Vodka, Vows, and Very Thin Walls

Let me take you back to my roaring twenties – the era of questionable decisions, wild nights out, and some of the best friendships I’ve ever made. Enter: my Polish work bestie. We clicked instantly. Think gin and tonic, fish and chips, Ant and Dec – just meant to be. We were inseparable at work – chatting over spreadsheets, making each other howl with laughter, bonding over mutual loathing of James from accounts.

She was properly into salsa dancing – like actually good, not just a tipsy two-step in a bar. She once told me about this guy she met at salsa class – they dated a bit, but it fizzled out like a flat bottle of Fanta. No drama. Just one of those things.

Fast-forward to one of our many nights out. We’re a few proseccos deep, living our best lives, and suddenly – boom – there he is. Salsa guy. Gliding over like nothing had ever happened. You know the type – confident smile, hips that don’t lie. Before I know it, they’re snogging like they’ve just won Strictly.

Next thing I know? They’re getting married. IN POLAND.

And guess who’s invited? Moi. With a plus one, no less. My perpetually single self was buzzing – mostly at the thought of a wedding abroad and not having to sit next to the guy in HR who always smells like boiled eggs.

Our Polish bride insists I bring our mutual colleague as my plus one – she likes him too (though clearly I’m top-tier in her affections). So off we jet, both wedding rookies and completely unaware of the carnage to come.

Now, I’d never been to Poland before. And I definitely hadn’t been to a Polish wedding. I was expecting something elegant, emotional… maybe a few too many canapés. What I got was a marathon of food, vodka, and vibes.

Reader, it was epic.

Imagine this: tables groaning under the weight of food. Bottles of vodka on every table – like the centrepieces had been swapped out for Smirnoff. And here’s the kicker – if someone offers you a shot, you drink it. It’s the rule. Even the grannies were knocking them back like it was fresher’s week.

The entertainment? Top notch. Games, dancing, and a salsa first dance that would’ve made Ricardo Vega burst into applause. Then – just when I thought it couldn’t get better – they wheeled out a spit roast at 2am. I was living.

In the haze of vodka and grilled meats, I spot him: tall, blonde, and suspiciously handsome in a "drinks tea with milk and knows how to queue" kind of way. Turns out he’s a mate of the groom. Next thing I know, we’re outside, mid-snog, defying the temperature and what’s left of my dignity. One thing leads to another and he’s stumbling back to my hotel room for a bit of tipsy fumbling and some top-tier British awkwardness.

The next morning, I head down to breakfast with my plus one – the colleague I’d dragged along like some sort of human security blanket. He gives me a look and mutters something about how “thin the walls were.”

CRINGE.

But it gets better – or worse, depending on how you see it. We get back to the office and he tells everyone. Like, everyone. The woman from reception. The intern. Probably James from accounts, who honestly had no right to that information. I wanted to melt into the carpet tiles.

Still, despite the thin walls, the public shame, and waking up with a lipstick-smeared stranger in my bed – that wedding? Hands down the best I’ve ever been to. Ten out of ten. Would go again (though perhaps with earplugs for my plus one).

Moral of the story? Never underestimate the power of salsa, Polish vodka, and spontaneous snogs. Oh – and choose your plus one very carefully.