…So wedding plans are a go-go. The venue is sorted, the meal is sorted now I just need to twist the arm of some people I know and hopefully the party will be sorted. I am beginning to think that the idea of having everything in one place is so much easier. Oh no, then I remember in London to get that dream you have to pay into the tens of thousands almost.
Sunday saw me have what I am calling a mild marital panic attack. We were in Confetti, which if you are getting married or not should be experienced, on Tottenham Court Road. If you married, you can mill around and gloat that you don’t have this to worry about. If you aren’t planning on getting married go to see the looks of mild panic etc on the faces of those who are. Also listen to the conversations people have, I didn’t know people could debate over a bride and groom to go on top of their cake for ten minutes before choosing two bath ducks kitted out in wedding regale.
At first it was fine, we wanted invitations and my thought was; ready made possibly printed and not to expensive. Well anything not being too expensive in a wedding shop is irony in itself… of the Alanis kind. I expected there to be maybe ten to choose from, not the whole 100+. I started to sweat. After a record three minutes they were chosen, only once I opened them at home did I realise that I was going to have to hand write them myself. ‘You have lovely handwriting’ said Mr B. ‘So we know who is doing that then I thought’. Having gotten weigh laid with the massive selection of Jelly Belly (why is it there?) I didn’t notice Mr B looking at table decorations. Table decorations? Table decorations? I hadn’t even thought of that. I felt a little weak.
I don’t know what it was that set me off, maybe the 50 different colour disposable cameras, the coated almonds in various pastel shades (vile both as a gift and in colour) or maybe the ‘oh my god its soon-ness’ but I sort of fell, well my legs gave way and I had to leave. I remember mumbling something that sounded like ‘too much’ and ‘my life is ending’ and then I was sat on the street with a Starbucks and fanning myself with one of the invites. I felt better but announced that we would have to not go back there until Monday when we were coming back into town to sort the dinner out.
So Monday saw us back there and this time it was much better, however I did have a slight wobble when I heard some woman banging on about how if Great Aunty Mavis didn’t get an invite for the whole day it would be tragic. Her partner replied ‘but she smells of cats’ - you couldnt make it up! I then reached into the depths of my man bag (for those of you who haven’t seen it, it gives Mary Poppins a run for her money) and realised we had left the guest list at home. Buggeration!
We get to the dinner venue, it was free that day – massive sighs of relief all round – and they were happy to give us an area that seated forty. I was so pleased I almost fainted again from relief. Well, not fainted, collapsed.
That was until I got home and counted my immediate family. There are 26 of them (not including the twins but they aren’t due until September) so that leaves me with space for 14 more people. Oh and that’s if me and Mr B don’t attend. So the decisions of which friends will come to the meal and how to word it to those who won’t has opened up a whole new tin of wedding worms. I mean people are going to be offended, right? Do I do a private family lunch with best women, grooms maids etc? It’s a bloody nightmare; I think I need to lie down.