By wedding here, I don't mean the single event of the ceremony, I mean the whole fortnight-long fandango of lead-up.

The fact that a week before the actual wedding was a kind of vast stag party for which at least 100 extra people happened to roll up gives you a hint of the metaphorical waistline of these affairs.

When Polly and I pitched up to the ladies section of the event in our finest shiniest, but looking like dull pebbles in a sea of bling, there was already a hard core of ladies were dancing in the scrum at the front. There were, someone told us, bottles of Baileys in the corner, but it only seemed right to join in the real spirit of the party, which is to get high from Irn Bru or Diet Coke.

After the big party was the little after-party round the groom's house, where women hovered over the stove, cooking more curry. Since my sons and the kids from Delhi didn't talk the same language, they wrestled instead.

It's been like this continually at my friend's house since the relatives from Delhi arrived three weeks ago.

Some time in the near future there really is about to be a wedding, after which my friend – the mother of the groom – will welcome a new and arranged daughter-in-law to live in her home.

She calculates that on average she had time to talk to each guest for 30 seconds at the last party. I don't know how she keeps going. Probably it's the Irn Bru.

Sometimes when I catch her in the early morning, I see the toll of the endless party written all over her face, but, mostly, once she's got her bling back on again, she looks like the shiniest jewel in the place.

Roll on the next round of Irn Bru.