If anyone had told me that morning that by evening Id be standing in a white shirt, clutching someone elses bouquet, forcing a smile while pledging to «support this union» in front of strangers, Id have laughed, tapped my temple, and carried on making my porridge, gazing out at the quiet street below. No warning signs, no eerie coincidencesjust another ordinary morning. But life, as it turns out, loves throwing surprises your way, and it does so with flair when you’re in slippers, cradling a mug of tea.
It all began with a simple decision to pop into the registry office. Not for any official reasonthere was a kiosk opposite selling the best sausage rolls in town, and I’d gone there purely for lunch. The queue, the smell of fresh pastry, fried onions, and mustardeverything was as usual. Then, out of nowhere, a sleek black car decked with ribbons and roses pulled up, gleaming like something out of a film, and a boisterous wedding party spilled onto the pavement. Laughter, applause, phone flashes, clouds of perfume, party poppersit all swirled around me so abruptly, as if Id stumbled onto the set of a festive music video.
Then one of the bridesmaids, in a shimmering emerald-green dress, darted toward me and seized my wrist with the confidence of someone whod known me for years.
«There he is! Our second witness!»
I glanced behind memaybe she meant someone else. But no. All eyes were on me. Someone whistled, others clapped louder, and suddenly, I was the centre of attention, like an actor who’d wandered onto the wrong stage.
«Wait, Im actually» I started, but it was too late. They hauled me inside, shoved a boutonnière into my hands, and positioned me next to a tall bloke in a suit so crisp it looked ironed onto him, his expression caught between amusement and panic.
«Hold the bouquet, smile,» the green-clad bridesmaid hissed, adjusting my boutonnière like she did this every day. «Our real witness is stuck in trafficyoure saving the day. Just dont blink too much, or youll look like an owl in the photos.»
I wanted to refuse. Really. My mouth was already open when the wedding march blaredloud, triumphant, echoing through the hall. The doors swung wide, and like clockwork, the procession surged forward. I was swept along with them, as if Id forgotten my own role in a script everyone else knew by heart.
Honestly, it was one of the strangest moments of my life. Standing beside a groom who kept fiddling with his cuffs and glancing at his watch like he might miss his own wedding, and a bride who looked ready to cry from both joy and nerves. She kept biting her lip, her veil trembling with every breath. I didnt know their names. I wasnt even sure I was holding the bouquet rightwhich hand, what angle, whether I looked like a complete impostor.
When the registrar called the witnesses forward, I stepped up and it hit me: I was living a scene straight out of a sitcom. Everyone was watching. Cameras flashed. The photographer clicked away like he was documenting history. And methe bloke whod just wanted a sausage rollwas now part of someone elses wedding. Officially. With signatures.
The strangest part? No one noticed the switch. Not the groom, not the bride, not the aunties in the front row dabbing their eyes. I signed the register, posed for photos, and then the green-clad bridesmaid handed me a slice of cake and a glass of champagne like it had all been planned from the start.
«Cheers, you saved us!» she said with a wink. «If you ever need a witness, you know who to call.»
When I finally stepped outside, bouquet in hand, a napkin with a phone number in my pocket, the music still ringing in my ears, one thing was clearporridge wasnt happening today. Instead of a quiet morning, Id stumbled into an impromptu celebration, a glass of bubbly, and the odd satisfaction of having starred in someone elses romantic comedy by pure accident.
