This is entirely fiction. Completely. Utterly. Except for any true bits
June 20th. Call at work from First Of Her Name. ‘Call her. Sort it.’
Mind in turmoil I call the First Born. ‘Hi sweetness. Mum told…’
That statement is undoubtedly in the top five most dreaded. Agree, and it will be played back to the First Of Her Name with all the belabouring consequences that inevitably ensue. Disagree, and the reparations demanded by First Born will make the debt born by the Weimar Republic seem chicken feed. Dissemble, and either consequence is left open to be exploited at a time seen fit by First Born. There is only one possible response.
‘She wants to change the invitations. If we do, the printer can’t guarantee they will be ready in time to send out. Can you talk her round, daddy? She listens to you.’ The call is terminated.
In some parallel universe perhaps, I think.
‘She asked me to arbitrate.’
‘I’m still fact finding.’
‘More fool you. She wants to ruin the whole event.’
‘Is this the point where I ask how? I thought wedding invitations invited you to a wedding and asked for an RSVP. It’s a simple provider of basic information.’
‘Did she miss something? The date? Venue? Oh god, she got your name wrong.’
‘She said there wasn’t room for the most basic piece of information. Without it the risk of chaos is enormous.’
‘Nowhere to send the RSVP?’
‘SHE FORGOT TO SAY THE MOTHER OF THE BRIDE WILL BE WEARING TAUPE! Imagine if someone else does.’
‘Er? Taupe? Is that a sort of hat?’