“It’s a gay wedding, Oliver,” I reminded him for what might have been the hundredth time. “There’s no point trying to make it not-alternative because in the eyes of the law and most of society it’s alternative by definition.” Moving a stack of papers that I tried really hard to keep in the right order, I sat on the sofa. “Besides, it’s not like Priya has no sense of occasion. She wouldn’t send us somebody who’d play lesbian thrash metal over the vows. And also, would there be anything wrong with having a DJ playing lesbian thrash metal?”

Oliver looked up sharply from his spot on the rug. “Yes. The fact that it would be thrash metal. I am not getting married to thrash metal, lesbian or otherwise. I don’t think that’s a personality flaw, I think that’s a very reasonable preference.”

“Fine, I’ll book us a string quartet.”

“I didn’t say book a string quartet. You can book whoever you like.”

I tried to roll my eyes without Oliver noticing; it didn’t work. “What I would like is to save a few quid, get a bloke with a laptop, and not have to use my zero musical knowledge to decide which of nine identical-seeming groups of blokes in waistcoats are going to do covers of Ed Sheeran songs at the only wedding we’re ever going to have. Especially since neither of us like Ed Sheeran.”

“I thought ‘Photograph’ had its moments.”

“‘Photograph’ does not have its moments,” I yelled. “No Ed Sheeran song has moments. I can’t believe I’m marrying someone who thought ‘Photograph’ had moments.”

Oliver threw his hands in the air again. “You’re marrying someone who is occasionally able to resist the hipsterish urge to dislike popular things.”

“I like plenty of popular things.” My head was starting to hurt. Talking to my boyfriend was actually giving me a headache. “It’s just none of them are made by smug ginger men.”

“Lucien.” Clutching at his forehead like he too was getting a headache, Oliver ticked something decisively off his list. “Hire. A. Band. I don’t care which band, but hire a band.”

“Fine. Do you want the Shine, Harvest Moon, or Ulysses?”

“What part of I don’t care am I failing to communicate?” snarled Oliver.

“And do you not think,” I asked, “that it is kind of fucked up that you don’t care what band we hire?”

“There’s no point caring—the wedding is in three weeks. The choice now is either band or no band.”

“Or DJ,” I pointed out.

There was a pause, then Oliver turned around and stared like he didn’t recognise me. “Oh my God, this was your plan all along, wasn’t it? We agreed on a band—”

“We didn’t agree.”

“You said that you’d book one—”

“You told me to book one.”