The wedding reception was held in a tent on a farm, but it was no ordinary tent pitched in a farmer’s field; it was a vast Arabian Nights style white marquee large enough to seat perhaps five hundred guests at dining tables, and hold a dance floor the size of a night club, and have a bar and reception area, and provide conveniences fit for film stars. It was no ordinary farm either – the twenty acres of gardens, ponds, pretty paths and bridges are the result of a labour of love carried out over years by the bride’s father.

Jaimy, the bride, had changed her bridal costume and wore a golden dress whilst the groom, my son James, had dispensed with his turban and wore his hair tied back in a ponytail (I liked the turban). The groom’s mother (me) still wore her pink sari with sparkly gold embroidery. When the first course was over the music began and, under a ceiling of make-believe twinkling stars in a night sky, the bride and groom took to the dance-floor for the romantic first dance.

After the second course of delicacies I took to the dance-floor, preferring to be upright than seated, on account of my  very tight underskirt which had to be tight in order to keep the sari tucked in. Unfortunately, it wasn’t really a petticoat designed for the job – rather it was a sarong wrapped around me twice and tied extremely tightly at the waist (as suggested on the Internet), and beneath the sarong I wore white leggings (for modesty, in case the sarong failed). At length, I could no longer bear the feeling of being cut in half, or the heat, or the feeling of being trussed up (I had just returned from Australia where I wore only shorts and summer tops). I had to release the sarong. I slipped my fingers inside the waist, undid all the little safety pins and untied the knot (all while I was on the dance-floor). No good – the sarong had become accustomed to being wrapped twice about me and it wouldn’t budge.

In the ladies’ room I stood by the mirrors and pulled at my sarong. At that very moment a beautiful Indian girl with a Scottish accent approached me with open arms and kisses.

“I’m Jazz,” she said, “Now you are a part of our family – and there are many of us – and if ever you want to come to Scotland you must get in touch because we have a chain of hotels…”

Somewhat overwhelmed by her kind comments, I kissed Jazz effusively, and when she had left I went back to my killer sarong. All the safety pins had to come out first, then I unravelled the mummifying material while the sari, still pinned to my shoulder, hung limp and lifeless in two rings on the floor. Just as I pulled the sarong free, revealing my near nakedness (thank goodness I had the forethought to wear those charming white leggings underneath!) a group of ladies arrived at the bottom of the stairs, looked up at me and burst out laughing. Well I never! Laughing at the mother of the groom. But I forgave them – they helped pin me back together again…

Sadly, an hour or two later I needed to use the bathroom again. This time I endeavoured to be more discreet and managed to release the sari from the top of my leggings, and put it back in again, all by myself. Later, whilst being whirled around the dance-floor by Santo (one of my lovely new relatives from the Brisbane division, coincidentally) I suddenly found myself tripping up on a trailing piece of pink sari that had found its way free and fallen between my legs and out the other side like a tail. A deft hand movement sorted it out and I don’t think Santo noticed.

“You are family now,” he said and added, “Next time you go to Australia you must visit us, We have six families in Brisbane.”

The last song was played, the festivities drew to a close and the guests said their goodbyes. A lady came up to me and kissed me.

“I’ll never forget you,” she laughed.

I remembered that laugh. She was the lady who helped me in the bathroom.

I love my extended family but I’ve decided that if ever they invite me to any more functions I shall wear a pretty tunic and long pants…