Love is a disease, marriage is the cure. Or something.

Don’t you just love the way ice cold coke burns the back of your throat? I’m taking a break from this brain-frying revision, I’ve eaten half a tub of honey greek yoghurt, had four glasses of coke, half a pack of share-pouch m&ms and I’m ready to go.
So. When I was younger, I used to dream about having a big, extravagant wedding, bigger and better than any of the ones I had already been to.
No, that’s a lie. When I was younger I didn’t care about marriage. I didn’t care whether I found someone to marry or not. I definitely didn’t care about a wedding and I never spared a single thought for it; Asians do it big and weddings just gave me headaches – most of the time I didn’t even know who’s wedding I was at and I never understood why I was there (except for the food, which doesn’t really make up for spending £100 on an outfit). It was always family, and I had known most of the people there except the bride and groom. How? I know not.
But once I hit adolescence and the prospect of marriage became a very real thing, my thoughts started to wander. What if Imma let you finish, but I could have the best wedding of all time? What if it was the kind of wedding that EVERYONE would be talking about for years to come? What if there was Nandos or a kebab station? What if the best day of my life was truly the best day of my life in each corner of a massive hall or in each grain of sand that my guests would be flown out to dance on? Before I knew it, I was sighing in the face of those Berta bridal dresses, listening to a playlist I made up and knowing exactly when each song was going to be played, ensuring my guests can stuff their faces without the domineering presence of a cameraman zooming into their face. And no, there wouldn’t be daal hanging off their chin either.
Read more