In Which one might come for the Free Reception Food, but stay for the Unlikely Mishaps and Fake Sexual Tension!

So, I have been invited to a wedding later this year (well, 2 so far actually)with a Plus-One. Specifically "Angela and Partner" are invited to the wedding of an old friend. There are 2 points here: the RSVP and the addressee(s).

The RSVP for a wedding is usually the phone numbers of at least 2 people, and a postal address and usually an email as well. Which, sure, must make for a logistically difficult time come guest list collation time, but which is pleasantly non-commital for the guests. If you hate writing, you call. If you're not someone who does well on the phone (that's me: it always seems to excruciatingly awkward to phone people, somehow: this is why I will almost always prefer to text) you write. Or whatever. But this invitation has the Bride's Mother's Mobile number. That's it. Not even a backup second person to call in case her phone gets lost.

This sounds doomed to end badly to me. This woman will get about 200 calls over that month or so, many from people she's never met, and then have to get the names and write them somewhere. Plus, half the people will inevitably have different ideas to hers as to what constitutes a good time to call. Essentially, unless you're a fantabulously socially adroit society hostess, this strikes me as a system that might be uncharitably described as "poorly thought out" (or "stupid" if you will). This lady, lovely as she is, is not that. Everyone I know who's RSVPed (RSVP'd? Returned Sil Vous Plait? You know, called) reports a cringeingly awkward conversation with someone who was apparently surprised they'd called: why, if this is your response, would you put your number down as RSVP? (Ok, so I've only actually spoken to one person, but that's still 100%. Statistics, that is).

So, obviously, I'm putting off the dreaded call. Not only because of all this, and not only because I happen to know that the dear lady loathes me personally (this is not paranoia, she really does, oh my. Or did in High School, since which time I have thankfully avoided the entire messy business) so that it will be even worse than it was for everyone else, but because of who it's addressed to.

"Angela" will definitely be attending, and I have no problem attending a wedding alone (in fact, I've never taken a date to a wedding in my life, and it's been a young life rich in wedding attendances, let me tell you). But for the first time, if I wanted, I could bring someone. And I am so reluctant to pass up the opportunity to do so that I don't want to RSVP until the last minute, because once I commit to not bringing anyone, the opportunity is lost.

Because here't the thing, dear reader: this is it. This is my chance to embroil myself in an obviously stupid bad-rom-com-or-similar-style hijink at a wedding. (Can you have hijinks in the singular? It seems wrong). This is the one chance to get a friend to come along to a wedding for the dinner or whatever and pretend to be dating like every movie that ever starred Jennifer Aniston or Sandra Bullock or Julia Roberts or whoever. Even though I know that it would not really involve fantastically comic adventures or mishaps, a part of me reeeeeaaaally wants to do that. Bring along a friend (and amusingly, I've already received at least 3 offers to be that person already) and be all "hi, this is Sam-or-whatever {Sam is nicely non-gender-specific, and when it comes to fake-wedding-dates, it doesn't do to be too close-minded} we met at Medical School. We're, uh, very much in love. What a lovely wedding this is!" especially, quite frankly, to the previously-mentioned Ang-hatin'-parents of the bride.

Of course, being a seasoned viewer of rom coms and dodgy movies of similar genres, I am aware that there are strings attached. You can't just bring someone to an event and pretend to be dating them and ignore the serious risk of ending up in some kind of love triangle or something. And I don't know which is that more distressing prospect: ending up in some kind of narrative-induced relationship with Lauri or Jenny or James or whoever, or the final realisation that that's not how it would really work. What would really happen is that there would be no wacky hijinks at all. A pleasant and slighlty odd afternoon would be had be all and it would all be totally unremarkable.

I think, on the whole, I would rather live the rest of my life knowing that when I finally had the chance to do something dim like that, I passed it up, than have it finally proven to me that life doesn't work like a popcorn movie.

It's like those possible-major-natural-disaster things (like Wednesday's non-event of an apocalypse, or the New Zealandish tidal wave that totally failed to wipe out our flat a month or so ago): you're obviously very glad not to have had your life ruined and all of that, but a part of you is sort of disappointed that nothing dramatic and exciting happened. "Thank goodness everything is ok! Now we can... get on with our work... oh. *sigh*". This would be like that.

So, the odds are that I will not elect to bring anyone to this darn wedding, but rather nobly endure the probably-entirely-imaginary slings and arrows of outrageous fortune (or outragous people who dislike me) and it will be perfectly lovely, but I'll put off the reply just a little longer to keep the my-life-as-a-movie dream alive.

Also, very probably, I'm still stressing about being disliked by someone who barely remembers me and won't recognise me anyway. Still.

Seriously, though, wouldn't it be cool to be in one of those sorts of narrative? Potentially having to kiss one of your just-friends seems like a small sort of cost to pay if you get to have adventures. S'all I'm saying. (Applications close for partner-in-crime post on the 30th of September. If any of you who've jokingly offered really actually want to come, you should totally tell me, and we can work something out) (maybe...).

In Which There Is No Such Thing As Cows

You guys, in World Square in the City there is a statue of a bull. Not a Minotaur, or any particular Bull (Zeus jonesin' for Europa or something), just a bull.

There's a plaque next to it which is pretty long, explaining the significance of the statue, but I've never gotten much past the 5th word, because the 4th is such a doozy.

Checkit: "The Bull, a mythological beast..."

No.

There is a steak restaurant not 20 metres from this plaque. I love this sort of thing. Dumb at it's finest.