near to time. Indian time for those who are curious is when you arrive at any appointment 1 hour late than scheduled and think you’re early.
Based on my chronological habits and the whereabouts of the reception centre I did not think it would be necessary to leave Marina’s house any earlier than 10:30. To say I was surprised when my darling fiancée, eager get in some nagging practice, stormed into the room at 9:00 with a flurry of swear words, talk of chiffon and general disregard for my masculinity and tried to hurry me out the door is an understatement.
Marina and I have been a couple for about 8 months and by this stage I was well aware of the two options I had at my disposal: Option (a) get up, stand up, stand up for my rights, but that would only get me into more trouble and probably on an episode of RPA or Option (b) give in and buy me a couple of hours peace.
I chose the latter and found out with wives-to-be, there is no such thing as a couple of hours of peace. The journey to the reception centre was filled with talk of colour schemes, what I should do with my hair, why I have to wear this particular cummerbund, centre pieces and while the list went on, for the sake of brevity I will stop the sentence right here.
After a ninety minute wait in the romantic car park, 11 o’clock finally rolled around and we were shown what was on offer. Yes they had tables. And wouldn’t you know it, they even had chairs. But that was not all. They had more. And I am not talking about steak knives either. We listened intently as we were shown their marvellous, unbeatable, you have-be-nuts-to-miss-an-opportunity-like-this, all inclusive wedding package. Marina and I were suitably blown away.
Apart from offering us a 3 course meal that were served on plates large enough to train Olympic ice skaters, there was the “expansive” dance floor, a well stocked bar, a stage, a horse and enough jugs of water to fill an Olympic sized swimming pools. I know, I know. We couldn’t believe it either. Marina and I were blown away at the value of money. Just think of all the things we could have done with a free horse.
Eager to see what other farm animals other reception centres could throw in for our amusement, we continued our search.
It did not take us long to realise that searching for a reception centre was like reading a real estate advertisement – you had to know the language and then translate accordingly. The “free extras” were not really “extra” and not really “free” (apart from the horse) and the inclusions sometimes left a lot to be desired. “Water views” means a glimpse litter strewn estuary”, a marvellous atmosphere meant that 2 out of 3 speakers actually worked, and a romantic atmosphere meant that the lights were covered with dust. As for a free dance floor, it was nothing more than a metaphor for a piece of carpet that had been worn down.
But don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t all bad. Some places were quite spectacular, adorned with ice sculptures, silk drapery, marble columns, crystal chandeliers and enough gold and precious metal to make every guest feel like a pimp.
But regardless of which reception centre visited, I realised there was one constant in the magical world of wedding variables. No I am not talking about arguments about seating arrangements (I am sure I will get to that blog eventually) I am talking about chair covers. If this not the biggest rort in the wedding industry, than I am a monkey’s uncle. But considering how hairy I am, maybe that is not too far removed from the truth.
But I digress. It seemed that every package we were shown, highlighted ad nauseum, the virtues of chair covers. Seriously folks, the room is going to be dim, people are going be tipsy and the focus is on the bride and groom. But then again who am I to contradict convention, because who cares about the happy couple when your bum feels pretty and loved.
Nonetheless, I was actually tempted to take my friend Bourke’s suggestion and ask people to bring their own bed sheets or at the very least take up needle work and stitch their own. Suffice to say, Marina was not terribly impressed with this suggestion.
But if you have an emotional arse, you need not worry; our reception is booked and I love the fact that each day brings me closer to my new friend Janome (I am up to chair cover 45, for those who are interested). Who said my blushing bride cannot be persuasive; she can do wonders with a rolling pin and I am not talking about rolling chapattis either.
Where are we having the wedding reception you ask? That’s for us to know and for you to find out and rather than plague you with further bad jokes and puns, I bid thee adieu until our next exciting (?) wedding adventure.
