I am trying my utter hardest not to drive everyone insane (myself included), and I am hoping that I have not failed miserably with my (perhaps feeble) attempts. But it’s just so darn hard not to discuss, plan and fantasise!
I am, dearest readers, referring to my forthcoming wedding. My, or rather our, September 2012 wedding.
I ordered a wedding planner on line, a pretty heart decorated folder with tips and plastic wallets and the all important calendar count down. The girls in the office are brilliant (and patient), they felt my enormous proud pleasure when I unravelled the planner at my desk, and made suitable excited sounds when I showed them my purchase.
“It has compartments to keep cut outs from magazines!” Oh yes it does. “Wow, you can store all your phone numbers for all your contacts!” Oh yes I can. Aren’t they great, my work colleagues, relishing in my wedding fever. And this was all before we dined at an Italian restaurant near the office, and a bottle of bubbly was bought with which we toasted my happy announcement.
The next day, after wedding planner arrival and champagne clinking, one of my brilliant work colleagues, and I, joined thousands of others at Wembley stadium for the Take That reunion concert. We were lucky enough to be given free, yep you did hear that correctly, free, tickets from a supplier. (A very, very, rare thing occurred - a perk for our commitment and hard work!)
We had an hour to kill before the famous five were due on stage, so we perched ourselves at the nearest bar, ordered the cheapest wine (the prices were shocking) and began to chat. “Tell me how all the wedding plans are going, have you decided on your colour scheme?” Well, she did ask! Antique pink and country garden roses and romantic candles were discussed, before we danced and sang our hearts out to the sound of Never Forget (maybe work colleague was desperate to forget my wedding chatter), and other huge Take That hits. These were all sang on the entertaining stage with bunnies on roller skates and dragons in carnival costumes. I tried to concentrate on the singing and the outfits, but at the same time I couldn't help imagining a live band, with my father blowing his saxophone, playing to our wedding guests and the reaction it would cause from our wedding audience.
The next weekend, after traipsing around potential wedding venues with my fiancee and parents, and debating budgets over salmon sandwiches and sausage rolls, my cousins held a surprise party for my aunts 50th birthday.
“Show me your ring!” my family cried. “How did he propose?” they enquired. Of course this was all said after my aunts very surprised face entered the private party at her local pub, one must have etiquette at these surprise 50th birthday parties. I was more than delighted to oblige to answering their questions and describing a 16th century manor house and a beamed barn on a farmyard, possible contenders for our big day.
And this was all after my girlie night at our red and white polka dot home, where I provided a selection of cheese, pates and cup cakes, accompanied with ornately decorated serviettes and plastic square plates (trying to be practical and prevent endless washing up). We sat around the oak table delving into wedding magazines and shouting, “Cheers! Congratulations!” to a variety of wines, and then Tia Maria with coffee when we realised we were finding it hard to focus on the magazines and each other.
For my next post, I promise not to mention the W word. Well, ahem, I’ll certainly try folks...