'And I heard 'em say, nothing's ever promised tomorrow, today...'

Yesterday, I attended my very first church wedding.

Tardiness runs in the family; my mother insisted on tidying the house up before we left, so we ended up being almost late. And people wonder why I'm always late to school. Anyways, my dad was fuming, my mum was trying to shrug it all off and make my dad laugh (he sulked throughout the car ride), I sat back and enjoyed the scenery, refusing to get worked up until it was 100% sure that we were going to be late.

Thankfully, my brother is a fast driver. We ended up getting there early. Which proves my theory that you shouldn't be worried about being late until you're actually late. (My mum, who's reading this over my shoulder, suggests a Turkish proverb: 'Dereyi gormeden paçalarini sivama', meaning 'Don't roll up your trouser hems until you see the river.' OK, it sounds better in Turkish.)

The time-honoured tradition of crappily dressed bridesmaids was respected. The bridesmaid was dressed crappily. The bridal gown was OK. I, on the other hand, was wearing a sexy corset that, among other things, made me feel like someone out of Jane Austen novel. I swear, I could hardly breathe. I even refused to tie my seatbelt in the car, to the annoyance of my mother.

The ceremony (or service, or lecture, I'm not quite sure how to call it. I'm not exactly well-versed in Christian terminology) was rather long. I struggled not to laugh as the priest basically told the couple that it was God that had chosen them to get together. Pfft. Whatever. I think I might have smirked on occasion, and I'm pretty sure the priest spotted me; in fact, my brother and I were seated at the front row. Which is rather weird, because we aren't even related to the bride, we're 'just' family friends.

Now weddings are, by definition, an occasion to flirt and eat shamelessly. Unfortunately, due to the age average being approximately thirty, I was unable to flirt. That doesn't mean I didn't ogle, though. Mr. Hot Waiter provided ample opportunity for furtive glances and not-so-furtive drooling. At a certain point, I told my dear brother: 'Gosh, that waiter is hot.' He pointed out to me that it was the fourth time I was telling him.

I think I made up for the lack of direct flirtage by eating. A lot. The food was surprisingly good, and who am I to pass up on the chance to enjoy a good meal?

Of course, there was plenty of free alcohol also. Which resulted in me drinking. A lot. Just wine, mind you, but quite a lot of it all the same. What can I say, I just love wine! Besides, I was seated at a table with loads of people I'd never met. The only recognisable face was my brother's, and that of a guy who looked a lot like the ugly version of an Italian football player, Del Piero. A little wine helped to get some inane conversion going. It was also vital in ensuring my continuing mental stability by distracting me from the effusions of the couple seated next to me. The man kept running his hand along the woman's leg, she kept kissing his neck, and this was all rather inappropriate, considering that I am underage. Thank God for wine.

Speaking of, I had indulged in another great bout of wine-drinking the night before. My brother bought a bottle of red wine for dinner. My mother, who doesn't really mix well with alcohol, drank a glass. The rest was shared between the two of us, resulting in me washing the dishes in a state of giddy happiness and watching a serious political debate between Diliberto and Berlusconi on TV (I would enlighten you on Italian politics, but it's not half as fun to write about as my wonderful life) and laughing at the most inappropriate times.

Back to the wedding. It dragged on for hours. At the end of it all, I was pretty much in 'Fire bad, tree pretty' mode. Eating and celebrating the union of two souls is fun for a while, but seriously, there's only so much one can take, especially if one is wearing a tight corset and feeling exceedingly sleepy. My poor brother had to endure my constant whinging on those two issues, and he had to drive us all home. I really don't know how he did it. He must be Clark Kent's third cousin twice removed. Whatever that means.

My dear brother and I have had a really nice time together these past few days. On Wednesday night, he took me to watch a Champions League match, AC Milan v. Bayern Munich. I hadn't been to the stadium for ages, and it was breathtaking, especially as it was completely full. As usual, we were almost late because I took ages to get ready. The tram ride lasted an hour instead of the usual twenty minutes, but that's normal for a football night. I was squashed against the ticket stamper with drunk Germans singing and smelling and stamping their feet. It was rather uncomfortable, but definitely worth it. In the end, we were ten minutes early, Milan won 4-1, I screamed like a maniac at every goal and occasionally even swore in a very un-ladylike manner. It was great stress relief.

The week before that, we went to a Kanye West concert. I kept thinking throughout that I should have gone to the Deep Purple concert (which was on the same day), but Kanye was cool all the same. Mind you, we're not exactly huge fans, but I absolutely love 'Gold Digger', as much as I love 'Highway Star', in fact, and I really wanted to see the live rendition. Besides, as Pan quite eloquently put it, 'but they're old,' referring, of course, to the aged members of Deep Purple.

Unluckily, I didn't exactly see much. Being as I am of a relatively short stature, I spent 80% of my time trying to look past the impeding obstacle of a random creep's bald head. OK, fine, he wasn't a creep, but I consider myself justified in insulting him, as he practically ruined my concert experience. My brother suggested I stand on his toes (yes, he really is a sweetheart, isn't he?) but even that didn't work. I spent a good two hours craning my neck. Some diversion was provided in the form of two males playing tug-o-war over a sweaty towel Kanye threw at the crowd. This happened right next to me. In fact, I was shoved around quite a bit, but the scene was just so funny that I didn't even mind. Two full-grown men fighting over Kanye West's sweaty towel is definitely not something you see every day.


And that's all for now. The Kanye photo you see above was obviously taken by my brother, who is not so tall himself, but definitely towers above me. Replies from american universities are due at the end of this month, but I'm strangely relaxed about the whole affair. There's Juventus-Milan tonight, and I can't wait to watch that. And I'm listening to Backstreet Boys. Good times!