Me: Two pink sashes, one balloon, and one excellent badge (see right).
Him: PVC lederhosen.
Me: I can remember every single thing. Every drink, every dance move, every cupcake with a picture of the groom’s face printed on it.
Him: Absolutely none whatsoever beyond 10pm (although he can’t actually remember the precise time he lost his memory so it was probably a lot earlier than that).
Me: Enough to excuse me from exercise for at least a month / that it’s a wonder nobody got hurt / that I must never become famous lest the CCTV footage comes back to haunt me.
Him: I’m not sure if stumbling into a cutlery table and smashing it all over the floor of a busy restaurant really counts as dancing…
Me: Food, sitting down, spa treatments, and cabaret featuring a Madonna montage that was so perfect it made me want to buy a cone shaped bra. I’m sure I’d get a lot of wear out of it.
Him: Does watching your friend ‘tombstone’ your best man into a breeze block, knocking him unconscious, count as entertainment? I’m told the answer is ‘not at the time but absolutely 100% yes the following day’.
Me: Ok, perhaps a little but it’s not my fault my food allergies couldn’t even give me my cocking hen do weekend off.
Him: A good keg’s worth each, apparently. But if you will drink your weight in beer and jagermeister, you will suffer the consequences.
Me: One pedicure chip caused – I believe – by over kicking to Footloose.
Him: I’m told that at the height of his inebriation he demanded an ambulance be called. Thankfully nobody was sober enough to dial 1.1.2 in the right order so he just had to sleep/vomit it off instead.
Me: We’re women: if we did it, we snapped it.
Him: Once you’ve seen one picture of your future husband with his unmentionables tucked into tight PVC shorts, there’s really no need to see more.
Me: I’m writing this on the same day as I returned from the hen so I think I’m through the worst of it.
Him: Completion date TBC.