To be fair I’ve always been a massive worrier, panicker, highly strung, neurotic etc etc. And yes, as my boyfriend – sorry, fiance (cringe) – euphemistically puts it, I may ‘have some control issues’. As in I will never give it up and I want it all the time. Couple this with a wonderful winter walk on Christmas Day and a beautiful ring on my finger and the result is a melodramatic meltdown. I love my future husband to bits, and I can’t wait to marry him. I’m excited and very, very happy. However, I already seem to have failed to heed my father’s advice (said with gruff Scottish accent after a few festive beverages), to “steer clear of the wedding juggernaut”. Right. Instead, it has swung into action like a cop’s battering ram on a drugs raid. Batten down the hatches.
You would think it would be easy. I should do it the bloke’s way: Church. Venue. Guests. Clothes. Done deal. End of story. Except it’s not. Oh no. The wedding industry is a ferocious feral beast, and believe me, if you’re a woman and have been dreaming of this day for most of your life, you want to get it right. Welcome to the first stumbling block. Choices. There are so many CHOICES. What kind of reception venue? Hotel, hall, barn, country club, marquee? Football pitch? Pirate ship? Church? Civil ceremony? Humanist ceremony? Beach ceremony? My blood pressure is climbing so rapidly at this point that I feel I must end my first blog entry. Especially as I am edging towards (heraldic trumpet fanfare here please) ‘THE DRESS’. And that definitely needs a post of its own….