“Matt is tired,” said the Bulgarian accent.
The navigator’s ETA had just dipped into single digits. I wedged the phone between my ear and shoulder and turned down the Russian rap blasting from the speakers. Vova, driving, immediately turned it back up. In the backseat, Masha sat beside a peeing, vomiting, bleeding dog.
The accent on the phone belonged to Erica, the manager of Bressingham Hall & High Barn, where we’d booked a wedding viewing weeks earlier.
“Matt is very tired,” she said again, in case I missed the point the first time.
I paused, then lied.
“I see.”
The truth was that I missed the point a second time, too.
I didn’t know why Matt was tired.
Or why it mattered.
Or, even, who Matt was.
One of the great things about being engaged is that you have time — sometimes too much of it — to fantasise about the wedding.
Should you get married on a boat? Nah. Just get two goats and paint them pink and blue.
What about the backyard of an Airbnb? “It’s not a wedding, you see, Mr. Landlord. It’s just a wedding-themed costume party for 50 people!!!”
As someone who once got married four months into a relationship, I’m taking it easy this time, which means coming up with ways to cut costs.
I keep telling Masha, “Do you really want to spend twenty grand on a fucking party?”
She sighs, the way she does when we talk about money. I’m rarely the one insisting we spend less, so at least part of that sigh is joy. Then, in Monica-from-Friends fashion, Masha adds that if I call our wedding a “fucking party” one more time, I might not get invited.
When planning a wedding, most couples start with a venue. In our case, we start with the country where Russians — more than half our guest list — can show up without being deported. Add to that the cost, weather, acceptable service, and flying distance, and the country list narrows to just one: Turkey.
Russian money always finds a cosy home in Turkey. It starts with airport taxi drivers who ambush you with cries of, “My friend, good price, where you go?”
And yet, for reasons that are either laziness or stupidity, we’re still considering the UK.
Where you see Day of Love, wedding organisers see Windfall — about the size of a London flat deposit.
Say you want a birthday party in a pub called something like The Cockroach & the Shoe. Pay a £200 deposit and you’re done.
But be reckless enough to mutter the word “wedding” at the same place, and suddenly two extra zeroes find their way onto the bill. As if you’re in late-1990s Russia, right before the currency collapsed.
I tell Masha, “Pick. Wedding or mortgage.”
“You,” she says, narrowing her eyes each time, shaking her bony index finger.
“You…”
One Saturday this summer, when getting drunk at a pub (gasp!) had briefly lost its charm, I suggested we check out a venue near London.
“It’s literally next door,” I said.
“It’s four hours away!!!” yelled Masha, her eyes already scanning Google Maps.
“Well,” I sighed, “at least it has a 4.7 rating.”
“So does the funeral parlour across the road,” she pointed out.
I fact-checked this claim, and it turns out she was wrong. Phoenix & Sons Greenwich has a rating of 4.9 and glowing reviews. One started off with, “Simply amazing! What a great day we had!” and then continued, “We laid our dad yesterday…”
To get to the venue without a car, we were at the mercy of our friends. And because most people who drive in London are either shady BMW drivers or Ubers, the choice fell on our friend Vova (not his real name).
On the day, he arrived at our apartment on time, carrying a piece of wood the size of a refrigerator door. “I’ll keep this here if that’s okay. Don’t ask why.”
I didn’t, and four months later, the wood still stands on our balcony. Pepper-the-cat occasionally sniffs and scratches it. Once, he even attempted to urinate on it.
On the way to the venue, we got into the usual trouble — Vova’s dog had to pee, then started vomiting, then pissed in the car, then needed to stretch its legs.
By the time we realised we’d be ten minutes late, I emailed the venue.
“Traffic. London. Sorry sorry sorry.”
I didn’t need to, but in the UK apologising is practically a second official language.
And that’s when I received that mysterious call.
“Matt is tired,” said Erica.
Regaining my composure, I asked if we could at least see the venue, given the long trip.
Erica sighed, as if I had completely missed the point she thought she was making.
“No.”
“But why?”
“Because Matt is hungry now too.”
Then she hung up.
The look on Vova’s face—after driving us four hours with a barking, vomiting dog—is one you’d pay money for in the West End. (And I got it for free!)
“Well,” said Masha, “at least we know where not to do a wedding.”
“Fucking pieces of shit, I hope they burn in hell,” yelled Vova, eyes on the road, gripping the steering wheel as if it owed him money.
“Bark!” said the dog. Then peed a little.
And all had a point.
On the way back, I tried to distract myself from the thought that I was about to spend eight hours in a car for no good reason by staring at the tarmac, watching the miles to London tick down.
When I got bored, I drafted a Google review for the venue. If you’re wondering what it was called, I’ll tell you: Bressingham Hall & High Barn, Low Rd, Diss IP22 2AB. (My review can be found here.) Whatever you do, never book a wedding there. In fact, avoid the place altogether.
But I also kept glancing at Masha in the rearview mirror, earbuds in, happily relaxing to her favourite pedophile true crime podcast, and thinking:
If a wedding is supposed to be the happiest day of your life, then helping others organise it should bring at least a little joy.
So, the question is, why was this Matt person so miserable?
Thanks for sticking with me through the summer. A few of you emailed, “Are you okay?” which made me realize I should send a quick update to confirm I am, in fact, alive-n-kickin.
Also - a few updates:
This summer I finished my MA Creative Writing dissertation - the start of a novel I’m working on, which I hope to share bits of with you in the not-so-distant future. I also became employed again (yay, adulthood), which means I no longer have the hours - or the mental bandwidth - to crank out a weekly column here. And I’ve gotten deeper into music. Two weeks ago I even had my first gig at London’s Raven’s Pub. Sixty strangers came to hear me sing rock/pop, and it was… surreal, to put it mildly.
Still, as Antoine de Saint-Exupéry put it, “You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.”
I wouldn’t say I’ve tamed you (nor that you’re a “what”), but I did promise to come back in the fall, and it’s October.
So here I am, keeping that promise with this note: alive, well, and typing.
Where does this newsletter go next? For now, the novel has to take the front seat. This newsletter was my Big Project when I was unemployed and project-less, but things have changed. Writing here every week would mean sacrificing something else, and I can’t. So it’s moving into the Every-Sometimes Zone. Which is a shame, because a lot of ridiculous stuff happened this summer that deserves to be told in essay form. And my Notes app is now one long scroll of half-finished stories and questionable punchlines. (If only I could clone myself. My therapist keeps saying, “Serge, you’re a human being. You have limits.” How rude.)
As always, I’m honoured (and a little amazed) that another human being is out there reading me.
Thanks for sticking around. Until next time.
Whenever that is.
Faithfully yours—though usually late,
Serge
Thanks Serge , going to keep this short as cat has laid on the computer mouse 3 times and deleted what I have been trying to say! Good to see you back and in great writing form despite the work overload. My son and fiancee have the same dilemma , wedding party or mortgage , so far mortgage is winning :)