We arrive at a wedding party. The couple have not yet arrived. Some of the other guests are also on time (the couple are not supposed to be on time). People are taking photos. I can’t quite hear the guys next to Mr S and I, but it seems that they want their photo taken with us. I am not really in the mood for this, grumpy me, so I play dumb.

They ask Mr S for a photo with him. Phew, grumpy me doesn’t have to smile. Something’s a bit strange though, the photographer is not at quite the right angle for the group to be in the centre of the shot..it’s just a bit off centre so that I’m going to be caught in the side. I turn and look away.

This goes on all night. People gravitate towards me, pretending they’re not (probably because I’m giving ever so subtle f-off vibes in to people with cameras). Sometimes people come and ask for a photo directly. A photo sitting next to me. Now a photo standing next to me. Now a photo with their mate on the other side of the two of us. I oblige, can’t really be bothered to say no and anyway, when I do, it means I have to talk to them and I’m feeling a bit, but less than before, grumpy, so can’t be bothered.

It’s mainly guys. This is strange. There are some of the most stunning girls I’ve ever seen at this party and trailing bird feathers here certainly couldn’t be considered part of that visually sparkling group.

Later on I’m sitting on a chair, taking a break from dancing, and I spot two girls coming towards me with a camera. I ignore them. If the camera steals spirits, I no longer have one. One girl sits on a chair a metre away from me (3 feet all you non-metrics) and swivels it to face me. I stare into the distance. The photo is taken. Sitting-down-girl gets up to check the photo with photographer-girl. I glance over their shoulders at the little screen. Yep. I’m in it too.

Now, while somewhat-grumpy-me is not totally in the photo-taking mood, somewhat-grumpy-me is also hugely embarrassed: I am not at this wedding to distract people from the bride and groom because of my milk-bottle skin and albino hair. “Go take pictures of the bride!” I want to say. They are doing that too though, so I can’t. It’s just when they’re not, I seem to be frozen in various view-finders.

Later on and you will be relieved to hear, not grumpy any more, a girl sits down next to me. I glance around. No cameras in sight, great, f-off vibes turn into a warm smile. She stares at me with what can only be described as awe in her eyes, pauses and then says, “You are beautiful. You look just like Meg Ryan”.

It was the sort of moment where had I been drinking something, I would have rudely laughed and with that momentary lack of control, sprayed my drink out all over myself and perhaps her. Actually, I wouldn’t, I’m slightly better mannered than that.

Only slightly mind you.

Needless to say, that was flattering, but entirely untrue. It’s a benefit/result of being blonde in this cultures: your physical imperfections and even characteristics are completely masked/forgiven by having lightly pigmented hair. If you don’t believe me on this one, just ask Meg. I bet she doesn’t have people saying to her, “Wow, you’re beautiful, you look just like Trailing Grouse.”

A wee note: obviously I didn’t take any of these photos of Meg Ryan. Thanks to the photographers who took them, to Meg for posing and if you want them you’ll find them easily on Google.

Another wee note: I’ve been wondering which of those photos I wouldn’t mind looking like (definitely not the bottom left) and just realised how little they look like the same person. Isn’t that a little bit freaky?

Yet another wee note: Meg honey, in the lips department, sometimes less is more.