I've had a case of Wedding Jitters recently. Bad dreams where it all goes wrong, the works. I blame the dressmaker I went to see the other week (she's taking up the hem of my dress). She started asking all these questions like, Who is doing your make-up? (Um... me?), What are your shoes like? (Um...dunno) and How will you be wearing your hair? (I don't bloody know!)
I ended up feeling really crap for not being the type of person that maps out every single minute detail months in advance. I am more of your make-it-up-as-I-go-along types. In novel writing and life.
Too many decisions to make! Too much organising, when I barely have the time to brush my hair in the morning, let alone think about how I might want to do it in TWO MONTHS time!! I mean... seriously...
I don't know. It all seems a lot of money and FAFF and I'm not sure it'll actually change anything whatsoever about my relationship with LP. I'm kind of wishing we'd gone for a registry office job now with two witnesses dragged off the street, then a pint in the pub. We're not doing a Wayne n' Colleen style extravaganza by any means (although if OK magazine offered to cough up £2.5m I might be tempted to shift the whole thing to Italy), but even so... having to make decisions about how we want the napkins folded and what sort of glitter we want sprinkled on the tables at the reception...arrrgghh! I don't know! I don't really care either!
I poured my heart out to Nice Neighbour yesterday. "If I'd known it was all going to be such a palaver, I think I'd rather have stayed happily unmarried," I moaned.
"But you've got all those things to look forward to!" she replied, shocked. "Like... changing your surname and..."
"I'm not going to change my surname," I interrupted.
"Oh," she said.
Sorry. Moaning. Trying hard not to. It's just doing my head in a bit...