So I capitulated and wore a fascinator for my VIP duties as mother of the bride (MOB) at the eldest princess's nuptials. In an ultimately ineffectual matriarchal stand I had threatened to wear a clothes hanger in my hair to protest against the corporatisation of contemporary weddings (See Irishwoman's Diary, May 1st).
But as I conceded in my MOB speech: when you are as proud as a peacock it’s alright to look as if you need to be plucked.
Unlike my bright pink (designer) dress, my head-piece was more Indigo Bunting birdish than psychedelic budgerigar. It matched perfectly with my footwear: wide-strapped sandals (covering the bunion on my left foot) with a block heel and subtle wedge to give me a sense of height, an experience that has largely eluded me since birth.
Of course, I had been ordered not to “dare” wear the above-mentioned sandals. The youngest princess (a senior counsel since she could crawl) was the bride’s personal assistant and enforcer of all matters matriarchal.
In no uncertain terms, she told me that such sandals were worn by twentysomethings heading out on a night on the tiles. Indeed, she mused, they could even be “too young” for her ancient 25-year-old self.
“You need something more classic, mother dear,” she said.
Her condescension was dripping down the phone, her voice crackling with concern.
“A woman of your age – and I am not talking down to you – must wear something subtle on her feet: kitten heels or understated stilettos – I mean, mother, you bought them in a chainstore clothes shop where Ed Sheeran fans shop.”
“I am really sorry, but I rest my case,” she added emphatically.
The cuckoo was calling, the corncrake was crex-crexing and I was a very pregnant pillion passenger on a Yamaha 90
A MOB must stand her ground though, particularly when there are two more daughters to marry off.
Imagine if I conceded on this occasion: they could have me looking like Peig Sayers or Charlotte Despard by the time the senior counsel walks the plank.
Birthday bash
Oh! and by the way, did I mention that the bride and groom got hitched on their birthdays? It has to be a match made in heaven when you have the same birthday, albeit with a year in the difference.
That little fact, aided by some Oscar Wilde plagiarism helped to launch my MOB speech.
Well, that and the story of the bride’s arrival into the world. It was a sunny Sunday in late May, the cuckoo was calling, the corncrake was crex-crexing and I was a very pregnant pillion passenger on a Yamaha 90 en route to a little pier on a Co Mayo island. There, our neighbours, Willie Moran and Chris O’Leary awaited in our marine ambulance, more smoke coming out of their pipes than the exhaust of the boat.
I recalled, to lots of good-humoured heckling and tittering, how the following morning, shortly after our little bundle of joy was born, a group of nurses gathered around my bed in the maternity ward in Castlebar.
Hopped into the bed
“You were just brilliant last night,” they said.
(That surprised me a little, since I had roared the rafters down.)
“You were so brave and such a great support to us.”
Hmm! Interesting. I didn’t actually think I was brave. Although, I had attempted to beat the FOB, Michael Bob, up on a couple of occasions.
Frankly, I found the entire incident hilarious even if I did have to sleep on the sitting room couch for the night
It was only then I realised the nurses were talking to him and not me!
Whether it is an MOB or FOB speech, there are certain strict protocols to follow, it transpires. And, I am delighted to confirm that I followed them all – to the letter of the law.
But that was after I almost got fired by the bridesmaids when, in the weeks approaching the wedding, I suggested a certain hilarious yarn would be a perfect tale to tell during my speech. It was about the bride and an ex-boyfriend who had a propensity for sleepwalking, particularly after a few scoops of the crathur.
Well, on one particular occasion, while staying over, he had inadvertently hopped into bed beside me and immediately conked into a comatose chorus of snoring.
Frankly, I found the entire incident hilarious even if I did have to sleep on the sitting room couch for the night. But, it seems, one never mentions exes – or their shenanigans – during speeches.
You see, in the white heat of postprandial wedding orations, time stands still. Or to reimagine an Oscar Wildeism: Brides don’t have a past and their mothers certainly don’t have a future if they misbehave in the minefield of the nuptial narrative.