An Ungraceful Beginning to Being a Bride

It's been a while since I've written about The Wedding, and given that it is approaching quite rapidly - less than three months to go - things that have been put off until now are suddenly in need of our prompt attention. Wedding fever, as a friend put it, has started to take hold.

I have just reached the end of two very wedding focused days, and I feel practically brain dead as a result. My ability to make a decision - which is shaky at the best of times - has deserted me completely, and I miss it.

Things started out superbly on Sunday - we took our parents to the venue to try some dishes from a sample menu so that we can find the perfect meal to feed to our guests. Some dishes were a delight to eat... and some were not. These two facts led us to a fairly unanimous decision by the end of the meal, and we were easily able to confirm our choices for the wedding breakfast before we left the building:

Fabulous, dahling. (And trust me, it is - even if you can't read my scrawly attempt at calligraphy).

So, onwards to decision number two - the cake. Yesterday morning, me and Mum went to meet the cake lady - a sensible arrangement given that Fiance has advised that he will be happy with the bakery-based arrangements as long as the cake is made out of cake, and that I am full of ideas about the pattern, the colour, the shape, and ensuring it consists of layers of both sponge and fruit cake.

Despite my preparation, it turned out there were still a couple of important cake-related things I hadn't thought of. Like if we definitely wanted sponge for the bottom layer and fruit cake for the upper layers, we'd have to keep the layers separate using a cake stand - a fact which I had neglected to recognise earlier despite it being pretty obvious that a wimpy sponge wouldn't be able to hold the weight of a hefty fruit cake without the use of steel reinforced marzipan.

The question that threw me the most though was what would be going on top of it - my reaction when I realised I hadn't given this any consideration whatsoever went along the lines of 'arrrgggghhh, I don't know, stop asking me questions I don't have the answer to', which I think I controlled by maintaining an outwards appearance of human-mimicking-rabbit-caught-headlight. The cake designer was obviously used to dealing with easily bewildered brides-to-be, and calmly handed me a bunch of wedding cake magazines for me to peruse at my own leisure so I could go back all inspired with what exactly should sit atop our cake.

Magazines in hand (mistake - they were heavy), we headed into town where I nearly found my ideal bridesmaid dresses during a three hour shopping marathon in Debenhams - waiting for me in the Jane Norman outlet were dresses of the perfect colour, the perfect shape and as for the price... well, at £13.50 a pop they were a fraction of what we've been intending to spend (I feel obliged to point out that they weren't cheap dresses - they had been knocked down to a giveaway price as part of the end-of-sale-price-drop-bonanza). Sadly, however, it turned out they were not to be the perfect dress - I tried two on, both of which had unworkable zips that stuck at a certain point and refused to move any higher. Or any lower, for that matter. 

By the way, the wardrobe malfunction was nothing to do with the size of me, or the size of the dress - the zip got stuck even when it was on the hanger. But just for the record - Jane Norman, there is no way that was a size 10. 

Bearing in mind that I was guessing at whether they would fit my bridesmaids, and the distinct possibility that the zip could give way on the morning of the wedding, a prudent decision to not make the purchase was taken. A prudent decision that I was incapable of making and that came mainly thanks to my mum stepping in with her voice of reason as she realised my brain was stuck on a hamster wheel, going round in circles about what to do.

The potential bridesmaids dresses left behind, we took a break from the shopping to grab a bite to eat and to take some time to look through the cake magazines. It was a painful process - being faced with hundreds of pictures of cakes was somewhat intimidating when I didn't really know what I was looking for, and I felt my head fuddle as I turned each page and found myself faced with yet more options. Once again, Mum came to the rescue with some sensible opinions and gentle questions that helped me to narrow down what I'm after. Eventually, it became a productive browse, and I now have a couple of ideas that I can go back with to seek a professional opinion on which would work better. This is a rather bad impression of what the ideas look like:

And yes, that is a faint image of Winnie the Pooh that can just about be seen on the bottom left of the paper. I've only just noticed him - and he seems to be looking at the bottom image with some excitement. I wonder if he's indicating his preferred design? I'm happy to look to anyone else for an answer - even if that someone else is a cartoon character printed onto notepad paper that completely accidentally happens to looks like it is giving an opinion.

There was only one more decision I was asked to make yesterday, and once again I failed. This time, it was during our trip to pick The Wedding Dress up (wooooooo, I have my dress!) and to try it on before taking it away for alterations. While I was being laced up, I asked if I could try on a veil too, as I hadn't got one sorted yet. They were most obliging, and after I tried on a lovely example, the shop assistant asked if I wanted to order one. My brain had melted by this point, and while I didn't really want to pay them anything else because of the far from ideal customer service I had experienced previously, the convenience of sorting it there and then was rather enticing. I turned to Mum. 'I don't know, what do you think', I said, while my eyes pleaded TELL ME WHAT TO DO! On this occasion, it was the assistant who came to my rescue and said we can always order it at a later date because it only takes three weeks to arrive. I was delighted - I had been handed a get out of jail free card by the establishment itself, which meant I didn't have to feel guilty for testing their stock before going and buying the winning item from another shop.

My conviction for not giving them any further money was entirely confirmed when the dress was presented to us for transportation - no box, no tissue paper, just a wedding dress sized suit protector and a hasty farewell.

I had to wander half a mile from the shop to the car, carrying my prized dress across weary arms that had been burdened with the magazines and a handbag full of junk for most of the day. I did not feel like an elegant bride-to-be by the time I placed the dress as tenderly as I could into the back of the car, and slumped like a sack of jellyfish into the front seat.

 
This wedding planning malarkey is harder work than I gave it credit for.

Wedding Invitations (and minor injuries)

Much to my mum’s bewilderment, I have grown up to be a person who enjoys crafts and the art of making something from nothing. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not the type who insists on making all their own clothes out of hand spun yak wool or anything, but I do like knitting hats and scarves and other pretty things that are simple to make and difficult to get wrong.

So, partly because it was expected, and partly because I was full of inspiration, I decided at an early stage that I was going to make our wedding invitations with my own fair hands. It only took one shopping trip to ensure I was equipped with both the enthusiasm and the necessary goodies to start my one-woman production line.

Sadly, it did not take long for my enthusiasm to decline into ‘make a single proto-type invitation, before leaving the remaining materials to sit untouched in a bag for months’. After several weeks of waiting for the inspiration to return, I decided to move the untouched bag into another room to stop myself from feeling so guilty about the distinct lack of progress being made.

A further three weeks passed, and I had only managed to construct a further 5 invitations. Despite my fervent hopes, they didn’t magically multiply into the required number on their own and I began to realise why people often chose the easy route of paying someone with more motivation to get the job done.

Then we hit the ‘six months left until the Big Day’ milestone, and I panicked. If I didn’t get myself into production mode, we would be the only people partying at our wedding. It was time for action.

My fingers were nimble and swift as I cruised through the creation of the first five invitations. I giggled smugly to myself, and wondered exactly why I had put this task off for so long when it was so damn easy.

I was mid-smug-giggle when I stopped production to peel some ribbon off my index finger. The smile started to fade, before disappearing completely as I noticed I had to peel a ribbon-less invitation off my other hand. Upon further inspection, I realised that my hands were pretty much entirely covered in glue, and bits of wedding invitation.

Mainly thanks to my ability to act on impulse without thinking things through properly, I tried to wipe the gluey residue off my fingers with a tissue. Obviously, all I managed to do by pursuing this course of action was to stick bits of tissue to myself, which was not a particularly helpful development at this stage in proceedings.

Determined not to let my adhesiveness interrupt the flow of work that I had managed to produce, I persisted with my increasingly sticky fingers and knocked out another five invitations. I had found The Zone and became a blurred frenzy of wedding invitation creation as card after card was finished. I got to a tally of fifteen freshly produced cards, and ignored his rumbling stomach as I asked Fiance to put off dinner for another hour so as not to lose the momentum I had found.

Eventually, my fierce determination to make wedding invitations was overtaken by Fiance's determination to eat, and I was forced to bring a halt to my creative streak. I'll be honest - I was grateful for a reason to stop because by this time, I had sustained a grand total of three ridiculously painful papercuts and had transformed my hands into a combination of glue, glitter, tissue and odd bits of ribbon. Most importantly though, I had actually crafted thirty-five completely inconsistent, but entirely hand-made wedding invitations. (I am labelling the inconsistency as ‘charming’ rather than something I should endeavour to fix, for the general purpose of maintaining my sanity). Our rough guestimations led us to believe there were only fifteen or so more cards needed before we had the required number ready for dispatch.

I slept soundly that night, satisfied that a great day’s work had been done and that major inroads had been made towards letting our guests know about our wedding. I was similarly imbibed with positive feelings when I woke the next morning - until I tried to move, at which point I was somewhat shocked to be greeted with a stab of pain introducing itself to my lower back. This was not how my day of wedding-related-smugness was meant to be begin.

You see, in my invitation-induced frenzy the night before, I had made the mistake of putting my productivity before my posture, the latter of which was completely disregarded as the hours passed and my determination to continue persisted.

 

As a reward for me spending the night hunched over our wedding invitations, I had been blessed not with a spring in my step and a smile on my face, but with a severely tweaked muscle in my back. The next couple of days saw me wincing every time I moved, cursing every time the knuckle-based papercut re-opened itself and ever grateful that Fiance decided food was more important than indulging my feverish determination to finish the job in one sitting.

And that is a true story about how making my own wedding invitations led to silly injuries that were prevented from being worse by a hungry Fiance. I guess I owe his stomach one.

Back to our venue for a wedding fair

We went back to our beautiful venue on Sunday for a wedding fair that we’d been invited to – the main purpose of which was to chose which of the ‘feature rooms’ we would like to spend our first night as a married couple in.

They’re quite clever little blighters – we’ve opted for a great value fixed price deal which includes one of these ‘feature rooms’ for the newlyweds – but not necessarily one of our own choice. We can express our interest in any particular room, but if some cruel, wedding crushing individual came along and decided to pay for the room we had opted for, our wishes would go straight out of the window. 

Straight out of the window unless we gave them some more money that is. Sneaky - their experience means they know how brides behave and can capitalise on this :

Now, we might have been prepared to take a chance had the rooms been of a similar standard – but some seemed to lack the practicality you would expect of a bridal suite. Like somewhere to hang a wedding dress. It understandably might not have been at the forefront of Fiance’s mind, but I’m sure not spending all that money on a dress only to have it hung up on the floor at the end of the day.

After an hour or so spent fighting our way past the other groups who were also inspecting the various suites, we finally decided on our favourite – complete with a fancy spa bath and adequate hanging space. As soon as we had decided, a switch flicked in my head that told me every single other person present was getting married in our venue, on our day, and had decided they wanted to book our room. The race was on for us to get back to reception through the throng of wedding couples - and past a rather inappropriately placed string quartet - so that we could get our room sorted.

Of course, my Bridezilla inspired paranoia was misplaced, and we managed to get our room booked with no problems whatsoever. And the extra charge just went straight onto the bill, which doesn’t have to be paid for ages – and thanks to the way my brain works, this is as good as free as I will no doubt have forgotten about it by the time it comes round to settling up.

There were also some great table set ups that would go perfectly with our theme, and I got some info about the hair and makeup people who are actually located at the hotel and therefore perfectly placed for the primping and preening that me and my bridesmaids get to enjoy on the morning of the big day. These are another couple of things I was keen to get straight sooner rather than later.

While I still haven’t reached full time stress at the amount of stuff that hasn’t been sorted yet, I am admittedly starting to experience the odd moment where it hits me and I have to stop and take a deep breath. In my (probably) naive way, the fact I now have contact numbers for people who can decorate me, my girls, and the room kind of means those things are now sorted. Even though that is, in all honesty, some distance from the truth.

In other wedding news, I finally got the name of someone at the dress shop who I can trust – after a week spent waiting for a call that I should have known wouldn’t emerge, I called back and spoke to someone who promised they would keep me informed of any progress. She could obviously detect the forced calm in my voice as I explained my situation and to my delight, I got a call last week that confirmed my dress would be arriving in December (woo!). Continuing her good work, I got a call this afternoon to let me know that the sample of fabric had turned up, would be put in the post straight away and would probably be with me tomorrow. I’m so pleased to have finally gotten a decent response from the shop, I probably won’t even go mad if the sample doesn’t arrive for a couple of days.

And for the final piece of news - we have been mega-huge-lucky on the wedding cake front. A few posts ago, I mentioned my mum’s new job and its potential for wielding a discount on the fruity/spongy artistic concoction and my mum has finally done some investigating. Not only can we get a 20% discount – which is most definitely not to be sniffed at – the lady who makes the cakes has just won an award. In fact, she is so good, she beat a rival who is frequently asked to make wedding cakes for the footballers of Manchester. Suck it Manchester footballers, our cake will be better than yours. This is the kind of result that makes me glad of our fairly laid back attitude – if we had panicked and booked at the last wedding fair we went to, we’d have missed this amazing opportunity.

So I guess what I am saying is that our wedding is teaching me that patience is a virtue. And what an inspirational way that is to end a post.

Bridezilla contemplates a format change - and I remember hiding from my parents

My parents expressed their anger-slash-disappointment in very different ways as I was growing up – Dad was the explosive one, who would shout and rage intensely for five solid minutes before blowing himself out and instantly forgetting about whatever incident it was that caused the rage in the first place, whereas Mum was much more of the silent, glowering type, who would not rage, but who would insist on referring to the incident quietly and calmly over a period of hours.

Mum definitely was the superior in terms of making you regret your actions over the long term, but I was more scared of Dad, who would make you regret everything you’d ever done throughout the five minute tirade – I guess loud things are more intimidating than self-improvement to a child. I think I will always remember one particular occasion when my mum once used the dreaded phrase ‘Just you wait until your dad gets home’ in response to one act of naughtiness, the actual details of which I have since completely forgotten. 

 

In the several hours I had between the threat being issued and the time Dad was due home, I was convinced Mum would be building an excellent case against me, and decided the best plan of action would be to hide somewhere so I could not be found. Employing the kind of logic only a child can muster, I reasoned that Dad would then shout at the fact he couldn’t find me, before forgetting the whole incident (including the original sin), at which stage I could safely reveal my presence without fear of the rage descending upon me.

I was so sure my grand plan would be a success, I decided to put it into action immediately and proceeded to squeeze myself into a small gap between the fitted wardrobes in the spare room and a nearly adjoining wall. Note that there was no consideration as to how long it would actually be until Dad got home.

I stood, squashed in this tiny gap, for what seemed like hours until finally, I heard the front door open. I stiffened and crossed my fingers (an act which guaranteed success in everything when you were a child) that this was to be the beginning of the triumphant conclusion to my grand plan.

Fifteen minutes later, there still hadn’t been the bellow of anger I expected as Mum relayed the details of the now unknown atrocity, so heinously committed by their eldest daughter. I tensed as he headed upstairs to get changed, but there wasn’t even a glance around the room to see where I was. I was baffled, and grew more nervous. Had she told him, and he’d decided to store his rage until our paths crossed instead of using his anger rations at the distinct lack of his daughter's presence? Half an hour later, and there had still been no reaction. I had been crammed into the cubby hole for hours by this stage so the discomfort, as well as the temptation presented by the smells of dinner wafting up the stairs got the better of me. There was also a certain sense that it would be better all round if I just got it over with.

I carefully un-squeezed myself from my hiding place and tentatively headed downstairs. 

I poked my head round the kitchen door to face my fate, fearing the absolute worst. There was absolutely nothing – well, there could have been a cheery ‘hello, where have you been?’ but there were no quiet and calm comments and there was definitely no shouting. The entire incident, the one that led me to hiding in an impossible gap for hours, had been forgotten. I was elated that I had dodged a bullet, but also a little disappointed that I had put all that effort into wasting an afternoon playing hide-n-seek on my own, when I could have been up to whatever stuff it was that made being a kid such fun.

I would like to think I transformed into the perfectly behaved child after this incident but I suspect this was not the case. I do know that thanks to the different techniques employed by my parents, I have grown up as a balanced individual. By which I mean that I fall back on both types of anger-slash-disappointment management – certain incidents are met with an explosive and impressive volley of loudly uttered swear words, yet others I handle with a grim sense of acceptance that manifests itself in frequent calm, yet passionate statements of general annoyance. Generally, the former is the result of someone else’s actions, the latter is in response to situations I have created entirely by myself and could have been oh so easily avoided. And Heaven forbid if I put myself in a stupid situation that someone else makes worse. 

And on to the fate of Bridezilla. As the posts have become longer, I've realised that I really enjoy the freedom of writing this way and that I've had less pleasure from coming up with ideas for the comic lately - probably because of the restrictions of the current template. So, I am considering a change of format. The idea is to create a new page on this blog for the comics to be posted on - and this main page right here is going to continue the more recently adopted stories about me and my frequently silly life. And the wedding of course. I’ll still be updating here every Monday and Thursday, and the Bridezilla page will be updated whenever the inspiration grabs me. I'm not forgetting Bridezilla by any stretch of the imagination, just shifting the focus of the main page. And that note, I have some redesigning to do. Watch this page for the changes!

Bridezilla Goes to a Theme Park - and I go Argentinean

During our seven years together, Fiance and I have quaffed an awful lot of wine - and because he is good at paying attention, Fiance has used that time to accumulate an impressive amount of knowledge about different grape varieties and the foods they are best suited to. I am grateful for that, mainly because my ability to differentiate between types of vino is strictly limited to ‘ooh, that is red/white/rose’ and my choices often revolve around how much I like the name of any given brand rather than its suitability for a meal.

Also, this:

Because the knowledge would not do me any harm, and because I knew Fiance would enjoy it, I booked us in for an Argentinean wine and food event at a local restaurant. Last night finally heralded the arrival of the eagerly anticipated evening and things got off to a great start as we were greeted at the door with a glass of white, and invited to take a seat at the bar so we could enjoy the beverage whilst awaiting the arrival of the other guests.

Forty-five minutes and two glasses of wine later, we were seated at our table but still waiting for the last of the revellers to arrive. A further fifteen minutes passed with no action, and so I decided it would be safe to make a quick dash to the ladies.

It was not safe. I had just locked the door when I realised the worst case scenario was kicking into gear as I heard the chink of a wine glass that signalled the start of the wine spiel. This was awkward. I had shoes on that became as loud as gunshots when combined with the wooden flooring adorning the establishment, and there was a tight path of other diners to weave through in order to get back to our table. With a confidence that can only be mustered after two glasses of wine on an empty stomach, I envisaged myself making it back to our table, both subtly and elegantly, winning admiring glances from the elderly patrons whose eyes would glaze over as they cast a fond memory back to their lives as late-twenty-somethings.

That did not happen. Thanks to the combination of two glasses of wine and an empty stomach, my return to the table was neither subtle or graceful. Sounding like a rhythmical round of gunfire, I tottered back into the dining room, bumped into an empty table and knocked the menus onto the floor.

People were watching, but not in an envious, I-wish-I-was-still-that-age kind of way. I walked on as if nothing had happened and gratefully made it back to the haven of our table with a lot more noise – some of it undoubtedly the result of the combined tutting of the elderly guests at the other tables – but without the dreaded I’ve-just-walked-straight-into-a-pensioner incident.  

Some knowledge later – the only piece of which I can remember today is that cuttings from European grape vines were first introduced to Argentina in the mid-1500s – and we were poured another two glasses of different wines and asked to enjoy them with the first course that was due to arrive, and to observe how the food changed the flavour of the tipple. During the 5 minute wait between the wine arriving and the food being delivered, I’d drunk half of each of the two glasses of wine and proclaimed that one of them – a chardonnay – ‘tasted like church’.

Despite it being an inherently silly comment, this was probably the highlight of my wine-based-intelligent-chatter throughout the evening. By the end of the first course, we were 4 glasses of wine down, and only half way through the event. The main meal was preceded by another two glasses of wine. We suddenly realised why everyone else there was so old – they were all happily retired, safe in the knowledge that they didn’t have to get up early the next morning if they didn’t want to.

By the time it got to the third and final course – a triumphant vanilla and caramel cheesecake (I think) – we were both incapable of finishing the glass of mega-sweet desert wine intended to pleasure our taste buds. Our reluctance to induldge may have been due, in part, to the vast amount of wine consumed by this stage, but also accountable is the fact that the last glass was introduced as a wine made from grapes that had been left to go mouldy on the vine. I could think of a dozen better ways of endearing an audience to a particular product, and none them involve using the word ‘mould’. 

 

Despite - or may be because of - the very drunken end to the evening, we had a wonderful night. However, I can't help but feel like I didn't walk away with an enhanced knowledge of wine - unless, of course, you count my new belief that Argentinean chardonnay tastes like church, and that mouldy wine is not the perfect end to a heavily marinated meal. I suspect this was not the proprietor's intended outcome for the evening.

On that non-bombshell, let's get on to today's Bridezilla, who's having her usual bad experiences when she goes to a theme park for a day out...

Bridezilla Goes to a Game - and I get terrorised by an arachnid

We have apparently reached that time of year when the evil spider clans send their strongest members to march forwards on the dwellings of humans, armed with eight scary legs and the chief mission of finding a bolt hole from which they can commence Operation Horror on the residents of the freshly invaded houses.

Fiance and I are currently suffering such an attack, with the latest spider-gang member announcing his presence last week. The assailant elected to place himself strategically at the top of the tallest wall in the house - the one that flanks the stairs - before proceeding to sit there proudly for hours, not moving, just carefully observing whilst calmly conveying his intent.

We weren't prepared to hand over the ownership of our wall, so we needed to take action against the unwanted squatter. I set to work, assessing our options and the potential strategies we could wage in our war against the arachnid.

Plan A was the usual newspaper-based spider splat - however, thanks to his ingenius positioning in a very high, pretty much unreachable spot on the wall, there was no way I could reach the offending creature without the momentum of the swipe sending me over the railings and down the very steep stairs, where I would await the inevitable moment where the spider claimed his victory by bungee jumping onto my (probably broken) back.

Plan A was therefore swiftly ruled out. Plan B needed to eliminate the personal injury potential, and so I considered throwing something at the eight-legged monster. It would need to be a fairly solid projectile - something that had enough weight to ensure an instant squishing on contact.

I quickly deduced this was not a fool proof plan.

You see, I'm not a very good shot, and there's a good chance I'd take a chunk of plaster off the wall at a significant distance away from my intended target. Even if I had gotten close, the spider would have likely seen the giant shoe hurtling towards it and scuttled away, thus denying me my goal. So Plan B was also out, given the high probability that it would have left us with a startled, but still very much alive enemy, as well as a mark on the wall that I would forever glimpse out of the corner of my eye and jump at, convinced the dark shape signified a spider's presence.

Plan C involved a cat. This was possibly my most flawed plan yet. They are indeed masters at spider disposal, but I don't actually own a feline arachnid removal device, which presented the first significant problem. I could have borrowed a cat, but even then, I'm not entirely convinced it would have been able to scale a vertical wall to get to its target, so there was a high chance we would have still been facing a spider nonchalantly sitting in a location that is impossible to reach.

And I'm pretty sure that combining plans B and C would mean that no neighbour would let me borrow their cat again.

After consulting Fiance, we eventually opted for Plan D - which mainly revolved around us pretending the problem did not exist for the rest of the evening, and hoping the giant eight-legged spider scout would relocate itself somewhere more convenient for its demise. We slept with the bedroom door closed that night, and woke the next morning full of nervous anticipation.

Our plan failed. The evil spider disappeared and 5 days later, has successfully maintained whatever cover it has found itself. This does not mean I am satisfied. I leap out of my skin when I spot anything moving out of the corner of my eye. Even if that something is Fiance.

The problem now is the unknown, and that is far worse than our previous situation. At least for that one evening, I knew where it was. By now, the huge spider could be anywhere - hiding in a pocket maybe, just waiting to give me a nasty surprise as I dip my hand in to find an old packet of gum.

Or hiding in a bedroom based cubby hole (it was impractical to keep the door closed forever), waiting to explore and find a new home while we sleep.

Or maybe - and this is probably my greatest fear - it is just sitting and waiting for the perfect moment. The perfect moment to prove my point about why spiders are so damn scary in the first place, and why I never wish to have one living in our house.

I am half prepared for all of these things to happen to me at some point over the next few days. I am turning into a paranoid, nervous wreck who refuses to believe the wall-dwelling spider has simply slipped away quietly. If it has left the house, I am sure it will only be a temporary relief as it rallies the troops and builds a spider army who will camp out in the unreachable spot of our house.

In summary: I do not like spiders, and there is still a huge one running amok in our house.

At which point, I believe it is high time to conclude the lengthy spider-based ramblings, and move on to today's Bridezilla installment, where she has the pleasure of going to a sporting event. Obviously, it was a far from perfect day out, but at least she isn't terrorised by an unseen-but-still-out-there arachnid.

Bridezilla Goes for a Bike Ride - and I talk about hair accidents

I am lucky enough to not have to work Mondays, and until recently, I mainly spent them with my mum, being a lady that lunches and shops and talks wedding stuff. However, like all good things, it couldn't last forever - Mum has changed job and she is working Mondays at the new place. I am delighted for her - she always jokingly said she wanted to work at this particular place (and there is a good chance they make wedding cakes, which is excellent news for me and Fiance) - but it does mean that I now need to find ways of entertaining myself.

Today for example, I have mainly been scoffing at the poor quality of daytime TV, whilst simultaneously talking myself out of cutting a fringe into my hair (which by the way, is finally moving away from black towards a very dark brown instead - albeit very slowly). I know the sensible thing is to book myself an appointment at the hairdressers and let a professional do it, but that means enduring the mind-numbing conversation that neither of us particularly wishes to make, with the alternative being a very lengthy awkward silence if one does attempt a jabber-free wash and chop. So I have been putting that off for about... well about a year, in all honesty. But I would like a new fringe to accompany the new colour and as a result, I have only just managed to manhandle my willpower into agreeing that it is potentially a very bad idea to do it myself. This is hopefully a sign that I am finally learning some things are best left to the people who know what they're doing.

While the majority of my hair experiments have gone as planned, there are plenty in the back catalogue that have not. Like when teenage me decided that my addiction to Sun In should finally came to an end after a year and a half, and that an autumnal brown would be a much better colour instead. The very blond shade of blond that I had achieved from the lightening spray did not go autumnal brown. It went pillar box red.

That was my first ever self created hair error. I thought I would learn.

I did not. A few years of brown/black later, I decided wanted to be blond again. Hey I'd done it before, everything would be fine, right? Wrong. The last colour hadn't completely faded, but had started to grow out, which left a rather unusual result on my head. Not unexpected, now I apply logic and hindsight to the situation, but at the time I was horrified to see myself in the mirror sporting a white blond one inch strip where the naturally coloured roots had been, the remainder presenting itself as bright bright orange, and the entirety adopting a texture that can only be described as reminiscent of a straw bale.

At least if it was all one colour it would have been consistent, no matter how awful. But it felt like that white stripe was there to spite me, to remind me how stupid I was to think I was able to handle such a drastic change by myself.

Despite my own personal mishaps however, it was an incident that happened to a school friend of mine that really set the smackdown on my 'gah, do it, cut yourself a fringe' attitude. Realising her fringe was due a cut, and rather than mentioning it to her mum in order to get a trip to the hairdressers sorted, she decided to do it herself. And she sneezed just as she put scissor to hair.

While I am still not sure I have entirely quashed the voice that says 'just do it' , this tale in particular has kept me on the straight and narrow. For today anyway.

And now that my disasters are out of the way, it's on to see what is awaiting Bridezilla today as she goes for a bike ride. Things will go wrong, but at least her hair doesn't appear to have suffered any disasters...

Bridezilla Goes Camping - and I go to a party

I honestly did not know what I was going to ramble about today. Suffering from the day-after-the-day-after-the-night-before malaise, I felt done in by the time I got back from work and was convinced that my memory for all the things I could spraff about had deserted me.

Then I remembered the reason for the malaise - the work party we had this week. We're in the process of moving to a new office, and to celebrate the occasion, the company threw a launch party - complete with Important Figures from the Local Community, casino tables and a magician. I wasn't sure to what to expect from the evening and was a tad apprehensive about the whole affair, so I was delighted to find the champagne had been opened (and was already being quaffed) by the time I arrived.

By which I mean I was second in the queue to have a glass. Ahem.

Despite the potential for it being an awkward evening, a great time was had by all. The magician in particular left a lasting impression. Probably helped a lot by the fact he looked like a normal chap in a suit, rather than the image I had conjured in my head. 

 

Being of an age where I am fully aware that magic is not real (but not, apparently, of an age to realise that magicians are actually normal people who don't swoosh around in black robes) I was especially careful in watching his hands to make sure I could catch the all important moment where he makes the switch and brag about it to all and sundry. But I saw nada. Nothing. Zip. He made my engagement ring disappear (and let's be fair - it takes a fair bit of magic to persuade anyone to take off such a special piece of jewellery in the first place), before it reappeared on a keyring, disappeared again and finally turned up in a wallet. It was pretty spectacular and I'm sure I never saw him do the same trick twice (nothing to do with the amount of champagne quaffed, I promise).  I'm even considering asking the company for his details - he would be a truely awesome special guest to have wandering round the wedding guests after the speeches are done. 

And on that kind of wedding related note, it's time to move on to the adventures of Bridezilla, who today has gone on a camping trip...

Bridezilla Goes to a Gig - and my hair changes colour!

I'm pretty lazy when it comes to my hair. It sits there on top of my head, and tends to be not very exciting. But about once a year I decide to do something about it - usually as an effort to cheer myself up as autumn approaches - so I went and bought myself a hair dying kit and set to work. Being of a rather mousey brown shade naturally, I thought a couple of shades darker would do the trick nicely and opted to buy the very safe sounding 'Natural Dark Brown'. This is what I thought was going to happen:

 

This is not what I now look like. Admittedly, this is probably entirely my own fault for not reading the instructions properly, and racing ahead and slapping the bottle onto bone dry hair rather than the very clearly-specified-in-the-directions wet hair. The end result is a colour that is definitely not natural dark brown:

I have got black hair. I don't dislike it - in fact, I have actively chosen to turn my hair black before - but it is not the colour I chose this time and I therefore consider it a faux pas. A permanent faux pas that sits on top of my head, and hopefully reminds me of the importance of following instructions carefully. They are there for a reason.

So now today's little ramble is out of the way, it's time to head onwards to the latest edition of Bridezilla - this time she is off to a gig, and is sadly afflicted by the same issues that I encounter when I go to watch a favourite band play...

Bridezilla Takes a Flight - and we officially have a photographer!

The form has been signed, and the money has been paid - we have officially got ourselves wedding photographers! Two! Well, one company made up of a couple - so double the shots for the same price. Happy days indeed.

We now get to spend some time thinking about the 'pre-wedding shoot' - a (free!) chance to get used to the camera, to find out which kind of shots we like, and most importantly, to get to know the couple who'll be bossing our family and friends about on our big day. Whilst Fiance isn't quite as enthusiastic about it as I am, I have to say I think it's a really good idea. Mainly because we get to choose the location - and my one and only suggestion so far has been the wonderful Baslow Hall - the gorgeous country house hotel that we got engaged in. It was an amazing place, so any excuse to go back suits me just fine! And it just feels like it would be the perfect reminder of the start of our engagement and the fun journey it's led us on.

So, I am now sitting back and revelling in the knowledge that we have a venue, a date, a photographer and a dress. Everything else can fall into place closer to the time. This is a lovely feeling.

I shall continue to enjoy it as we arrive at the inevitable time where Bridezilla turns up with her trials, tribulations, and wedding related epiphanies.  Today, she's taking a flight - and of course, things don't go smoothly...