I love weddings. I suppose it was always inevitable — as a proud British Indian, it’s practically baked into my DNA. Some of my earliest memories are of the entire family piling into the back of my dad’s red Ford Cortina, heading in convoy to some distant relative’s nuptials somewhere on the outskirts of Nottingham or Leeds.
I loved the food, the clothes, the speeches, the colourful expression of it all — but not the cost. In our culture, sadly, if you didn’t spend a second mortgage on the thing, you were apparently failing in your fatherly/motherly duty. I loved my own, a classic Indian affair which culminated in our closest friends and family decamping to the Cotswolds for the grand finale, on a Thursday no less, complete with the groom’s entry on a horse and a 5am finish.
