One Wedding, and the funeral of Mr Fabulous

Now I've never wanted this blog to turn Sex and the City - and I promise future entries won't - but having recently attended my first wedding as an eligible bachelorette I feel it incumbent upon me to comment on the saga of those Mr Moneypants-Metrosexuals out there. Lets name this one Fabio, because - he thinks - he's Faaabulous!

Back in the land down under, the wedding was in Melbourne's Yarra Valley vineyards. The setting was just divine - rolling green hills, bountiful grapevines all in neat rows, and a duck-filled pond at the edge of the sandstone winery where my gorgeous girlfriend said, "I do" to her beau.

As the sun began to set we guests took our seats at the tables assigned us. GF had commented that she had placed me next to a similarly eligible bachelor, who was "a bit much, but good for a night out or two." Cheers, I thought. I had actually spotted Mr Fabulous across the duck pond earlier when we had all been mingling amongst canapés. He was hard to miss. Talk, dark and handsome, with big gold sunnies and a greasy smirk. Not my type (if a type indeed I have?)...

At the dinner table a friendly, older couple sat opposite and the wife asked how long Fabio and I had been together. Apparently we looked very well suited. I set the record straight, no we weren't together. Without missing a beat, he said, "Not yet." Hmmmm.... Fabs, not a great move, but the night continued with pleasant enough conversation. He stared deep into my eyes (looking at his own reflection in the darks of my pupils no doubt!), asked me lots of questions, paid me lots of attention, and kept pouring me glasses of wine.

I have to admit that my initial dislike did waiver a little when he asked to take me out for a drink, or dinner, when he planned to visit London in January. He'd been quite charming after all, if not a little too confident, but when the speeches started and Mr Fabulous continued to talk - and loudly too - this bachelorette had had enough. Being told when to drink more wine, and drink her water is not exactly this chick's thing. Especially when Fabio had obviously had a little too much wine and was slurring his words and leaning in a little too close, touching her knee and stroking her shoulder (ewww!).

Another "No" not adhered to, I asked Mr Fabulous if he'd ever heard the word, and suggested he pay it greater attention in the future in order to bring himself down a notch or two. At this point he so eloquently told me that he'd "have me" by the end of the night. Nice.

With speeches over and the cake cut I took the opportunity to escape Mr Fabulous and mingle with other, less inebriated guests. An older guest whom I had chatted with earlier in the day found me in the crowd and asked if I wouldn't mind him introducing me to a "very nice boy" he knew... Without much chance of declining I was led through the room, right to Mr Fabulous! "Oh no, no, no." I politely told my eager Cupid that Fabs and I had met and that it was probably best if he and I keep our relationship at a 'friends' level. Fabs then took me in his arm and whispered in my ear, "You're the loser." Could this guy get any worse?

It wasn't until the after party when dear Cupid implored again that I give Fabs another go. After all, we were both intelligent, attractive people. I couldn't resist the urge to tell Cupid that Fabio indeed thought himself the perfect catch - so much so that I worried there wouldn't be enough room for me in his life (or his mirror), because no one could love Fabio as much as Fabio clearly loved himself! Cupid smiled, a knowing smile. Later he tried one more time for good measure, this time in front of Fabs. Fabs replied, "No comment." At which point I stated that that if he thought calling me a loser was acceptable then it showed what sort of guy he really was. He went to follow me with a drunken retort but I beat him to his punch line with a fairly certain "Would you please F-off?" Pity it was at this time that everyone in the pub fell silent... Fabs was left red-faced and alone. Probably the only time in his life he'd cursed his great height, because never has a poppy drooped so low and scampered so quickly out of doors. Harsh? Maybe. But truly, enough was seriously enough.

Moral of the story: Boys, don't think that a pair of gold Gucci sunnies, a silk tie and Italian leather shoes will always getteth you the girl. Whilst we want our boys well dressed, we never want to have to compete for space at the vanity.