Formal Ruff-air

That wedding planner, Ashleigh, is so rude to me. I understand that it’s Charlotte who’s getting married so she gets the most say in things, but I’m footing the bill, so shouldn’t I get to be heard as well? At the very least, I deserve the common courtesy of an explanation as to why Charlotte should wear my Manolos down the aisle. They’re her ‘something old’ – I wore them on my wedding day – and she doesn’t seem to have a problem with it, so I don’t know why the wedding planner does.

Sure, Charlotte’s a dog, so she can’t verbally communicate an issue with the shoes. And, yes, it’s true that they’re too big for her paws, but that’s nothing orthotics can’t fix. I’m sure we can find a podiatrist who’d be willing to make some up; I mean, they do children’s orthotics fittings. Cheltenham would have to have at least one clinic that was open-minded enough to take on the task.

I explained all this to Ashleigh, but she just smiled at me – the kind of smile that masks an ‘aren’t you pathetic’ kind of sentiment. I know that look all too well; I’m forever forced to give it to newcomers at the country club who don’t understand the dress code. I’ve never been on the receiving end of it before, not in all my life. How dare she – as if she’s some kind of foot specialist! What does she know about it? Does she have a side hustle in diagnosing common foot conditions?

She didn’t say it in so many words, but I’m sure she thinks it’s cruelty to animals to make a dog wear high heels. If you ask me, it’s much more cruel to make a bride walk down the aisle barefoot at her own wedding, which we’ve all determined is to be an white-tie event with no expense spared. I mean, the gown’s being sent over from Paris, and wearing it without heels simply won’t do.