I I used to think I understood what a chic sensibility looked like: which curtains the upper class preferred; what they ate, drank and wore. They have strange pockets of tightness – orange juice is a drink for special occasions – and moments of stupendous extravagance. I once had an affair with an aristocrat who spent $ 35,000 on a couch. It was in the 90s. You could have bought a one bedroom apartment and still have change for the council tax.
Since the invention of Boris Johnson and Carrie Symonds, I have not understood anything. I can’t understand how you spend £ 27,000 on take out in eight months like Johnson would have. Wouldn’t you want to look at all the boxes piling up and think, “Damn, I could’ve bought a jetski. I could have endowed a scholarship in… I don’t know, something that interests me, and live forever in the memory of people who also found this thing interesting. Instead, I just digested he.”
Interiors – the velvet, gold wallpaper, stripes and incredibly loud patterns – if you lived like this pair, you would never be able to forget the quirkiness of your frenzy, existing in this constant cacophony of your own extravagance. Every time you spilled your dinner, you were watching your waste: the insane cost of the thing that never reached your mouth, plus the 50K stack you just ruined. It would be nice if Johnson and Symonds weren’t the kind to spread out, but pretty much the first public glimpse of this relationship revealed that at least one of them was.
And so, even if her announcement wasn’t exactly greeted with unadulterated festivity, their upcoming wedding should at least be a psycho-social spectacle. The Prime Minister, we know, is chaotic with money, which is the polite way of saying tight as a gnat. Johnson is the kind of man who will ask an intern for a cappuccino and never pay it back. On an occasion fondly remembered, a dinner party had to threaten to sell his legendary villainy like a diary before paying his fair share.
You can imagine the wedding plans in the hands of such a person: a small glass of an unspecified soft drink before the service, then acres and acres of hunger and thirst, stretching out before guests like the Sahara. , until they finally, after hours of milling and photos, land at the sustenance, only to find it is a mirage. It’s a payout bar.
Symonds – and obviously I’m assuming here – won’t want such an arrangement. She will not want the prefix of the word “calm”. She won’t want advisers in her ear, delicately suggesting that, for Johnson’s third time, stealth is the best part of bravery. She will want nothing less than the full Duchess of Cambridge, with an additional drama: Johnson brought on a tank backed by his political enemies; Theresa May and Keir Starmer commemoratively dressed in a designer bag; Dominic Cummings walking in front, sweeping or licking the floor, maybe.
The problem with weddings, if you buy into the idea that they have to be expensive to impart devotion, is that they have to cost more than you can afford. If your wedding is costing exactly as much as you can afford, that is not enough to express the sumptuousness of your love. This problem intensifies when you are Johnson and Symonds, people for whom the concept of “what can we afford?” seems to make no sense, since budgeting is a fluid and elastic principle based on who can lend them what before the Daily Mail finds out.
It’s quite a challenge, even to understand the excess required to meet the demands of the couple’s varied tastes and vanities, plus a near-dictatorial display and the urgent message of this time-it-is-serious. I’m already worried about their gift bags. I think of a Brexit celebration coin, a Mr & Mrs snow globe and a button, but what do I know?
I got married for the second time on a very tight budget – the registry office made a special Wednesday afternoon for £ 48. It was like a regular ceremony, except you weren’t allowed to choose your own music; we had to choose between R Kelly and Pachelbel’s Canon. Then we took a bus to the pub, except my new Mr had brought a ceremonial sword for my son to cut the cake with, I think I persuaded him that the whole business might not be a completely terrible idea. after all. Either way it got us off the bus so we had to take an Uber, knocking a mile wide hole in our transport budget of £ 1.50 each. We also managed to lose the sword.
There is nothing from that day that I would have done differently. Oh wait, I might have rechecked the invitation email – I managed to miss out on all the last names from W, which were more or less my whole family. But nothing else.
It is madness that weddings must be expensive. Johnson and Symonds don’t have to go bankrupt for this, but it’ll be awfully fun watching them try.