My staff want a “royal lunch” on Monday. Help!

Dear Aunty,

We have an issue that is tearing our office in two. Our admin staff have been planning a right royal lunch on Monday to celebrate and talk about the wedding. But most of us in the office regard the wedding as a royal pain in the arse.

The problem is that our office manager who has organised the lunch has asked us all to participate by bringing a royal-themed plate like chocolate royals. But wait. It gets worse. We have also been asked to dress up, and she says that those who don’t or who forget can borrow something from her dress-up bag!

There is a whole group of us that has already shut up about our thoughts on the wedding after some mean, hurt glances from some staff. But the lunch is too much. I refuse to eat appalling sponge marshmallow things with a tiara on my head just to satisfy the unrequited romantic yearnings of the office manager. And don’t think I am being mean Aunty. She constantly complains that her husband can recite a form guide backwards but can’t remember their anniversaries.

A cry for help,
Sydney

Dear A cry for help,

Well, of course you should just plaster a silly smile on your dial, stick your little finger out, scoff some cucumber sandwiches, slurp some tea and make an early escape. That’s the Aussie spirit. Live and let live and all that.

But honestly? I don’t like to ever recommend doing something that I myself would find akin to torture. And I must confess, I feel a wave of panic at the thought of this weekend. Part of the reason is that Wedding Friday has come hard on the heels of Good Friday when again the world stops for boring and long ceremonies that only interest a minority but who, for some quaint reason, command the high moral ground so we, the good folks of Australia, are forced to shut up.

Now don’t get me wrong. It is not the wedding per se. I love weddings. I always cry at weddings, even when I just know before the ink has dried that they will divorce before the middle child starts primary school. What I can’t abide is the dribble that I will be forced to endure. Is she too fat or thin? Is he too bald or spotty? Is the queen too snotty? And of course the show stopper question: Did we like her dress or not?

I can’t go on as I need to lie down on the floor of my office and practice deep breathing. But I do know this, my friend. By Monday you will feel worse. Not better. What I suggest is at midday on Monday, you find somewhere in private, take out a heavy stick and sock yourself in the jaw. A baseball bat would be ideal. While you are howling in pain, run through the office mumbling something about toothache and dentists.

I know this is irresponsible advice and certainly not a solution for your poor office colleagues who will have to devise their own ways of dealing with Post Wedding Analysis (PWA). But honestly? While you are sitting in the sun enjoying a sandwich watching the birds swoop over the harbor and the boats bobbing in the breeze, your thoughts will naturally turn to me and you will send forth a silent prayer of thanks.

Be smart,
Your Aunty B

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