The Wedding Stapler

I'm grinding my teeth. I sit with three other support assistants (as us admin flunkies are euphemistically known), Laura, Louise and Lynsey. This is every bit as bad as it sounds. My name doesn't start with L so it was never going to work out. Lynsey is getting married in May and if that were all I'd heard about the greatest day in human history I would say hooray and well done, what a marvellous meringue.
Unfortunately I hear about this wedding every. Single. Day. She's sitting on my right, just out of arm's reach (more's the pity) and nattering in her peculiar nasal Aberdonian whine about how she got the bridesmaid's shoes in Next and they go really well with their pink dresses, and they've got these really cool favours but she can't face wrapping them because it's such a chore and speaking of chores she's got to go to the church and talk to the God-bothering minister about hymns even though she hates hymns and her Mum wants to invite these third cousins but she hardly knows them but once you've got that many guests a couple more won't matter, and by this point it's all I can do not to grab the stapler, pin her down on the keyboard and staple her mouth shut.
I hate weddings. The waste of a year's salary on a one day theatrical spectacular that you must enjoy on pain of death; the overeating; the queasy mixture of friends and relatives that should never have been forced to meet; the ridiculous dress that can never be worn again - and the simpering justification for this pointless waste is because it's the bride's special day. Bollocks. Every day is my day and I don't have to prove it to anyone.