Supposedly the Best Day of My Life

The First Issue

Hands up if you have developed an allergic reaction to the colour ivory? Hands up who has already sworn 20 times today to never lift a chocolate bar to one's lips ever, ever again?
Which of you has secretly been sneaking certain magazines underneath their usual broadsheet daily paper? (And I know you exist, I’ve seen you!) But, most of all, who has been driven to distraction by the prospect of the petrifying and previously unknown condition of “Bingo Wings”?
If you are - hopefully only in your mind’s eye - currently waving your untoned arms in the air like a ship wreck survivor, I’m very pleased to tell you - YOU ARE NOT ALONE. No, no, no. You’re really not. Walking among you, looking normal at first glance, just like you, there are females having the same random cold sweats and worries about seasonal flower arranging - because, unless you’ve got a peculiar form of OCD, you’re getting married. Congratulations!According to the Oxford Dictionary Thesaurus, you’re about to be hitched, espoused, unified, knotted, plunged, spliced, yoked and otherwise amalgamated - presumably to become a perfectly baked meringue, fit for serving on a Jamie Oliver plate for your fiance, family and friends to devour.
The entire process is also probably helping you keep the multi-national, over-priced, commercial conspiracy that is the wedding industry flourishing in its capacity of Rip Off Merchant, overshadowing Rupert Murdoch in its cruel exploitation of human emotion. Not that I want to be negative, but just getting it off my chest feels better because women are meant to want this more than anything - something I am fast coming to realise is a convenient way of getting us to do all the hard work.
All these thoughts have been building up for the last six months you see, ever since I - a self-proclaimed bastion of feminism and individuality - agreed to be Mrs David Richmond.And looking back, it’s difficult to put my finger on what exactly happened.
There are a few clues, however. It all happened atop the Eiffel Tower in early spring on my birthday after a bottle of Champagne, an afternoon of love-making in a Parisian hotel room and a perfectly-formed diamond flashing in front of my eyes. This was followed by a handsome, winning smile and an impressive “I love you, spend the rest of your life with me...??” But most of all, I am convinced, it was vertigo.
Although, I’ve never suffered from this height-defying predicament before, it came upon me suddenly like a vulture swooping from the sky and stealing my sense and balance. All became wobbly and unstable. The wrought iron structure, there for more than 100 years, seemed to be made of cotton thread and about as trustworthy as the two-inch replicas on sale at ground level. I mean, don’t get me wrong. This guy, this gorgeous man, is The One. We spent the rest of the long-weekend in a heavenly state of topsy-turvey, lovey-doviness. People even stopped us to take our picture: “C’est une bonne alliance, n’est pas?”And who could blame them? We are talking about 6ft 4in of personal trainer gorgeousness.
Dark hair, hazel eyes, long legs, great bum, a smile that makes you go weak at the knees and just the most decent, funny, clever guy I ever did meet and that ever did live in the world. After four and a half years if you still feel like that, it’s got to be worth a shot, right? ....
Even when we left Paris the vertigo hangover was long lasting. After a fabulous upgrading by BA to first class on the way back from Paris, and maybe because they gave us four bottles of Mumm Champagne to take away, we returned home still giddy.
Everyone was so happy, we were so happy, we set a date and booked the venue. The world was a long way away and la, la, la, la was all I could hear. But, as I am sure many of you are aware by now, the dream becomes a reality. Our particular reality is on September 3, this year. And already the singing of lovely tunes in my head has turned into the ringing of tills and screaming voices (mostly in my head). It all started during my first-ever visit to a wedding fair at the Industrial Museum last month - the official beginning of the “wedding season”.
The wind was getting up as my friend an I strolled down there, a nuclear sky seemed to descend and just as we approached, a red mist was gathering - even though almost everything was a variation of white or burgandy. A particular brand of female craziness hummed around the room like a swarm of bees in the air, darting from one random unsuspecting woman to the next, leaving a shell shocked expression and a sense of having been possessed. It all got too much for one couple who practically split up after the poor bedraggled husband-to-be was loudly censured about his cautious guess at which flower would look best as the buttonhole for him and his band of men. Unable to stand up to such an unreasonable demon force, he ran, fleeing from the building with a hunted look on his handsome face, his woman (and her equally bedevilled mother) screeching and yelling behind him.
However, I later saw the couple - sans mama - having a beer in the Pitcher and Piano, holding hands and cuddling, and hoped this wouldn’t be a rare moment for them, that they continue to remember why they’re doing all this in the first place. It made me think about the moment I will look at another human being and, in front of everyone I know, proclaim that I’m spending the rest of my life with him - and, actually, couldn’t I equally do that in a pair of jeans in a small office at the back of Quakers Friars before going for a curry and a glass of champers with some mates?
But, just as reality threatens to loom, like a woman hypnotised I realise that this just won’t do at all. I need to have a staircase to walk down in a bloody great mansion, with a string quartet (at least! Maybe also random harps strummed by angelic looking children?) and Gold Sparkly Things in my hair. The fact is, that I’ve got to be perfect for a whole day. PERFECT. And the question then remains, like ashes in my mouth, how is one expected to achieve that in so short a time, I beg you? With all the money we’re spending on the day, there’s not much left over for emergency plastic surgery, either. Hopefully, this deranged swinging around of emotions will be calmed by my little bit of therapy each week, here in the pages of my blog. I beg anyone who is going through this, has been through it, or who would never go through it even if you paid them, to contact me, tell me your stories - HELP ME. So, here we go, the countdown to the Big Day is on - but will it end happily ever after? No doubt we will find out ....

posted by Sadie Kenshall @ 4:52 PM