Maybe it’s because I just binge-watched 3 seasons of Downton Abbey, or because I went to a wedding in London recently, but my internal dialogue is running in an English accent. All I want to do is talk about the Dowager Countess, and Lady Mary, and Daisy, and horrible O’Brien, but I should tell a story about real people instead.
This London wedding was for a really timid couple – Too shy to walk down the aisle, they met seated at the front of the church. Afterwards they had a reception in an old mansion where guests dished themselves in a dining room and then celebrated wherever they chose around the house. No speeches, no embarrassing toasts, no first dance, no garter, no bouquet. Basically, they didn’t want anyone to make a fuss.
While progressing through the buffet line, I passed a caterer just as he attempted to switch out a serving plate, but instead he accidentally tipped over a chafing fuel container. It was like Lady Sybil (Yes, I will be Lady Sybil in this analogy) was dishing her vegetables and Piper Perabo (a la Coyote Ugly) kicked flaming Dr Pepper shots down the serving table.
Confronted with a row of flames, panicked guests screamed and threw their cocktails on the blaze – – literally adding fuel to the fire. Some wonderfully heroic staff member extinguished the flames with a bucket of ice. People rushed to clear up the mess and open the windows. Remarkably fast the party settled back into conversation about university days and the cricket and [in my memory only] Matthew Crawley.
For the bride and groom’s sake, everyone did their best to pretend the fire had been a complete non-event. Everyone, except the DJ. He yelled out, “Alright you PARTY PEOPLE! I want to hear you get LOUD and sing with me on this next TUNE! Up next we’ve got…. SEX ON FIRE by Kings of Leon!!!” And we were all like ~