From all-over black to all-over white. And peach, pink and purple. As in wedding gowns. Clearly I have defective genes because not once during what turned out to be far too long a childhood did I dream of wearing one of these items for two minutes, let alone a whole day. I never was a cream-puff sort of girl.
Many are though, and all over the country they competed this month in More FM's National Bride Day. No prizes for guessing in which city this trio are battling a severe headwind in order to get to the event. And how delightful to read that one of them never even wore it on The Day - "I ditched him two weeks before the wedding."
Never mind the groom. It's the frock that matters!
I married in brown. It was vaguely tenty and zipped up the front. I accessorised it with a tangerine scarf, brown patent mary-janes, and a third-trimester bulge. It rained steadily. The groom looked like the walking dead, having drunk himself into a stupor the previous night and passed out cold on the path. The guests numbered 13. We couldn't afford a honeymoon. The marriage lasted seven years.
Maybe I should have worn white, after all.
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