11/09/2026
It’s a wedding. It is not a play centre.
Twelve and over. Put it on the invitation, say it once, and don’t apologise for it.
Here’s the part nobody says out loud: this is a gift to the parents. For half the mums and dads in that room it’s the first night out since the baby arrived. No bedtime, no bag, no leaving at nine. They get to drink, dance and finish a conversation. You’re not excluding them. You’re giving them a night off.
If a baby cries during the ceremony, someone walks out. Immediately — not at the end of the reading, and it doesn’t matter how closely related they are. Fifteen seconds in and nobody can hear your vows. Agree it with the parents beforehand so no one has to make the call on the day.
On the dance floor, kids chase the smoke. Every single time. Charming for four seconds, and then it’s your first dance with two under-tens sprinting through the frame.
One nearly took out my tripod mid-speech. Full run, straight through the aisle where the camera was. I caught it. If I hadn’t, that speech doesn’t exist — and it’s the one speech you can’t ask anyone to give twice.
If you have children of your own: they belong at the ceremony. In it, on the film. That part isn’t up for debate. Then someone they trust takes them home before the reception starts.
Because look at the room you’re leaving them in. People drinking. Language nobody’s monitoring. A smoking huddle out the front. A PA loud enough that I have genuinely seen a baby in noise-cancelling headphones at eleven at night. None of that is a scandal — it’s just a room built for adults.
You’re allowed to want one night that’s only about the two of you.
Think twelve is too harsh? Tell me below. I’ll defend it.
The Decision — a new one every Friday.
