At the end of my last post I suggested that two of my wedding dress appointments had not gone as well as I had hoped. Let me elaborate…
So it was, I found myself sauntering over to leafy, suburban south-west London. A beautiful part of the city, albeit one where you’d have to sell a kidney to afford a studio. I fear I may be doing that anyway to pay for a dress.
Anyway, I had high hopes about this appointment. The dresses looked incredible online, very ‘me’. I had already pictured myself sashaying down the aisle in one of them, as per Timotei-field (see previous post). I was expecting a lovely little boutique where I could try on dresses to my heart’s content. A warm welcome, a(nother) glass of fizz, a ‘bespoke’ service so I could pretend to be posh for an hour.
It wasn’t to be. On arrival, my friend and I realised the shop was actually the home of the designer. Now this in itself was not an issue, (apparently that’s how it’s done these days dahhling). But as soon as the threshold was crossed I instinctively knew we had entered a parallel, alien universe. We were rushed through the house to a room with huge bay windows. The blinds/curtains concerned me. More specifically, the severe lack of them. This prompted visions of being showcased in the window to all and sundry. Not appealing.
My friend perched tentatively on a flowery-quilted stool, while I stood there wondering what to do. Eventually I was told I could pick some of the dresses hanging up. Once I’d done that I had to ask if I could start trying them on. During this, the designer showed a general, trendy disinterest. To be fair to her she did it pretty well. I huffed, puffed and heaved myself into the dresses with no help. After 20 minutes or so, re-clothed and with pleasantries exchanged, we left. However, every cloud has a silver lining – I enjoyed the post mortem immensely, particularly my aghast friend’s comments “I mean, she didn’t even pin you in…”, *said with utter disgust*
This analysis continued over a lovely late lunch (and glass of wine), as we prepared for our final wedding shop. Back in the big city, this place had been recommended. I’d figured that booking a 5pm appointment was a smooth move, as it would be the end of the day and the shop wouldn’t be too busy. Right.
We were greeted by a rather snooty assistant who said they were running late, and muttered that the shop was becoming “cluttered”. Not an ideal welcome when you’ve paid 20 quid just to take off your clothes so everyone can see your wobbly bits, before parading around on a wee platform trying not to fall over in high heels that don’t fit. Said assistant then tried to get us to leave the shop for an unspecified time as there was an unspecified delay. We refused and spent the next 20 minutes looking at the same selection of dresses. Whilst indulging some unspecified loitering.
Eventually we got a glass of fizz, probably as a sweetener, as the assistant meant to be helping us had still not appeared. Finally. Just as well there wasn’t a statuesque, model-like, bling-bling beautiful London bride trying on dresses beside me, complete with bubbly, blubbing bridesmaids. Oh right. There was.
Actually I could have handled that. Until the assistant (who looked as if she was about to have a nervous breakdown after nine consecutive hours of dealing with people like me) decided to swing the curtain round so that beautiful bride and her posse were the first people to get a view of my boobs and bum hanging out of a dress fit for a stick insect.
Not to be dispirited, I hobbled on to the podium, starting to regret that last glass of fizz, as once again, the corset back of the dress made me fear fainting and possible death. Hey, I at least want a good wedding before I go…
Enough was enough and we managed to escape, seeking solace a pub round the corner where my other half and my friend’s husband were waiting for us.
Next on the wedding dress agenda? The arrival of my mother for The Verdict…