You're at a wedding.  It's not yours.

You went to school with the groom.   He spoke to you twice in five years,  once to ask  for a chewit and once to inform you that you had the personality of a boiled potato. 

Last year, you happened to be in the same pub when he leapt on the bar to announce through a gobful of MDMA and Magners that he was getting married and everyone in the room was invited.  

At the reception, you recognise various alcoholic crones from the pub, along with a withered gypsy who had come in to sell flowers.  She clutches a bouquet of champagne stems while pawing the imitation flora on the mother of the bride's hat.  The mother of the bride wafts her hand away like it's a moth on benefits.  A smile fractures her face.  She addresses some bona fide guests.

"All these people!  Dan's such a character!"

She turns to her daughter.

"I hope there's enough champagne."

"I will tell thee," interrupts the gypsy.  She grabs the bride's hand and wrenches it up to her face.

"This be your champagne line."  She scratches the palm with a nail.  "It will last.  And this be your marriage line.  My, 'tis strange..."

"What?" asks the bride.

"Thy marriage line says you're already divorced."

She vomits on the hand.  The bride begins to cry.  Her mother signals an usher.    

"Cut the cake.  Now."

The groom bounds over.

"Best wedding ever?" he asks, before frowning at the tears and vomit.  His mother-in-law, shielding her distressed daughter, spits in his face.

"Fool." 
  
You're glad.