23 October 2027
Saturday. A hen’s party tonight. Six women in matching sashes, one in a veil, all of them stone-cold sober and absolutely terrifying.
They surrendered their telephones at the door without complaint. No photographs at my table, ever; a host has a right to privacy and so, I am told, does his locker. The bride-to-be asked whether she might have one picture with me afterwards. I was at the shops. She had one with the gamesmaster instead. I have seen it. He looked very pleased with himself.
They worked as one. They divided the room, they shouted across it, they read everything aloud in voices that would carry across a reception hall. The veil caught on a hook only once, and they treated it as a clue.
I would like to make a small speech to the groom, wherever he is. You are marrying a woman who escaped my dinner party in a veil. Treat her well.
They went off to the bars afterwards, which is the correct order. I hope the champagne was cold. Mine always is.
— B., your host
