By HELEN MORTON
Last weekend I was invited to a friend’s wedding. And by the end of the ceremony my eyes were not so much the size of saucers, as full on all-you-can-eat dinner plates.
And my bewildered shock had nothing to do with the copious amount of liquid grapes I’d glugged. No, it was because of the disturbingly archaic rigamarole I’d been subjected to.
I watched my beautiful, confident, clever and independent friend turn into a 1950s cliche. I hate to use the f-word. I don’t want to use the f-word. I’m sorry but I’m going to have to use the f-word….
The whole wedding sha-bang was a Desperate Housewives kick in the face of Feminism. And it was no ordinary kick. This was a flying, twisty Bruce-Lee inspired high kick to the sisterhood.
(Sorry Feminism, I’m sure it wasn’t personal).
It started with the music: Taylor Swift’s Love Story. Yes. Really. That classic ballad, song of the ages, beautifully composed melody, that includes awesome girl power lyrics like:
“Romeo take me somewhere we can be alone,
I’ll be waiting all there’s left to do is run,
You’ll be the prince and I’ll be the princess,
It’s a love story baby just say yes.”
And then in walks the bride – my close-since-primary-school friend, who I’ll call Katie* – dressed in a strapless frock just like almost every bride you’ve ever seen (do all brides get some kind of memo about this?)
Naturally, it was white. Bright, bright white. Television toothpaste commercial white.