If anyone had told me that morning that by evening Id be standing in a white shirt, clutching someone elses bouquet, with a stiff smile on my face, swearing before strangers to «always support their union,» Id have laughed, tapped my temple, and carried on making my porridge, gazing out at the peaceful courtyard. No omens, no suspicious coincidencesjust an ordinary morning. But life, as it turns out, loves dropping tasks without warning, and 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 businesstheres a stall across the street that does the best sausage rolls in town, and I was heading there with the most peaceful intentions. The queue, the smell of fresh pastry, sizzling sausages, and mustardall perfectly normal. Then, out of nowhere, a black car decked with ribbons and roses pulled up, gleaming like something from a film, and a noisy crowd spilled out. Laughter, clapping, phone flashes, clouds of perfume, party poppersit whirled around me so suddenly, as if Id stumbled onto the set of a festive music video.
Then one of the bridesmaids, in a shimmering emerald dress, dashed over and grabbed my arm with such conviction, as if shed known me all her life:
«There he is! Our second witness!»
I even glanced behind memaybe there was someone else. But no. Everyone was staring at 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 hauled inside, handed a boutonnière, and positioned next to a tall bloke in a suit so crisp it looked like hed been ironed while wearing it. He seemed unsure whether to laugh or panic.
«Hold the bouquet, smile,» the 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. Honestly. My mouth was already open, but then the Wedding March blaredloud, triumphant, echoing through the hall. The doors swung open, and as if on cue, the procession surged forward. Me included, swept along like I was part of a script everyone had memorised except me.
Truth be told, it was one of the strangest scenes of my life. I stood beside the groom, who kept fidgeting with his sleeve and glancing at his watch as if afraid of being late to his own wedding, and the bride, who looked ready to cry from both joy and terror. She kept sighing deeply, biting 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 standing there like a character in a sitcom. Everyone watching. Cameras flashing. The photographer clicking away like he was capturing history. And me, a man whod come for a sausage roll, was now part of someone elses weddingofficially, with a stamp and ceremonial music.
The strangest part? No one even noticed the switch. Not the groom, not the bride, not the aunties in the front row clutching tissues. 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 it had been planned all along.
«Cheers, you saved us!» she said, laughing and giving me 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 my 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 for the day. Instead of a quiet morning, Id stumbled into an impromptu celebration, a glass of bubbly, and the odd sensation of having accidentally starred in someone elses romantic comedy.
