The wedding crasher

I should be really, really excited for this weekend.

I’m going to a wedding in Knysna. Dylan is the groomsman. Loads of our friends from varsity are going to be there, and I haven’t seen a lot of them in years. It’s basically going to be a massive reunion.

We’re staying in a beautiful mansion that belongs to the bride’s someone-or-other on one of the Heads. Lavishly kitted-out en-suite bedrooms, floor-to-ceiling windows, breathtaking views – and we’re sharing it with 10 of our closest varsity mates.

The wedding reception is at the Yacht Club, which is apparently rather lovely. And I really like Knysna – it’s so quaint and has such a holiday feel to it.

It sounds amazing

But I have a sinking feeling that I’m going to fall asleep at the reception while my friends and husband dance the night away, fuelled by the wine-on-tab and caution-to-the-wind rounds of tequila shooters. That’s what weddings are for, right?

I’m not sure how long I’m going to last – what I’ve learned in the last four months is that the thing about not drinking after 10pm is that I get pretty tired around bed-time. And listening to drunk people telling me the same thing about themselves over and over again tends to push me over the edge – from polite interest to blatant impatience. I love my friends, but I love them more when we’re all pissed.

But I really don’t want to play the role of the grumpy-pregnant-person-at-a-party. My attitude before was always, “well, you chose to get pregnant – don’t sit there glaring at the rest of us who just want to have fun!” But I fear that I will spend rather a lot of time glaring.


Another thing I have reservations about is mincing around in heels all afternoon and evening. I hope I manage to stay basically upright with my newly unreliable sense of balance and projecting tummy.

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