Hi. I'm Marcy.

They always start much like any other Saturday for me.
Wake up. Light up. Take a deeeep drag. Sh*t that’s better.
Kick whichever hairy-backed monstrosity I brought home last night.

(Gary. I wanna say Dave. Is it Clive?)

Who gives a hungover-cr*p. Just get the hell out of my bed, sure yeah let’s exchange numbers – you know what, I can totally find you on Facebook, don’t even worry about it. No, no I had a great time I just have a…. appointment – let’s do brunch next time. That’s a thing you Brits do, right? Ok bye bye now.

Wedding Hangover Bridesmaid

Out comes the iPhone, quick scan through – nothing too eventful, a few poorly-thought-out photo-ops. (Apparently I found one of those orange traffic cone thingies at some point). And then beep –
REMINDER: FatFace & Tits McGee’s Wedding, 2pm.

Oh for the ever-loving f*ckadoodle.

Ok, so here’s the thing. I love weddings, I really do – I think they’re a great excuse to get wasty-faced and make terrible decisions involving a questionably-of-age groomsman, fish-net stockings and an unlimited supply of sugar-coated almonds (I don’t understand those. Does anybody actually like those things? Deep-fry them or cover them in chocolate and I’d be on-board, but come on…).


I’m a thirty-three-year old single woman with slightly more than half a brain and the appropriate number of limbs – sure the American accent doesn’t always ‘go down a treat’ with the stuffy toffs, but I like to think my care-free attitude and reckless joie-de-vivre are as endearing as they can be self-destructive. The fact that I’m not married – nor have any prospects of being so any time soon – shouldn’t concern you or my mom because I’m perfectly happy doing what I do when I do it with whomever I feel like doing it. Thanks for asking. Every Thanksgiving and Christmas since I was twenty-two.

But the result of being the only single woman in London of a certain age is that I have a wide and far-reaching spider-web of friends and former lovers, acquaintances and colleagues who all feel sufficient levels of duty/pity/curiosity to send an invitation my way when it comes time for them to tie the knot. Result?

I’ve tried more kinds of marzipan, danced to more ABBA songs, trodden on more Wedding Dress trains, thrown up down the side of more marquees, flirted with more Fathers-of-the-Bride and generally embarrassed myself in more church pews than anyone in the United Kingdom. Although apparently there’s a chick in Dublin who’s close.

Rather than waste the resultant accumulated wisdom, I’ve taken to the ether. Take from it what you will – or don’t, I’m not J Lo in the Wedding Planner - but just remember: The next wedding I attend…… might be yours.