I’m getting married in the... afternoon

I sit here surrounded by clothes. Hanging along the wall beside me are my wedding dress, the bridesmaids’ dresses (which are bright blue, and have no design link whatsoever with mine) and my brother’s kilt and Highland jacket. He does look rather good in his kilt.

My sister and my cousin have morphed into Team Bridesmaid. They work together with incredible efficiency, finish each other’s sentences and, every so often, fall about laughing for reasons not totally apparent to outsiders. No doubt they’re about to come along and start organising me - they hold full responsibility for getting me to the church on time. I’m not nervous. Yes I am. No I’m not.

Well, I wasn’t nervous at all until the rehearsal last night, before which I thought I knew my vows. The D. B. and I made the misguided decision, several weeks ago, that we weren’t going to do the usual thing where the minister reads out a line and you repeat it. No, we were going to learn them. It’s only eleven lines – how hard could it be?

Hard. I’d repeated them in front of the D. B. lots of times, but the rehearsal was the first time either of us had had to say them in front of anyone else. First he went wrong, and then I went wrong. The bridesmaids have now heard me repeat them rather a lot. Worrying about forgetting my lines then got mixed up with worrying about tripping over my dress, grinning like an idiot and generally behaving gracelessly on the one day when everyone will be looking at us. And I hated saying goodbye to the D. B. last night when he went off to the hotel to stay the night. Which is ridiculous, because I see him all the time since he lives with me, but I like having him around, especially when I’m feeling a little fraught.

This feeling has worn off now and I’m not nervous any more (she says firmly).

Actually, given that my main failing is disorganisation, there’s not that much I can wreck. The D. B. has the schedule (the legal bit) and the rings. The bridesmaids and Mr Newbigging the militarily precise driver will get me there. All I need to do is smile, not fall over my train (or step in a puddle, another distinct possibility) and SAY MY LINES.

This blogentry has been temporarily suspended, twice so far, by people coming in to take my picture. Well, you can’t get married without a ceremonial photo of you doing your Last Single Blogentry, can you? I’ve been up for about 20 minutes, so I’m still in my tartan dressing gown, pyjamas and woolly socks, my eyes aren’t fully open yet and my hair is in a scruffy and slept-upon plait. I am a watchword for glamour. We made a decision months ago that we wouldn’t have the photographer around the house to take “reportage” style photos. Evidently my family are going to fill the gap!

Time to go and have breakfast, I think, where photos will no doubt be taken of the bride eating oatmeal and drinking coffee. Thanks to all the lovely people who have sent me e-mails and comments and things. It’s great to know that people are thinking of us, and I will respond to you. At some point. I am a terrible neglectful person and I’ll never have such a good excuse for being a lousy correspondent again! When you next hear from me I shall be a married woman...
Hey, the sun just came out. Stay right there, sun!