If someone had told me that morning that by evening Id be standing in a white shirt, clutching a strangers bouquet, with a stiff smile on my face, vowing before a room of unfamiliar faces to «always support their union,» Id have laughed, tapped my temple, and gone back to stirring my porridge, gazing out at the quiet street below. No omens, no peculiar coincidencesjust an ordinary morning. But life, as it turns out, enjoys handing out tasks without warning, and does so most dramatically when youre in slippers with a mug of tea in hand.
It all began with a simple errand to the registry office. Not for any official businessacross from it stood a kiosk selling the finest sausage rolls in town, and Id gone there with the most peaceful intentions. The queue, the scent of fresh buns, fried sausages, and mustardeverything as usual. Then, out of nowhere, a sleek black car adorned with ribbons and roses pulled up, gleaming as if straight from a film, and a boisterous group spilled out. Laughter, cheers, camera flashes, clouds of perfume, confettiit swirled around me so suddenly, as if Id stumbled onto the set of a festive music video.
One of the bridesmaids, in a shimmering emerald-green dress, rushed over and seized my arm with such conviction, as if wed known each other for years.
«There he is! Our second witness!»
I even glanced behind meperhaps 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» I started, but it was too late. I was swept inside, thrust a boutonnière into my hands, and positioned beside a tall, stiff-suited chap who looked as though hed been ironed while wearing itunsure whether to laugh or brace himself.
«Hold the bouquet, smile,» the green-clad bridesmaid hissed, expertly adjusting my boutonnière as if it were routine. «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 meant to refuse. Truly. My mouth was already open, but at that moment, the wedding march blaredloud, triumphant, echoing through the hall. The doors swung wide, and as if on cue, the procession swept forward, carrying me along like a forgotten extra in a script only I hadnt read.
Truth be told, it was one of the oddest scenes of my life. I stood beside the groom, who kept fussing with his sleeve and glancing at his watch as if fearing hed be late to his own wedding, and the bride, who seemed poised between joyful tears and sheer terror. Shed take deep breaths, bite her lip, and her veil trembled faintly with each exhale. 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 impostor.
When the registrar called the witnesses forward, I stepped up and it struck me: I was standing there like a character in a farcical sitcom. Everyone watched. Cameras flashed. The photographer clicked away as if documenting a historic moment. And I, a man whod come for a sausage roll, was now part of someone elses weddingofficially, with stamps and solemn music.
The strangest part? No one noticed the switch. Not the groom, not the bride, not the aunts in the front row clutching handkerchiefs with teary eyes. I signed the register with confidence, posed for photos, and then the emerald bridesmaid handed me a slice of cake and a glass of champagne, as if this had been the plan all along.
«Cheers, you saved us!» she said, laughing with a sly wink. «If you ever need a favour, just call. Youre one of us now.»
When I finally stepped outside, I held the 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 champagne, and the uncanny feeling Id just played a leading role in someone elses romantic comedy.
