Your presence is present enough” – it may be a somewhat cheesy and clichéd line, but it’s one I very much take literally. Especially when it comes to weddings.
It was never my intention to be the kind of person who doesn’t buy wedding gifts. That person, if not quite a full-blown monster, was surely deserving of a few other choice descriptors – mainly ones beginning with “s”: stingy; skinflint; Scrooge. (Or “p”, for that matter: parsimonious; penny-pinching; penurious. You get the picture.)
Yet, though I wouldn’t have described myself as an ungenerous soul, somewhere along the way I realised I had become exactly the sort of person who swerved the gift table and headed straight for the canapés.
There was no decision, as such. My behaviour was initially a natural consequence of being permanently skint. There was a period in my twenties when money was not just tight but constrictive as a whale-boned corset – every time I whipped out my bank card or used a cash machine was a thrilling exercise in holding my nerve, an adrenaline-fuelled Russian roulette to see whether I’d maxed out my overdraft for the month.
I still remember the hot-cheeked humiliation I felt upon attending my first wedding as a proper adult, knowing that all I’d been able to afford from my friends’ John Lewis registry was a random assortment of cutlery. The embarrassment was such that, come the next wedding, I thought it would actually be less mortifying to purchase nothing at all than one serving spoon and three forks.
As I got older and slightly less broke, couples started to ask for cash instead. This was, objectively, even worse. You couldn’t hide behind a list or buy something meaningful or personal – you now had to attribute a monetary value to your relationship with the bride and/or groom.
The first time I felt guilty. The time after that? Nothing at all. I was fast becoming a wedding sociopath
Often, they were people for whom I wouldn’t even consider buying a birthday present. Now, I had to decide what price to put on our connection – could I get away with lobbing £20 in a card for a pair of pina coladas as part of the disgustingly named “honey fund”? Or was I expected to present them with a couple of crisp £50 notes so they could splash out on that parasailing excursion? I had no idea where I was supposed to pitch it.
Welcome to the wedding wild west; if there were discernible rules, I certainly wasn’t privy to them. Once more, it seemed easier to retreat and avoid the issue entirely – to skip the stress of a cost-benefit analysis for each friendship and settle for writing a heartfelt message in the guest book instead, hoping that my card’s absence would pass unnoticed amid the chaotic whirlwind and general excess of the big day.
The first time I felt guilty. The time after that? Nothing at all. I was fast becoming a wedding sociopath.
The best part is, not one friend has ever actually noticed that I’ve opted out of the gifting ritual at their wedding. Or, if they have, they’ve been far too polite to mention it (finally, an upside to Brits’ natural awkwardness and repression!) Maybe they’ve rolled their eyes and dubbed me a tight-arse behind closed doors, but any residual resentment has been notable only by its absence; my relationships have, thankfully, remained intact.
The few fellow guests I’ve discussed my unofficial policy with in the past have always been shocked initially, all raised eyebrows and judgey expressions. Five minutes later, they’re usually nodding along in bemused agreement at the logic behind my stance, perhaps wondering if they could get away with a similar move themselves.
Over time, not buying wedding gifts has become completely normal for me – especially as life becomes more expensive. Research from the Money and Pensions Service published last year revealed that UK wedding guests spend, on average, more than £2,000 a year attending other people’s weddings. Those in the 25 to 34 age bracket, the demographic most likely to be invited to multiple weddings a year, spent about £740 a pop – totalling a staggering £4,500 per annum.
Meanwhile, 14 per cent of wedding guests reported having acquired or worsened their existing debt through attending someone else’s nuptials, according to separate research from credit reference agency Experian.
Then there’s the fact that as I got into my thirties, gift lists made a reappearance with a preposterously expensive glow-up. These itemised inventories only served to illustrate just how little the couple in question needed (and just how wide the wealth gap between us had grown over the years).
Having combined their often hefty household incomes, plus all their worldly goods, the newlyweds clearly already owned, well, everything – hence the request that guests fork out £250 for a crystal candlestick from Tiffany, or £400 for a Le Creuset casserole dish. Ha! Why not throw in a Fabergé egg while you’re at it? (And these were “regular” people; God only knows what insanity Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce must’ve put on their list…)
That’s become my main bugbear with present buying. The concept of the wedding gift used to make sense: young people would be playing house for the first time, going straight from their parents’ home to the one they’d share with their new spouse for the next 60 years. They might have very little of their own to contribute, thus crockery, kitchenware, lamps and cushions would all be desperately needed and gratefully received.
But these days, the game has changed. We continue to leave marriage later and later; in 2023, the median age for men and women entering heterosexual marriage in England and Wales hit 34.8 years and 33 years respectively, according to ONS data.
At this vintage, nobody needs homeware: they’ve largely been living independently for at least a decade and have already fully furnished a house themselves. Under such circumstances, it seems odd to expect friends and family to finance a non-essential lifestyle upgrade to go with the Farrow and Ball-painted walls and kitchen island.
It seems odd to expect friends and family to finance a non-essential lifestyle upgrade to go with the Farrow and Ball-painted walls
Add in the fact that I’ve often been single myself when my nearest and dearest got hitched, and I couldn’t help but feel short-changed. No, you should never give to receive, but there seemed every likelihood I would never cash in with my own ridiculous wedding list brimming with gratuitous items. Not unless I joined the small but growing number of women choosing to practise “sologamy” and marry themselves, at any rate.
Don’t get me wrong – I love a good wedding. They are beautiful, joy-filled days, something we seem to have become woefully short of in recent years. But there’s no way around the fact that attending one is an expensive business, especially once you account for the obligatory hen, stag or combined “sten” do (minimum £150), travel to and from the big day, a potential new outfit and lacklustre overnight stay at a Premier Inn or similar. And that’s without factoring in the huge outlay required if you’re invited to the increasingly popular “destination wedding” abroad.
It’s a privilege and an honour to be included in the most special day of someone’s life. But I reckon not buying a present – especially if doing so is going to plunge you into debt – makes you neither a stingy skinflint nor a parsimonious penny-pincher. You’ve likely already given your time, energy, love and, yes, money to be there; your presence really should be present enough.
And if it’s not? Too late – you’re already at the wedding! Just tell them they don’t have to invite you to the next one…