If someone had told me that morning that by evening Id be standing in a white shirt, clutching a strangers bouquet, with a strained smile on my face, vowing to a room full of unfamiliar faces that Id always support their union, Id have laughed, tapped my temple, and carried on making my porridge while gazing at the quiet street outside. No omens, no eerie coincidencesjust an ordinary morning. But life, as it turns out, enjoys dropping surprises without warning, and it does so most dramatically when youre in slippers, holding a mug of tea.
It all began with a simple decision to pop into the registry office. Not for any official reasonopposite it stood the best hot dog stand in town, and Id gone there with the purest intentions. The queue, the smell of fresh buns, grilled sausages, and mustardeverything as usual. Then, out of nowhere, a black car decked with ribbons and roses pulled up, gleaming like something from a film, and a boisterous crowd spilled out. Laughter, clapping, phone flashes, clouds of perfume, party popperseverything swirled around me so suddenly, as if Id stumbled onto the set of a celebratory music video.
One of the bridesmaids, in a shimmering emerald-green dress, rushed over before I could utter a word, gripping my arm with the certainty 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 whod wandered onto the wrong stage.
Wait, Im actually just I began, but it was too late. They whisked me inside, thrust a boutonnière into my hands, and positioned me beside a tall bloke in a suit so crisp it looked ironed onto him, his expression caught between amusement and alarm.
Hold the bouquet, smile, hissed the green-clad bridesmaid, adjusting my boutonnière as if she did this daily. The real witness is stuck in trafficyoure saving the day. Just dont blink too much, or youll look like an owl in the photos.
I meant to refuse. Really. My mouth was already open when the Wedding March beganloud, triumphant, echoing through the hall. The doors swung wide, and as if on cue, the procession swept forward, dragging me along like a forgotten prop in a script only I hadnt read.
Honestly, it was one of the strangest scenes of my life. I stood beside the groom, who kept fidgeting with his sleeve and checking his watch as if afraid to be late to his own wedding, and the bride, who looked on the verge of tearsequal parts joy and terror. Shed sigh deeply, then bite her lip, her veil trembling with each 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 sitcom moment. Everyone was watching. Cameras flashed. The photographer clicked away as if documenting history. And there I was, a man whod come for a hot dog, now part of someone elses weddingofficially, with a stamp and a fanfare.
The strangest part? No one noticed the swap. Not the groom, not the bride, not the aunties in the front row dabbing their eyes with handkerchiefs. I signed the register with confidence, posed for photos with the happy couple, and then the green-clad bridesmaid handed me a slice of cake and a glass of champagne as if it had all been planned from the start.
Cheers, you saved us! she said, grinning with a wink. If you ever need a favour, just shout. Youre one of us now.
When I finally stepped outside, I had a bouquet in hand, a napkin with the bridesmaids number in my pocket, the music still ringing in my ears, and the lingering thought that porridge was definitely off the menu that day. Instead of a quiet morning, Id stumbled into an impromptu celebration, a glass of bubbly, and the uncanny feeling Id just played the lead in someone elses rom-com.
