Oo-ee.

I am a sucker for a pretty parcel and a gift tag shaped like a bird.

A Tale of Two Weddings

Eh? What's all this? TWO weddings?

Well, not only does the title of this post give me an opportunity to make a literary pun - always welcome - but, as some of you may be aware, my sister is getting wed in...ooo...TWO WEEKS. 

I know. I've only begun to come down from my monumental helium-balloon-esque high and there's another bloody wedding to look forward to. And at this one no one will be staring at little ol' me; they'll all be checking out my stunner of a sister. I shall be free to Get On Down. And I won't miss the canapes like I did at my own do (bastards). Yessssss!

Actually, they're having a Hindu blessing in the morning, then an Indian banquet, then heading for the Catholic Church at 3pm, THEN having a rip-roaring party. So it's kind of two weddings in one day. So it's really A Tale of THREE Weddings.

But then my literary pun wouldn't work. So sod that.

Ahem.

And so I shall be telling the story of TWO weddings: mine and hers. In full technicolour glory. Mine first - I'm bossy like that. It shall be a tale in numerous parts - I'll try to remember as much as I can. And I shall accompany it with some (largely unprofessional) photos to tell the real tale of the day.

Ooo, exciting.

OK. Are you sitting comfortably? Then we'll begin.

T'is the morning of Saturday the 30th July 2011. It is 5:30am. I am awake. I feel sick with nerves.

My knees are trembling. I am in LYING HORIZONTALLY IN BED (is there any other way to lie?) and my knees are trembling. This has never happened to me before. I think the most nervous I have ever been in my life prior to this point was over a piano exam.

It doesn't even begin to compare.

Adam is eight miles away in a hotel in Durham. He has texted furiously during the night at various intervals about being wide awake and about the band's missing PAT test document (oh, the romance!) and slightly more slushy things that I won't subject you to here - mainly because he would kill me.

Alex, my best friend and bridesmaid, is lying next to me. It's as if it's the old days and we're sixteen and we have slightly fuzzy heads from a 6th form party the night before and have spent half the night talking about the very important issue of WHO-GOT-OFF-WITH-WHO? We've got slightly fuzzy heads alright, but thank Christ it's from red wine rather than the Pink Kangaroos that were popular back in the day.

I am awake. No amount of self-scolding along the lines of, 'Now, come on Laura, back to sleep for another half an hour...you've a long day ahead of you, you know..." is gonna work. I am awake.

And so we get up. And we go to the hairdressers. My original hairdresser fell through and so I ended up having my hair done at 'Snippy Snipz' (honestly, the name is that bad - I can't even remember the exact name, but it was literaly THAT bad) in the middle of a council estate in Wardley. My mum knows the hairdresser's mum. One of those random connections. Oh, the glamour. I've had two trials. I go in today and ask for something different. 

"Just wave it and pin a few bits up. I don't want it to look neat, either. I want it to look, err, messy. You know."

Joanne, hairdresser to the stars of Wardley, raises an eyebrow. And does exactly as I ask.

We go back home. Everything is so bloody mentally busy I don't even have time to get nervous. The photographer arrives. My mum's counsin and her aged husband land. The DJ and family friend 'Mental Marky J Scott' waltzes through the door with a cry of, "Check out me suit, man!" My brother James dons his own suit, as does my dad. Suit Wars commence. The whiskey is opened. My dad's on tea duty. Sarah, sister-in-law-to-be, arrives and gets her make-up kit out. She tells us all the gossip from the previous night, including the drunken fallouts and OHMYGODAUNTYSUEGOTATATTOO! Aunty Sue is 66 and previously completely untattooed. Mental. We all enjoy passing aroud the Vivienne Westwood shoes and smelling them. The flowers arrive and are carried into the house on a huge tissue-paper cushion. I feel like Elton John. The car arrives. Richard - friend, guest and chauffeur for the morning - joins the party. Mum, Alex and my sister are due to leave. Neighbours gather on their driveways to wave them off.

And then all hell breaks loose.

Mum loses her glasses.

I'm tottering around the house bouquet in hand, trying to find them. Everyone else is drinking whiskey/drinking tea/taking photographs/checking their reflection/smelling the Vivienne Westwood shoes. No one is listening to me.

"Mum's lost her glasses. Clare, mum's glasses are missing. Have you seen mum's glasses?"

Mum, meanwhile, is cursing under her breath. "For f...Jesus...where's....?"

On reflection, this is honestly the most stressful point of the day. I need a klaxon. "MUM'S LOST HER GLASSES!"

Everyone snaps into action. Glasses are found. I almost cry tears of relief. Then we gather outside for the obligatory in-front-of-the-garage-door photo opportunity before everyone departs in various cars and leaves it to just me and my pa.

I love this picture. I love that my mum has just found her glasses and all is well with the world. I love the fact that Alex is practically STRANGLING her bouquet with excitement. I love that my sister is wearing a dress that goes entirely against her early stipulations ("Well, I'd like to wear a strong colour....and preferably not strapless..." - and what did I do? Put her in a strapless oyster number) and still manages to look like a stunner. I love that I look slouchy and relaxed and nonchalant and that's kiiiinda how I was feeling. I was fairly chilled by this point. Unbelievable, I know.

And then the car whisked them all away.

And it was just me and dad.

Well well well.

Reader, I married him.

And it was a day of a short lace dress, some fun shoes, a Jon Snow-inspired tie, a sprinkling of Tender is the Night confetti, 175 ENORMOUS lamb shanks, some almighty craic and a fecking brilliant band.

We're off on honeymoon armed with a copy of 'Pub Walks in Northumberland'.

Catherine's inscription on the inner leaf? "It had me at 'Pub'." Me too. Can't freakin' wait.

More of this later.

Biscuits

From those lovely Younger boys. I think they had help with the icing.

I know. I am a bad blogger.

Soo what does one do in the final run-up to a wedding?

Um, go a bit mental, it would seem. And ignore one's fledgling blog. Oopsy. 

We are having the BUSIEST TIME OF OUR LIVES. However, somewhere in amongst all of this, I read Caitlin Moran's How to be a Woman. Behold. Here is she of skunk-haired fame:

Looking a bit self-satisfied. Do you think they said to her "This is a book about feminism. Arch that eyebrow, and arch it good"?

So, yes, I read it. Devoured it, in fact - didn't really have a choice. I enjoyed it. I didn't agree with everything she said, like. But it was challenging in parts, and made me think and, of course, it was bloody hilarious.

One of the bits that made me think was, unsurprisingly, the one about weddings. It was a chapter that narked me a bit definitely challenged me. There I was feeling that I had just about made my peace with my ginormous nuptial celebrations. I mean, all those bloody Irish Catholics, no television aye aye? Ha ha YES WE'VE ALL HEARD THE BLOODY JOKES. I have thirty-odd FIRST cousins and all of their partners to contend with for a start, not to mention second cousins (a number of whom are actually closer in age to me). And I didn't want to compromise on friends, either. It really was a case of all or nothing. So we went with all. 

Cue much anxiety. Are we comfortable with spending this? We would quite like to live in North Yorkshire and play at semi-rural life...we are basically spending a house deposit on this bash, yer narr?

But it was never really an option. We wanted a bash. We wanted a sheBANG. We wanted people there.

But you see, Moran doesn't like that. Ooooh no no no. Moran got married in a (frankly awful could-only-happen-in-the-90s) red velvet dress with vine leaves in her hair. It was a 'so-crap-it's-cool' affair. Now she is probably one of my idols, but that should be said. Of the traditional wedding frippery and customs she is fairly scathing. Of big weddings she is fairly critical. About traditional weddings she doesn't have many kind words.  

And I'm paraphrasing here because I lent the book to a friend as soon as I finished it (I really DID enjoy it!), but there's a sentence that's something along the lines of: (deeply sarcastic tone) "And, you know, as a woman you don't have anything to do for a wedding, except turn up and look pretty. Heck, you don't even have to speak if you don't want to."

Now, this troubled me. I felt like I was doing everything wrong. Caitlin Moran is mint, right? Yeah? And she says that traditional weddings are lame. We should re-write the bloody rule book. I consider myself a bit of a feminist - why the HELL aren't I standing up there on my wedding day thanking my nearest and dearest and declaring my love for Bedford? Why aren't I up there screaming, "GUESS WHAT? ME! MEMEMEMEMEME!"

And I thought and I thought and I thought.

And then I realised something. I'm not standing up on Saturday (fook) in front of a room full of people to shout my joy from the rooftops because I feel I can't. I'm not doing it because I'm a woman.

I'm not doing it because in reality I'm actually a Little Bit Shy. And I would be reallyreallynervous about it.

And Bedford is Gob On A Stick and relishes things like this (even though he'll be nervous beforehand. He'll actually enjoy it. Afterwards).

(Do I sound like I'm justifying this to myself? Mebbes I am. But I can't having Caitlin Moran pulling the rug from under me at this late stage.)

So what else have I been doing? Wrapping things. Writing lists. Sticking fancy tape on every item you can imagine.

Oh, and eating biscuits. From the Younger boys. Aww. I shall pop a picture on.

Booky Wook.

"I regret that it takes a life to learn how to live."

from 'Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close' by Jonathan Safran Foer.

This quote just about sums up why this is one of my favourite books of all time. Haven't read it? Do it now. I command you. In a non-Hitler-esque way.

(the image is from here)

Dress Update

Oh dear.

I drank too much Pimms last night, and sat out in the sun for a little too long today.

My shoulder is RED, man. Mm mmm. I lobstered it good and proper, I did.

But this is the Real News: my mother brought the dress down.

I tried it on.

I closed my eyes.

My mum took a load of photos of me from various angles.

I scrutinised them.

Some of them were not nice. But then I realised I was STARING at a picture of my BACKSIDE where I was posing by deliberately STICKING MY BUM OUT in order to get a 'realistic impression'. Not so realistic, methinks.

Most of them, though, were fairly objectively lovely pictures.

And I think it looks glamorous and elegant and I'm happy with it.

Now I just need to EAT FEWER MCFLURRIES and START POUNDING THE STREETS LIKE IN 80S EDUCATIONAL TV PROGRAMME GEORDIE RACER.

Job's a good 'un.