If anyone had told me that morning that by evening Id be standing in a white shirt, clutching a strangers bouquet, wearing a stiff smile, and pledging before a room of unfamiliar faces to «always support their union,» Id have laughed, tapped my temple, and gone back to stirring my porridge while gazing peacefully out at the quiet courtyard. No omens, no eerie coincidencesjust an ordinary morning. But life, as it turns out, enjoys tossing surprises your way without warning, and it does so most dramatically when youre in slippers, holding a mug of tea.
It all began when I decided to pop into the registry office. Not for any official businessthe best hot dog stand in town happened to be opposite, and Id gone there with the simplest of intentions. The queue, the scent of fresh buns, sizzling sausages, and mustardall as usual. Then, suddenly, a sleek black car adorned with ribbons and roses pulled up, gleaming as though straight out of a film, and a boisterous wedding party spilled out. Laughter, clapping, phone flashes, clouds of perfume, and party popperseverything swirled around me so abruptly, it was as if Id stumbled onto the set of a festive music video.
One of the bridesmaids, in a shimmering emerald-green dress, dashed over and seized my arm with such conviction, youd think shed known me all her life.
«There he is! Our second witness!»
I glanced behind meperhaps she meant someone else. But no. All eyes were on me. Someone whistled; others clapped louder, and before I knew it, I was the centre of attention, like an actor whod wandered onto the wrong stage.
«Wait, Im actually» I began, but it was too late. I was swept inside, handed a boutonnière, and positioned beside a tall chap in a suit so crisp, it looked as though hed been ironed while wearing it. He seemed unsure whether to laugh or be alarmed.
«Hold the bouquet, smile,» the green-clad bridesmaid hissed, adjusting my boutonnière with practised ease. «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. Truly. My mouth was open, readybut then Mendelssohns Wedding March boomed through the hall, grand and echoing. The doors swung open, and as if on cue, the procession swept forward, carrying me along like an unwitting extra in a script only I hadnt read.
Honestly, it was one of the strangest moments of my life. There I stood beside the groom, who kept fussing with his sleeve and checking his watch as if afraid of being late to his own wedding, and the bride, who looked equal parts ecstatic and terrified. She alternated between deep breaths and biting her lip, her veil trembling faintly. I didnt know their names. I wasnt even sure I was holding the bouquet correctlywhich hand, at what angle, or whether I looked like a complete fraud.
When the registrar called the witnesses forward, I stepped upand it struck me: I was living a sitcom scene. All eyes were on me. Cameras clicked. The photographer snapped away as if documenting a historic event. And I, a man whod come for a hot dog, was now part of someone elses weddingofficially, with stamps and fanfare.
The oddest part? No one noticed the switch. Not the groom, not the bride, not the teary-eyed aunts clutching their bouquets in the front row. I signed the register with confidence, posed for photos with the newlyweds, and then the green-clad bridesmaid pressed a slice of cake and a glass of champagne into my hands as if it had all been planned from the start.
«Cheers, you saved us!» she said with a laugh and 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 one hand, a napkin with the bridesmaids number in my pocket, wedding music still ringing in my ears, and the lingering thought that porridge was decidedly off the menu that day. Instead of a quiet morning, Id been handed an impromptu celebration, a glass of bubbly, and the uncanny feeling Id just played a leading role in someone elses romantic comedy.
