So there we were – sitting on an unmade bed, with two laptops, seven spreadsheets, six quarterly and two annual reports, 25 unchecked assignments and very little time between us – and all she could think about was the smell of barbecue wafting through the windows.

My wife suffers from axial myopia, a consequence of her XL-sized eyeballs which can, in situations of duress, be manipulated to form the aesthetic form necessary to evoke sympathy. Try and imagine a puppy acting in a canine production of Oliver Twist, and you'll know what I am talking about. The fact that she rarely, if ever, deploys this look meant that the call of the shaadi-food was strong within her.

At this point I tweeted.

Some clearly tried-and-tested methods were soon sent back. As you'll see, the absurdity/genius/ambition of the suggestions continued to increase. (For a more comprehensive account of the twittersations from that night, check out this link).

At this point, I was still enjoying the instant validation that the growing number of tweets in my mentions (sorry, interactions) always provides. This whole shall-I-raid-a-random-shaadi was the kind of wacky, native spiel that is my cachet, my brand identity so to speak – if one is to speak like an idiot.

So, I tried to encourage the reverie a little further.

The fact that all this was taking place amongst the last dregs of the weekend-after-Eid, meant that there was a certain stupor, a pungent mystery hanging over the night. Predictably, the response belied this reality.

Moreover, it increasingly became clear that wedding-crashing is a common pastime amongst Pakistanis. In fact, not just a pastime, but rather an elaborate personal quest of ever-increasing audacity to sample illicit shaadi-khaanas that just about everyone was into.

Realising that students to professors to journalists (and lots more in between this axis of muftas) were all skilled practitioners of this fine art emboldened me. Surely I could pull this off as well.

With a skip and a jump, I ran off to the cupboard and put on my valimay ka suit, and decided that the scene was on. My wife, the brainchild of this daring operation, had apparently been planning for a chance to raid a wedding her entire life, and was full of tips and tricks. The heist was on.

As I parked my car in the muddy expanse outside the twin tents in dazzling golden velvet, my mind began to play the soundtrack to a heist film, and I stepped out purposefully in my valimay ka suit, holding a wide paper bag with the name of a famous designer on the outside, and several plastic bags on the inside. I gave limp, non-committal side-hugs to the men at the reception, seated myself next to one of the food tables, and got ready. In the meanwhile, I kept texting my wife, who relayed the messages on twitter, along with her own ornamental comments and hash-tags.