Any Other Wedding

Weekend Wonderings

2012-02-11T07:00:00.002Z

I don't like films all that much. Not compared to books. Usually in a film I get confused and end up asking Mr K what just happened and can he rewind and it's just not relaxing. And films usually screw up books' storylines.

We know of Team AOW's love for The Hunger Games. I really don't want to love the film. I was convinced they'd make Katniss sexy, and Hollywood-ise the hell out of what is a dark, complex and terrifying story.

But if this trailer is anything to go by? They've done well.

Goosebumps, readers!

And just because I really love you, here's my guiltiest pleasure of them all. I've been in love with Ryan Gosling for six years, which is a long time. (Yes, it's unrequited. At the moment). My boundless love stems not because of his acting ability, not because of his looks, not because of his winning personality. My love stems from the fact that I'm fairly sure that I'd be in love with anyone who kisses like...well, like this:

Especially in a Darfur t-shirt.

Happy weekend, readers. Go find someone and do that. I'm off to try not to break Mr K's spine.

Any Other Photo {Shaun and Jackie}

2012-02-10T07:00:00.002Z

Tom's post this week on why we should all be feminists was the talk of twitterland all day and led to some pretty thought-provoking and interesting comments, so we know that you love a post from a man here on AOW. And we love nothing more than pleasing you lot, so today dear readers, we have the treat of our first ever "groom's AOP" (more of these please. Get your husbands on this).

I think it's really interesting that we've had a few AOPs recently that haven't included the significant other in the picture, but instead have shown the writer with someone else who means something to them. It's a great reminder that, yes, the day is about the two of you and your everlasting love, but it's also about more than that. It's about building community, sharing with family and cementing friendships...

[Anna butting in here: What's amazing is that Shaun didn't show a picture of his wife who is just about the most smoking hot bride I have ever seen. Which goes to show how much this picture means to him and how shallow I am. So...get on that, Shaun. An AOP from Jackie. Stat.]

I originally tweeted at Anna about men contributing to the blog just to wind her up because it's something I enjoy doing. I honestly did not expect to be posting anything let alone tell you about a picture.

The photograph below is not of my beautiful bride and myself, it is actually of the best man, Giles and myself. The picture was taken just after we had gotten to the venue, while we were discussing how to use the chains on the sporrans to send each other messages over the day. I think we decided on signals for specific drinks and indicating whose turn it was to go to the bar.

I chose it as it reminds me that, while it was a very special day shared with friends and family, I got to do silly things with a friend. He suffered through the wedding preparations as much as I did for two reasons. Firstly, his then fiancee was my future wife's Maid-of-Honour and passed all her complaints onto him, so that he could inform me what I apparently was doing wrong. Secondly, whenever he asked me about anything to do with the Bachelor's Party, I would stall and put off for as long as I could. I think it got to the point of him threatening me with bodily harm. He was there when I needed someone to confide in or if I just had to hear "Stop being stupid."

However, it is a mark of a real friend who says "Let's do it!" when you inform them that you want to wear a kilt at the wedding. Seven months later we got to repeat the whole performance when I was one of his best men at his wedding.

Adventures of a Wedding Belle - Practice and Preparation prevents Piss Poor Performance...

2012-02-09T07:00:00.000Z

I have many, many things to say about Bella's 7-moths-and-counting piece. The first is that I am so very sorry it didn't actually go up on the 8th-the 8th being yesterday. Yesterday wasn't the 7th, like I thought it was. Duh.

Secondly, I KNOW that I said the very same thing last month, but how WONDERFUL is Bella's writing? It was also fantastic-that's why we leapt on her to become a regular writer for us. With each month, she gets better and better and last month I thought she'd peaked. Yet here she is with a piece that, as I sit here in my PJ's with a cup of tea and a cat purring on my lap, has made me cry. I can't put into words why, or how, because it will give away the sheer beauty of her writings, suffice to say that you should should take some time and really read this.

Bella, you never have to apologise to us, evereverever. Just don't stop writing. Ever.

Also, I loves me husband with a beard on his face.

I think we all need a healthy dose of anti-apologetism. Yes, that’s a word. It means we blooming well don’t need to apologise for anything to do with our weddings. It’s ok to love the wedmin, to want to lose weight, to wear your glasses (seriously, why would anyone ask? Of course I want to see. All you’ve left me with is a complex) or to run off into the night and do it your way. We all know it, and I have loved all of the comments over the last few weeks to this effect, so massive thanks to the much needed perspective.

One exception, though. It’s probably not ok to be a nightmare and demand kittens and puppies and white calla lilies hand-sprayed with the exact shade of glitter to match our shoes/headbands/garters/hotel room carpet so the pictures look better. (Although I would love a kitten as a wedding present. That’s by the by.) So, like all good 12 step programmes, I’ll start with hi. My name is Bella and I want to spend time planning my wedding. Phew. That’s better. Now, where was I?

Last month was, as you’ll know from my last post, a bit of a detail oriented one so thank you so much for all of your advice. To keep you in the loop, we said yes to the wedsite, and stopped feeling bad about the plus ones. The jury on the dress is officially out, and will be for another month or so…. Which means I am now trying to sell two dresses online. Silly Bella.

January brought with her a need to focus on the BIG bit. You know, that bit. The ‘fficial bit. The ceremony. This was, obviously, always going to be important and I felt, as I know a lot of you have done, an awful lot of pressure to make it oh-so-us. Which is ridiculous, no? It’s the ceremony! It’s about us! What more can I do?

Our C of E service is shaping up quite nicely, but I got genuinely upset when the readings didn’t pop into my head. We have our bible reading, and are asking Betrothed’s dad to choose what he reads, but wanted to choose the third together. I wanted something a bit different, but that meant something. Something that wouldn’t be impossible to read (so Jabberwocky is out then) or would make me think of my late Grandmother (When I am old I will wear purple. I love my Grandma but I will just cry) – and Betrothed vetoed this, one of my favourite parts from Much Ado about Nothing (although it will be on the back of the order of service):

Beatrice: Just, if he send me no husband; for the which blessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and evening. Lord, I could not endure a husband with a beard on his face. I had rather lie in the woollen!Leonato: You may light on a husband that hath no beard.Beatrice: What should I do with him? dress him in my apparel and makehim my waiting gentlewoman? He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man; and he that is more than a youth is not for me; and he that is less than a man, I am not for him.

[For those of you who haven’t seen him, which is all but 2 of you, this is funny because Betrothed has a beard and apparently my chat up line revolved around said beard… I don’t remember this.]

But en route to marriage preparation class our third reading fell into place. Having debated the various merits of a sonnet or two, I piped up that there was a song that I felt summed us up perfectly, a song that made me think of Betrothed, that I couldn’t listen to in work because it makes me go all googly-eyed. Betrothed answered with ‘I have a song in mind, too’ and thankfully, it was the same one. We haven’t quite worked out if we should use the entire thing, and we definitely have to run it past our Rev, but fingers crossed it’ll be fine! I feel it’s only fair to give you lovely ladies (and gents, hi!) a clue as to which song: it has this beautiful line in it “I could do without a tan, on my left hand, where my fourth finger meets my knuckle” – now that’s my kind of romance.

This month I wanted to talk to you all (write to? Share with you my thoughts…) about marriage preparation class. The journey from church service to civil and back again was quite bumpy, and definitely confusing, but as soon as we met our Rev (Rev Lovely, not her real name) the deal was sealed. One thing we were prepared for was marriage prep. Over the last eight months or so we have had those words bandied around, usually with awful stories of embarrassing chats and out of touch priests, by every person who has asked where we are getting married – often in quite a derisive ‘oh, you’re getting married in a CHURCH?!!’ way. I was quite surprised by how much I have had to defend our decision to marry in a Church, but having now been fully prepped for marriage I can safely say that although marriage preparation class didn’t ever seem necessary, by golly was it an eye opener.

For Betrothed and me it came at the exact right time, and made us take a step back not just from the wedding planning but from various stressful situations we are currently facing, individually and as a couple. It was, quite frankly, fricking awesome. Even Betrothed said so, and that’s saying something.

So, there we were, slightly chilly, at a church in the same parish at ours in Berkshire. Rev Lovely and her fab team were waiting, with tea, juice, biscuits and bucks fizz – a great start I’m sure you’ll agree. The idea behind the whole exercise wasn’t, as Rev Lovely explained, to lecture us on how to live together and what marriage means in the eyes of the Church. Instead, it was to encourage us to take the time, without outside distraction, to think about the vows we are going to be making – vow by vow. I can imagine if you are able to write your own vows you choose your words after careful consideration and with much heartfelt thought. In a CofE Church you need to stick to the outline the Rev says, which is pretty great so I don’t have any complaints – but had we taken any time to think about the specific words we would be speaking? The exact vows we would be making? Well, no. Not really.

Each vow had an activity, and it was up to us to make our way round the Church, completing these activities. One couple finished the course in 45 minutes, another took over three hours. Bethrothed and I looked at each other at this little revelation, safe in the knowledge that we’d be on the quicker end of that spectrum. We’d even booked a taxi for precisely 2 hours later, allowing a bit of wiggle room to eat a few extra biccies and discuss our readings.

At first we were really nervous, as if we were getting silently marked and if we didn’t ‘pass’ a massive klaxon would sound and the wedding would be off. So to ease the nerves we scoffed the biccies and I went into bossy overload! It would take me another couple of thousand words to outline precisely what we did (although if anyone wants to know, message me) but highlights were:

To have and to hold: writing down what we thought we as individuals would bring to the marriage, and discussing these. A great way to see how your partner really sees you, in comparison to how we see ourselves. We found out we have very different definitions of the word ‘practical’…

From this day forward: 12 months, 5 years, 10 years, 20 years, 40 years, 60 years on footprints – we had to write down what we wanted to have accomplished and compare them. Betrothed found out I wanted to be travelling round the world in 66 years time, and I found out he wants children slightly later than me – both interesting developments!

For better for worse: a snakes and ladders style game, which hits you with zingers from elderly and infirm parents (what would you do?) to ex-partners to unemployment, challenging you to talk about how you would approach these tricky situations.

For richer for poorer: This one was great! We had to blindly pick a toy car from a big box and discuss how we would feel if we were driving these in ten years time. (I decided to park the fact I can’t drive. Haha… park…) I got a massive airport transfers van and Betrothed got a Porsche, but an old battered one, which he thought was very apt as we would like to be financially secure for the opportunities it allows for us and our children, but not to be of any particular status or to be boastful.

In sickness and in health: We felt quite well-versed in this one - A game designed to highlight the need to lean on friends and family in times of illness. We also had to break a chocolate heart in two and mend it together. It tasted great…

To love and to cherish: This involved making rose tinted spectacles (hilarious) and telling each other what we loved, and what we didn’t – one couple left their heart shaped post it notes on the table, which read “you don’t empty the dishwasher”, making my slightly more detailed, robust complaint seem a little too harsh….

Til death do us part: Embarrassingly I completely crumbled at this one. Who knew loud sobs would echo round a Church? Rev Lovely was great and didn’t make me do this one, but the idea behind it was to write on a mobile phone shaped post it note the last text you’d want the other person to read. We took the post its and have agreed that at some point we will do this, and keep it in our special silver bag given to us to keep all of our bits and pieces in.

According to God’s holy ordinance: See, this is where we were fundamentally going to disagree, and I quite honest dreaded this part. I’m not trying to convince Betrothed of anything, but, as Aisling’s post so brilliantly discussed last week, when it comes to Children religion is a difficult one to broach if you’re not squarely on one side of the debate or the other. We’ll figure it all out in our own time, our own way.

We both felt, before the session, that we had been through a lot and have learnt to work together: bereavement, unemployment, financial difficulties, serious illness, depression, family difficulties – in four years we are seen each other through an awful lot. But we came out afterwards feeling far more prepared for our future together. I know we’ll falter, I know we’ll still have fundamental disagreements and those horrid tummy twisting arguments. We will still struggle like the best of them, but talking through the vows we will be making in 7 months (!) has really made it hit home – this is it, isn’t it? I am guilty of taking Betrothed for granted sometimes, and I’m so glad that our time talking through and thinking about our vows has made me appreciate, and love him more than ever.

But what about you lovely ladies? Have any of you had any marriage prep shockers (I have heard a few..!)? Did prep leave you feeling, well, prepped, or did it leave you a bit cold? And for those of you who didn’t need to go through this Church requirement, what do you think of it all?

PS: If you’re interested we broke all records… 3 hours 40. That’s a lot of biscuits.

Feminism

2012-02-08T08:32:00.000Z

I really want to write something profound in the introduction to this piece. I also wanted to call it something witty (but as we all know, that would involve me stealing Tom's words). We know Tom isn't a grunting Neanderthal, so when a post on feminism dropped into my inbox I knew it would be good.

What I wasn't expecting was this. This post is thoughtful, yes, and well-argued, yes. But at its core it asks some deeply uncomfortable questions,about the nature of feminism, about what it means to be a feminist, about gender imbalance, about whether feminism has a place in this imbalance. It's smart and it's challenging and it encapsulates why I'm so proud of this blog. I cannot wait to see what you all think.

Thanks Tom. Over to you:

I am a feminist.

I suppose I have always known this, but reading How to be a Woman (on our honeymoon, which, on reflection, is probably the best possible time for any man to read that wonderful book) really brought it to the front of my mind; I started thinking about what modern feminism is, where it is, who it affects, and I started to get quite angry. Because I started to realise that a lot of people - most people - have started to think of feminism as something that happened to their parents, a historical movement that did what it set out to do and then sort of... dissolved. We laugh now at those bigoted, misogynistic men who populated the offices and homes of the 1950s, the last of which now reside in nursing homes up and down the country, and we think that because their views have become so unpalatable to society at large that feminism has won, that any problems with gender equality that remain will be simple to iron out, will just go away on their own. But feminism hasn’t won, and it is still a long way from doing so, so why do people so often refer to it in the past tense?

Before I continue, I should say that I am not writing this simply as some sort of Caitlin Moran fanatic. While I loved her book, I didn’t agree with parts of it (particularly the chapter about weddings), and I think other parts weren’t given enough space. But it was a catalyst; it made me think, seriously, about the nature of sexism in society and what is being done about it.

I finished reading the book ready to fight the good fight and declare proudly that I am a feminist. I felt, in particular, that she had reclaimed the very word itself, that men would no longer be able to sneer at it or treat it with ridicule. I had always assumed that the reason women felt reluctant to identify themselves as feminist was because they didn’t want to attract this kind of negative male attention (but then I’m a man so I suppose it’s typical of me to take such a man-centric view isn’t it?). Then I had a conversation with my female colleagues over lunch one day, and the scales fell from my eyes - these women didn’t call themselves feminists, not because they secretly wanted to but were afraid other people would judge them for it, but because they were the ones judging people for being feminist. A brief summary of the conversation:

Me: (continuing from a conversation about children’s clothes) You know I saw a four year old wearing a T-shirt the other day that said ‘Future footballer’s wife’. *With heavy sarcasm* Thanks you over 100 years of feminism.

Colleague #1: Oh, here he goes again.

Me: What?

Colleague #2: With your feminism.

Me: What do you mean with my feminism? Don’t you consider yourself a feminist?

Colleague #2: No! Of course not! That was all about burning bras and not shaving your armpits and hating men. I don’t hate men.

Me: But that’s not what modern feminism is about! It means wanting equality for women, not inequality for men!

Colleague #1: What a load of rubbish! I mean, of course I want gender equality, but I’m not a feminist. To be honest I find it a bit insulting that you’re trying to tell me I am one.

Colleague #2: Yes, don’t you think it’s a bit sexist of you?

Me: No! I just think it’s important to have a word that describes the point of the movement. Women are still the oppressed half of the population so it makes sense to call it feminism - there’s no better word!

Colleague #1: Oh stop being ridiculous - I’m a woman and I think I know what I’m talking about when it comes to gender issues.

Colleague #2: Yeah Tom, just give it up will you?

Me: *explodes*

In reality there were four colleagues, all shouting at me, and it went on a bit longer than this because I did not, in actual fact, explode. But this was the genuine gist of the conversation - four women, all of whom saying they were insulted to be called feminists, having a go at me for trying to stand up for the rights of their gender. I was genuinely gob-smacked. I am usually quite good at arguing my point but in this case I had to give up because I had been so utterly unprepared for this reaction. I tried all the tools in my box, but in the end they were all able to dismiss me because I AM NOT A WOMAN. This made me unbelievably angry, but then I calmed down and actually had a think about it, and I figured that this scenario actually says a lot about the state of modern feminism, and the huge problems it faces.

Of my four female colleagues, I think the reasons for their allergy to the word ‘feminism’ can be categorised as follows::

1. Feminism means crazy women from the 60s with waist-long armpit hair burning their bras and hating men. A lot. I do not wish to be associated with these women, so I am not a feminist.

2. The word ‘feminism’ makes me think that it is necessary for women to band together to fight for their rights. To me this implies that women are weak and need help, which I find patronising; therefore, I do not consider myself a feminist.

3. I have never really thought about this before, but I’m going to stick with the girls on the basis that they must be right because they are, you know, female.

4. Gender equality has pretty much been achieved, so I don’t think feminism is necessary any more, and in fact I think that to stick up for women’s rights specifically seems anti-masculist. I am therefore not a feminist.

I should add that all of my colleagues are highly educated, with a total of 4 BScs, 4MScs and a PhD between them. So they are not stupid, and I wouldn’t call them naive either. But there is something very wrong with the above four points of view, and I have been trying to work out exactly what.

The answer to point one is obvious - read more about feminism and you will rapidly come to the realisation that all kinds of people (including men!) describe themselves as feminist and this view is simply outdated and, in fact, was never even true in the first place. Similarly, point three is a matter of making feminism more of a general discussion topic, so that people can come to their own conclusions about it, not just follow the herd.

Point four is a bit harder, but I would argue that it is still very obvious that gender equality is not here yet. But this requires people to actually think about what they mean when they say ‘equality’ - one of the above-mentioned colleagues actually thinks that the proportion of women in medical jobs is just a fair reflection of the fact that ‘men are just better at certain jobs than women’ and that ‘those jobs don’t accommodate family life very well, so you can’t be surprised that not that many women do them’.* Men and women are certainly different, and it is unlikely that there will ever be an exact one-to-one gender ratio in any organisation, but to assume that the status quo is OK because all it’s doing is reflecting these basic differences is very dangerous, sloppy thinking. This is an area about which I think people need to be asking a lot more questions.

But point two is the one I really struggle with. On the one hand I’m all like ‘yeah, good for you, you’re a strong woman and proud of it’, but on the other I want to shake them really, really hard. There is still so much sexism in our society, but it is no longer the kind that you can immediately point at and shout ‘ohmygodtheressomesexismrightthere’. Instead, you will only realise later, upon reflection, that, yep, there was some serious discrimination going on there. Or, if you’re like me, at the time you’ll be filled with a feeling of discomfort that you can’t quite manage to attribute to anything in particular. It may now be societally unacceptable to say that you think women are inferior to men, but that does not mean that people have stopped thinking it, or acting upon that belief (although they have to be a lot more sneaky than they used to).

Even if you don’t think women are inferior (hopefully most people!), you can still unconsciously discriminate against someone despite believing that discrimination is wrong. This is because we do not think, thoroughly, about every interaction that takes place in our lives - this would be ridiculously impractical, so we rely instead on ‘autopilot’. What our autopilot tells us to do in particular situations depends on a number of factors, including our upbringing and, crucially, what is ‘normal’ in our society. If it is normal in your society, for example, for blondes to be seen as a bit dim, it can take a huge mental effort to avoid this ridiculous stereotyping, despite the fact that you know it’s degrading and potentially very offensive. I suppose what I’m driving at is that it’s possible for the majority of men to consciously have a lot of respect for women, whilst at the same time unconsciously being sexist and discriminatory in their everyday interactions with them, because societal norms have yet to adapt. This is a theory I have literally just come up with, so do please feel free to shoot it down. What I’m really aiming for is an explanation of why this insidious sexism still exists, because I find it very puzzling and maddening.

Anyway, whatever the reason for sexism happening in the first place, it does happen, and a lot of people do it without realising or wanting to. It’s for this reason that feminism is still important; people need to be going around, pointing out sexism and its consequences, because it is only by doing so that ‘normal’ will ever come to equal ‘fair’. Obvious sexism may have disappeared to a large extent, and that was a great achievement of feminism, but this new, sneaky sexism has to be addressed, and arguably the need for a big, bold, strident feminism has never been greater.

The reason I started writing this post was that I found it profoundly odd to have had an argument with a group of women where I was arguing for feminism and they against it; it was not a situation I had ever thought possible, but I find the reasons for it fascinating and worrying in equal measure. But that’s enough of my babble - what do you think? Is there anyone out there who can give me some good reasons not to regard yourself as a feminist? Do you think feminism is over? What do we do about the ‘new’ sexism? Thoughts please...

*It was at this point that I exploded for a second time.

Bride(what)?

2012-02-07T13:00:00.003Z

Before we kick off with this afternoon's post...just to let you all know, The Big Blog Re-Launch is happening in just under a month! We've listened to your feedback on the AOW Survey, we've talked about it, talked some more, worked hard behind the scenes (and continue to do so), made some decisions, come up with some fantastic ideas...and the new site is going to be a place you'll all love. We know it. Beautiful, useful, and retaining that AOW-ness we know is essential to what we do.

We cannot WAIT to share it with you!

Onwards...

Today's post is about brides organising their big day, and the prejudices surrounding that. Everyone's got their own views on the B-word. Clare hates it and thinks it's been hijacked as a misogynistic term used any time a woman shows interest in planning a nice day for her wedding. I was laissez-faire with the whole concept in the run up to my wedding - but if someone had called me the B-word I'm pretty sure I'd have stuck a fork in their eye.

Bridezilla (noun).
Formed from blending of the words bride and Godzilla (Japanese movie monster). Used to describe a woman whose behaviour becomes outrageously bad in the course of planning for her wedding.

This is Hannah's first post for AOW and she talks us through her experience. Many of you will recognise the trials and tribulations of a bride to be...but this goes deeper. What makes people take advantage of other people's weddings? Why is a woman (or a man) made to feel ashamed for keeping close control and caring deeply about a day that matters to them? What do you think, readers?

Welcome, Hannah. Over to you:

It’s just over 3 months to go until the big day of me and my gorgeous fiancé Richard. And I’m absolutely determined not to become the dreaded Bridezilla…which is good ‘cause over the years I’ve witnessed many people do just that. It’s not big, it’s not clever and it certainly isn’t attractive.

A good friend of mine had a whirlwind engagement a while ago, leaving herself just 5 months planning time and as we sat in the pub one night she said she was planning to do everything as cheap and as home made as possible because THE MOST IMPORTANT THING was being married to her beloved ASAP. How lovely and refreshing I thought to myself, she isn’t totally hung up on the one day.

I found myself volunterring to make a cupcake tower for her big day as my wedding present to her. In the spirit of her frugal, hand-made wedding, a tower of 100 home made cupcakes would be just delightful. Right? Wrong.

After trying my wares and declaring that these would be perfect, the Bride-to-be had found herself in an upmarket cake shop, ‘just having a little look’ and texted me to ask if I wouldn’t mind just tweaking mine to recreate the incredible £4 a pop cupcakes she’d seen. I couldn’t…..seeing as I’m no patissier & the whole point of this was meant to be home made charm. Shortly after this conversation I found myself redundant from my cake making duties, having failed to produce the exact same shade of purple icing as the Bridesmaid dresses. "Bloody Bridezilla, what have you done with my friend and when will I get her back?", I silently fumed to myself (ok, maybe this wasn’t all that silent where my other half was concerned, there may have been a bit of ranting actually).

So imagine my surprise when I get to the big day, having never mentioned it to anyone, especially not our mutual friends, to find that none of the purples matched on anything, and did it matter? No, of course it didn’t! It was a beautiful, emotional wedding and expensive cupcakes aside, full of home made charm. Seriously, who ever remembers brilliant weddings by the fact that the colours all matched anyway??

By this point, my boyfriend had taken me by surprise and popped the question (in spectacular style – that’s another story for another time, if people are interested enough to read this) and I genuinely felt that the most important thing would be the two of us being together for the rest of our lives – you know, the MARRIAGE part? It was never about the detail of the day for me.

Having said this, of course the dreaded Bridezilla has threatened to make the odd appearance…like when my future mother-in-law sent over her version of the guest list with a whopping 47 people on it! We’d only planning to invite 80 people and this 47 didn’t even include any of Rich’s friends! "But I’ll pay for them", she pleaded. Thankfully we stood firm and said it’s not about the money, it’s about having an intimate day with people we care about and that does not happen to include people Rich met back in 1985 when he was 4.

Then there was the time when I found out that both mums had been sending the hotel details to their friends so they could book rooms, BEFORE we had sent the invites out. “This isn’t fair” I ranted to the long suffering Rich, “after the wedding finishes, the residents bar will be chock full of old codgers and none of OUR friends”, the reality being of course, that we’ve never been party animals and by 1am I’ll probably be ready for bed than the after party. So I learnt to smile sweetly and bite my tongue. At the end of the day, I stand by what I said about this being about the marriage after that one amazing day.

If anything, as the big day looms near, the Groom is the one most involved in (and anxious about) the planning. We also went down the hand made wedding route (yes, I will be making my own cupcakes in case you were wondering!). His job was to design the stationary and he did a brilliant job of the invites, however after posting them he decided to try log into the special RSVP email account he’d created and found it didn’t work. He’d only gone and printed the wrong email address inside the invites. Disaster. We nearly had tears from him. As a Project manager in construction, he likes things to be perfect (otherwise buildings would be falling down) and I’m pleased to report folks, that on this occasion Bridezilla did not surface and instead I reminded him that it’s only a detail, we’ll get the invites back somehow even if it means a bit of extra phoning around, and the most important thing is me and him being MARRIED.

Going back to cupcake friend, we spoke recently and she said that if she could get married again, she really wouldn’t focus on the small details, as looking back, it really wasn’t important and the anxiety she experienced really wasn’t worth it as she still felt stressed out on the big day. So to all you Brides-to-be that are even thinking about getting your knickers in a twist, is just don’t, ok?! I’m enjoying the planning process and the countdown so much more than I would be if I was jittery. Various people told me (including cupcake friend) that once Christmas was out of the way I’d be constantly fretting about something or another. I’m not.

But I must go – I’ve got precisely 13 weeks, 18 hours and 38 minutes to finish planning for the big day. Bridezilla, moi? Nah, I’m just extremely excited about spending the rest of my life with the sweetest, kindest guy I’ve ever met.

Eternal Phwoar...

2012-02-07T07:00:00.000Z

Remember that crush you had on Jason Donovan/Ronan Keating/Billy from Neighbours as a teenager? That all consuming, overwhelming, crushing adoration for a man you'd likely never meet but oh GOD if you ever did he'd obviously fall madly in love with you and abandon fame and fortune to be by your side forever? You know the kind of crazy love I mean, I know you do.

I'm a bit of tart when it comes to appreciating a pretty man, it has to be said. Strictly window shopping, obviously, but I don't think there's any harm in acknowledging an aesthetically pleasing male form. My twitter feed during the recent series of Strictly Come Dancing was 99% drooling raving about the delectable Harry Judd...

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...and I will hold my hands up and admit that I have had a somewhat, erm...inappropriate dream about Michael Weatherley.

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And speaking of Billy from Neighbours, or rather, Chase from the epic 'House'...

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These three ridiculously wonderful looking men are on my 'Fantasy Husbands*' list, along with Prince Harry (as my friend Sara says, 'all the fun and none of the responsibility') and Phil Spencer of 'Phil and Kirsty' fame...don't judge me, it's the voice. It's all in good fun and oh my, they're lovely to look at. Just as a point of interest, Phil's 'list' consists solely of Fearne Cotton. Weird, yes?

So, a few crushes and a healthy appreciation of a chiselled jaw and big blue eyes. Not a problem Until, that is, I found myself regressing back to the days of the Ronan Keating Obsession. The days of notebook scribbling, constant googling and trying out my name with his tagged on the end. And it all started with the ITV drama Eternal Law. If you follow me on Twitter, you might have seen my conversations with Emma and Frankie. Conversations that spawned the hashtag #eternalphwoar, so developed by Emma's husband after he grew bored of her dribbling over the leading man. We three not only loved the idea of the programme, (if you haven't watched it, sad times for you. You've missed out.) but fell head over heels for the delectable, scrumptious, totally weird-crush-central Sam West...

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I can safely say that if all 5 of my 'fantasy husbands' turned up on my doorstep tomorrow declaring undying love and unending reserves of turkish delight, I'd turn them down in the hope that one day, Sam West might fall in love with me. I think it's the character I'm in love with, and the epic love story running through the series doesn't hurt, but whatever it is, as Emma put it, 'I've not had this kind of crush on anyone since I was 14'... and it's jolly good fun.

Do you have a list, readers? Who's on it? I want photos. I demand photos. It is ok to have a list, isn't it?

*I've been instructed to confirm that this man is my actual fantasy husband. Duh.

Chiselled jaw and big blue eyes...I'm nothing if not consistent!

Picture Perfect

2012-02-06T07:00:00.000Z

One of the reasons that I started AOW way back when, was that I was completely overwhelmed by all of the wedding blogs out there. I'd been addicted to the ones with photo upon photo of beautiful brides and handsome grooms, that told me that our wedding needed to have mason jars full of wild flowers, or perfectly mismatched bridesmaids dresses, to really reflect 'us' as a couple. I'd then switched to the blogs that told me that if I cared about any of that, I wasn't taking my wedding seriously, and it wouldn't mean as much as the weddings of those who eschewed all of that. I was a mess I tell you.

So AOW was created as a space where pretty pictures wouldn't be forced down your throat, and realism reigned, but where you could freely admit that yes, damnit, having a make-up artist to beautify you and your girls, or picking the most flattering dress you can find was important to you, without fear of mockery or derision.

So I completely understood where Susie was coming from when she wrote this piece for us. It's a place where a lot of us have been, and where many of you will be now. It's hard when you're being bombarded with pretty pictures all of the time to keep a sense of perspective. In fact, I wrote a whole post or two about exactly the same thing. And then had the same realisation that Susie did...

So now, I give you the beautiful Susie, and her beautiful pictures...

Today I’ve been thinking about quitting wedding blogs. Not this one of course - I’m talking about those blogs that only seem to feature page after page of beautiful women and beautiful weddings over and over until you think, surely there can’t be any more weddings like that out there? As utterly gorgeous as these websites are, and as much as I really do enjoy looking at them, the ugly truth is that the time has come to stop. Not only do they make me long for a similarly details-fueled and DIY-heavy wedding (which is just not feasible given that were both medical students with Big Exams 2 months after the wedding), but I’ve come to realise that they are also making me feel bad about myself.

Last night our engagement photos came through from our immensely talented photographer. And for some reason, I expected them all to be beautiful. No matter that I’ve struggled with depression, eating disorders, and low self-esteem for years - I really did believe that in these photos I would look like a stunner, and that I could proudly display them on the walls of my dingy student halls, to make me feel better on even the lowest of the low days.

But of course it wasn’t like that. Of course I don’t love these photos - I don’t ever love photos of me. My hair is doing its weird kinky thing, and just looking generally thin. My nose is still as huge as it ever was, and my thighs weren’t going to magically change shape just because a good photographer was behind the lens. I even have (shock horror) a double chin in some photos. And if I hadn’t seen endless engagement photos where the bride’s hair and nose and thighs and chin were perfect, then maybe I wouldn’t feel as sad and disheartened by mine.

This should have been a happy evening, an exciting prelude to the photos of the day we become man and wife, but instead I cried myself to sleep because I’m just not beautiful. I’m not really sure what the moral of this story is... maybe I’m just too vain for my own good. But I definitely think there’s an underlying message on some of these blogs that says, look, look at all these beautiful brides on their perfect wedding day - and you should be just like that too. But we’re not all like that. Some of us just aren’t beautiful, and no amount of clever makeup or hairstyling or dress fitting is ever going to change that.

So how do we come to terms with this? The wedding industry tells us that all brides must be beautiful, and happy, and confident. I’ve booked the professionals to do my hair and make-up. I’ve got a photographer who specialises in those wide shots where the bride and groom are all weeny and small next to the stunning backdrop. I’ve surrounded myself with beautiful bridesmaids and a very handsome man. Oh, and I’ve got myself an especially heavy veil. But none of these is really a solution, instead they’re just short cuts to get around the problem. What I really need to do is to stop drowning myself in unachievable ideals and instead try to learn to love myself for how I really look - hair, nose, thighs and chin included. And if, when our wedding photos arrive, I still feel the same way, I’m going to have to suck it up and realise that honestly it doesn’t matter if I wasn’t the most beautiful person in the room that day - because at least I will have married the most wonderful man I know, and we’ll have the rest of our lives together celebrating that.

*utterly stunning pictures by James Appleton*

Any Other Photo Again {Fee and Tom}

2012-02-04T08:07:00.003Z

Get ready to laugh, readers. We promised you giggles and I'm sure that Fee's wicked storytelling and this fabulous picture will not disappoint....

Picture the scene. You are about to walk down the aisle. You hear ‘Somebody’s Getting Married’ from Muppets Take Manhattan coming to an end (or is that just us?) and the opening bars of ‘Waterloo Sunset’ start to play. Your maid of honour goes to open the double doors.... and they get stuck.

Oh yes, dear readers. Properly stuck. To be more accurate, one door was open and one was stubbornly refusing to budge. This would not have been such a problem were the bridesmaids not in hugely poufy petticoats and my dress wasn’t rather on the meringue side of things. Cue much swearing, grunting and pushing as my 4 beautiful bridesmaids scrambled over each other in an attempt to yank the door open – watched by 85 people wondering why on earth we were loitering outside the doors as if we didn’t have anywhere in particular to be. All of our careful ‘walking down the aisle in time to the music’ practice became irrelevant as getting the doors open before the song ended became more of an issue.

That moment and the way it is captured in this photo make me laugh out loud every time I think about/see them. You can see our niece at the front – solemn in a way that only a 3 year old flower girl can be, no doubt wondering what on earth all the grown-ups are flapping about. You can see my maid of honour (and big sister), clearly in a mad panic and hissing directions at my little sister, who if the scrap of fabric peeking round the door is anything to go by, was crouched down attempting to force open the lock. What you can’t see are my 2 best friends, remaining relatively calm in comparism and my dad, loudly asking what the problem is and generally being unhelpful.

The anticipation and excitement of that moment were overwhelming – whilst the door drama was swirling around me, I was transfixed by the sight of all the people I love in the world turned towards the doors, waiting for me to make my entrance, all with identical huge beaming smiles on their faces. And right at the very end of the aisle I could see Tom – shifty in his black tuxedo, rubbing his hands together in his trademark nervous way, worrying that he would forget what he had to say.

This photo, for me, perfectly shows the moment between mad pre-ceremony chaos with my girls and the sudden switch to complete calm as soon as we started up the aisle towards Tom. I remember the feeling of my Dad’s hand in mine, the swishing of petticoats and the flashes of cameras – and I remember thinking that I would never forget that moment.

I do wish, however, that I could forget the moment that I nearly fell over on my way up the aisle. Oh dear.

Any Other Photo {Fee and Tom}

2012-02-03T07:00:00.001Z

We have an AOP treat for you today, lovely readers. Come back tomorrow morning and chase away the cold with Fee's second Any Other Photo-I'm not going to tell you anything about it, suffice to say you're going to LOVE IT. Giggles ahoy.

When Fee emailed us with her AOP, she said 'I've thought long and hard about which photo to pick...and so I've sent in two!' There was a brief discussion as to which we'd choose to post and then a, 'Pish! We'll post both!' from us, as we realised that they went hand in hand. That they were meant to be together. Much like Fee and Tom. Look, we have proof...

The reasons that I love this photo are not entirely straightforward. They are also threefold so I will do my best to explain one point at a time. I am nothing if not methodical (read: a bit crazy obsessive).

Firstly, although this looks for all the world like a posed ‘Now gaze into each others’ eyes’ shot, it really isn’t. We were waiting to have our photo taken and I love that our photographer managed to capture us in a full on, movie love stare that would not be out of place in an advert for a bad dating website. AWESOME.

Secondly, in that moment, just after our ceremony, I felt like the luckiest person in the world and like my head was going to explode with how much I loved my new husband. That feeling has yet to wear off but I won’t harp on about it as I don’t want to make you all nauseous.

And thirdly, as soon as I saw this photo, I knew it would be the one that my fantastic, beloved and sadly missed Nana would have wanted in a frame on her mantelpiece. She loved Tom - to the extent that she used to say ‘If I was 30 years younger...’. I didn’t have the heart to tell her she would still be 25 years older than him. And she loved me – she would have delighted in a photo where I looked so happy and would no doubt have shown it to everyone (postman/milkman/random people walking past her house), regaling them with stories of my fantastically successful life (which were of course, fantastically exaggerated, I’m really just normal).

So that is why I love this photo in all its sentimental, cheesy and romantic glory. Is it edgy? No. Is it unusual? Certainly not. But it is a photo that shows how Tom and I feel about each other, reminds me of how happy we were in that moment and would have made my Nana smile every time she glanced up at it on her mantelpiece.

2 Months

2012-02-02T07:00:00.002Z

This month I have been mainly...

...sitting around.

I do a lot of sitting around...

...see?

I did go on my first ever holiday though.

We had to go on a speed boat to get there. I slept the entire way.

Whilst we were there I got to know my gramps....

...and also modelled my sun hat. It's from the latest collection at Mothercare, darling.

This month I also had my first swimming lesson.

I think Dad enjoyed it a tad more than I did.

I prefer cuddles on dry land.

I guess I should tell you about my new best friend Max, too (this picture is by his mum, Chloe). He was born exactly 7 weeks after me. Yes, he's cute. What of it? I was that cute once too. He can't hold is head up half as well as I can, so, you know, it's swings and roundabouts.

Mostly though, I've been working on this face. It pretty much seems to get me what I want, and lets me get away with all sorts, so I'll be using it a lot more over the coming months...

I believe...

2012-02-01T07:00:00.000Z

...in angels. (*something good in everything I see....* Is that stuck in your head now? You're welcome.) Joking aside, I truly do. I believe in heaven, or at the very least, I believe in the idea of something more after death. I believe in hope and the hope that faith can engender. I believe that people can trust in something or someone that they can't see. I believe in love-whether you love a man or a woman and whether you are a man or a woman. I believe in a woman's right to abortion and I believe in the necessity of divorce.

It's safe to say that I am a lapsed Catholic, yet I cannot help but hold fast the beliefs that helped make the world seem like a better place as I grew up.

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It's not for me to decide whether God exists or not. I would never criticise someone else's thoughts on the matter and I would hope to have my views respected, as with any topic. I came to my own conclusions as a young adult and have mulled these conclusions over and over as I get older, trying to figure out exactly what it is I am. I'm no atheist, but I can't lay claim to the title of good little Irish Catholic girl any longer. I suppose I'm agnostic, in broad terms. Phil is as black-and-white an atheist as they come. Ghosts, angels, life after death, God, the Bible...all piffle as far as he is concerned. He's not particularly passionate about the subject, he just doesn't believe. Simples.

Phil's certainty and my hesitance have caused us little friction so far. We were united in our decision to marry in a registry office and we have no intention of baptising any future children in a church. And yet, simple as that decision was to make, it has opened a can of worms and tipped them all over the Baby Name book. What are we going to teach our children about religion?

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I was raised a Roman Catholic, yes, but by a mother who genuinely believed what she was sharing with her children. I can't pretend to be that, so where does that leave us? Phil and I were walking past the church in the village one lovely, frosty Sunday morning and I stopped to watch the churchgoers file in through the enormous oak doors. As a young couple walked up the cobbled path with their two little boys bounding ahead of them, I realised that Phil and I will probably never take our children to church on a Sunday morning. And I wondered out loud, will they be missing out? Phil poo-pooed my worries, and off we wandered. As we strolled, hand in hand, through the sleepy little village I pressed my point further. 'But what we tell our children about what happens when you die?'

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'That you get buried in the ground and worms gobble you up', was his (only slightly joking) reply. Great. And even though we talked and talked and talked about it all morning, we never really came to a conclusion. And it's been niggling at me. I don't want to teach my children about a belief system that I don't fully believe in, but I want them to experience the beauty of 'All Things Bright and Beautiful' and the impossible history contained in a graveyard. I want them to believe that all dogs go to heaven and that when Grandma or Grandpa or Reg-from-next-door dies; they become a star in the sky. I know that it's up to us how we raise our children, but am I aiming for the impossible?

(And will I ever get to teach our kids about heaven with Mr 'And Then You Become Worm Food', in the next room?!)

Non-traditional wedding dresses...

2012-01-31T13:00:00.001Z

When Martha e-mailed us with her AOP, not only was I blown away by the venue, the smiling, the love, the general beauty and fabulousness, I was also knocked for six by that BEAUTIFUL black wedding dress. Back when Ines from Source Images paired a black Agent Provocateur corset with a fabulous, huge black tulle skirt I thought I'd died and gone to bridal fashion heaven...that happened all over again with Martha's dress.

What did strike me though, when I ~~pestered~~ asked Martha for all the details about her stunning dress, was how she too had to 'create' her dress herself. I couldn't believe the way her wedding was pegged as 'alternative' by dress shop owners simply because she didn't want a white dress! I think Martha won in the end-and got to enjoy the creative process and build a solid friendship in the process!

'My dress was found by pure chance and was only the second dress I looked at in my search! When you are only looking for black dresses, the wedding dress hunt narrows down somewhat! After being sneered at by several snooty wedding dress shop owners (“what? A black dress? No dear, we don’t do alternative weddings here…”) I met my wedding dress angel, Fiona Brown from Accent Originals in Newcastle. I felt we hit it off straight away and I spent many a happy afternoon popping in to see her and playing around with fabrics and beads. Often I forgot what I was there for and we spent much time gossiping about non-wedding things, but eventually we got down to business. Fiona is without doubt the most amazing sales assistant I have ever met! She recently graduated from my employer, Northumbria University’s School of Design, after studying fashion marketing, and so she immediately put her sewing skills to good use. I was lucky enough to have been given by Fiona the bolero jacket she submitted for her Fashion degree, which she accessorised with some black beading and lace petals. She also helped me mix and match accessories, making the big belt flower and altering the hairband (£4 from New Look!) So, all in all, it was a one-off dress and the fact that it was “home grown” and unique made it all the more special to wear!'

Whilst white/ivory/eggshell/bright white/diamond white is the most popular and probably the most accepted choice of colour for a wedding dress, the demand for other colours is growing. It doesn't need to be the whole dress either! I had a little hunt around and found some GORGEOUS options- if Bella hadn't found the designer of her dreams in the luscious Sue Wong I was going to put all my efforts into convincing her to go green with this beauty...

I've seen many shades of pink recently, there was the angelic Reese Witherspoon in her pale pink gown, looking nothing less than perfect. I think in terms of pink, princess is best. Big skirts, loads of tulle and a nipped in waist-why not go for it?

If I did it again, I think I might wear blue... specifically this shade of blue. And specifically this dress...(in a parallel universe where I have a decolletage as amazing as hers...)

A coloured wedding dress needn't mean you look like your bridesmaids either...the recent favourite 'short, sweet and light' would work well if you were rocking a coloured dress...

French Connection's long-sleeved 'Nix', the oh-so elegant Oasis Sunray dress, the too-cute Ballet from Warehouse and the flirty pleated Kipp from Monsoon.

Of course, as much as we've embraced the 'nothing-can-possibly-match-EVER' trend (erm, I plead 'Guilty', Your Honour!) there is still so much to be said for co-ordination and *shock horror* matching...How about one of these to go with the bridal frocks above?

Gorgeous green, Pearl Lowe for Peacocks. Purdy in pink from ASOS. Edgy blue from Oasis and sophisticated black from FCUK.

So...what do you think? Is anyone going for a splash of colour with their wedding dress? If not, why? Is it that 'one day to wear the big/slinky/short/ amazing white dress of your dreams' thing? Did you consider colour, or was light and bright always the way forward? And whilst I'm abusing the question mark key on my keyboard....HOW AMAZING IS THAT PEARL LOWE FOR PEACOCKS DRESS? Want.

Have a wonderful almost-Friday,

Aisling

Mokita

2012-01-31T07:00:00.000Z

I am clearing out some of my old books. I am giving some away to charity, some to friends, and some I am clinging to like my life depends on it. They will have to prise The God Of Small Things, The English Patient and The Other Hand (to name but a few) from my cold, dead hands. But with each book I pick up and flick through before deciding its fate, I am remembering. Where I was when I read the story, what it taught me, how far I've come.

Bookcase from Carlton Hobbs Provenance. In case anyone's stuck for my birthday present...

In January 2006 I read Happiness by Will Ferguson. It fuelled my conviction that I was never going to be a 9 to 5-er (er...hello 24-year-old Anna. Well, this is awkward. Sorry about, you know, still working 9 to 5. But...you went to Lebanon! You write lots more now! You married an Armenian! (go fetch your atlas). You finally saw the Smashing Pumpkins live! Does that count?) The book brought up many interesting ideas, but my favourite part of it was a thread running throughout entitled "The Untranslatables". Words that other languages have that refer to concepts in English for which we simply do not have a single term.

German is a treasure trove of these wonderful words, because it is a langauge built on logic, on sense, on rationality. When I was younger I adored "der Ohrworm" (an earworm) which denotes those songs that you hear on occasion and simply cannot get out of your head. Or "die Handschuhe" (hand shoes) which means, you guessed it, gloves. Although we do have a term for that, so ignore that one. Upon growing slightly more pretentious I fell in love with "die Schadenfreude", of course; happiness and pleasure derived from another person's misfortune.

But there are three particular words that Ferguson discovered that are, simply, untranslatable in their beauty.

1) The Mayans have a word. Mokita. It directly translates as "the truth which no-one speaks". The tacit agreement amongst people not to refer to shared secrets.

2) The Japanese have what is probably one of the most beautiful words I've ever had the pleasure of learning. (Apologies for incorrect characters. I'm no doubt offending kanji purists). Mono-non-awaré. "The sadness of things". The ever-present pathos that lurks beneath the surface of life.

3) And probably the saddest of them all comes from Russian. (Again, apologies for lack of Cyrillic, and no doubt terrible translation). Razbliuto. The feelings you had for someone you once loved, but now do not.

I had pencilled something into the margins of the book which took me a while to decipher. And when I did, I laughed. If only I could sit my 24-year-old self down, and tell her "listen, you'll marry the guy, and one day have the luxury of getting annoyed with him because he didn't fold the laundry properly, and life doesn't have to be tragic to be interesting, okay?"

"Summer 2005 started off being flecked by inescapable mono-no-awaré, which I put down to a sad yet inevitable razbliuto which became decay, despair and an irreversable sense of mokita. Then my mono-no-awaré reached unprecidented levels and rendered my mokita futile. And then I realised that my razbliuto wasn't quite as straightforward as I'd imagined.

And then I realised I was fucked."

Nothing quite like an English word to get that certain je-ne-sais-quoi across. Si?

Zen and the smashed wedding cake

2012-01-30T07:00:00.014Z

I adore this post by Claire of the lovely,thoughtful, funny blog Cakes and Bunting. It tells of those moments every bride feels in the run-up to their wedding, and then the one thing that should tip a "typical" bride over the edge...didn't. Because Claire had perspective. And THAT's what this is all about, and THAT's what we seek.

I give you Claire:

In December, a few wedding Tweeters were talking about wedding zen, in a conversation sparked off by Emma of Another Ring Coming .

And this got me thinking about 'wedding zen'. The idea that at a certain point, all brides will enter a calm, meditative state where they are at one with the wedding. Where suddenly you sit, possibly cross legged in the middle of a room, surrounded by neatly stacked stationery, decorations and booze, all ready to become a wife. I have no idea where this concept came from, but it seems to have stuck.

If you'd asked me a week before our wedding, I'd have probably thrown a stack of orders of service at you and said the concept was total tosh. Why the hell would we be calm? Even if we'd got everything done and ready, I still wanted to be madly excited. I'd have said that zen was one word that would never have applied to me at any point in the process.

Until, that is, we actually got to our wedding. We pulled up on the farm the day before, and I felt suddenly calm, though still very anxious. I knew that now, the wedding would happen. It was almost out of my hands.

Over the coming hours, as guests safely arrived, the remaining anxiety slowly dropped away and then, an event happened, which eliminated the last of it and turned me into the most zen version of myself I have ever been.

What was that momentous event? Was it a declaration of love from my fiance? A quiet moment alone with my mum? Was it a moment of peace, staring out across some fields in the twilight?

No. It was the arrival of one very smashed wedding cake.

What you are now looking at is the bottom tier of a pretty large and delicious cake. The top two tiers were also smashed, but less so. It was a complete freak accident, no one's fault.

Here's what happened: as mentioned, I was already anxious about people arriving safely - after all, the wedding was a drive away for almost all of our guests. This, above all, turned out to be the thing I was most worried about on the wedding weekend.

So when during having my nails done the day before, my mum came into the room with a grave expression on her face to tell me: "Don't freak out. Something's happened," my immediate thought was: "Oh my god. Car accident? Motorway crash? Child fallen off trampoline in garden, gone to hospital?"

Me: "What? What is it???"

My mum: "It's the cake. It's erm...a bit...smashed..."

I have never been so relieved in my life. I asked if it was still edible (well, I'm only human) and on hearing a response in the affirmative, felt all stress leave my body. Thank god. It's just a cake. Hey, it'll be funny, a good anecdote.

Seeing my friend that bought the cake in tears was upsetting. But when she said she'd bring the cake, I'd promised her I wouldn't care if anything happened to it. When she realised I wasn't joking ("it's just a cake!") and everyone was happy, there was basically no denting the zen, if that's what it was. The realisation that all the important things were in fact not things, but the people that were coming, and they were there, or almost there - that was all we required. As long as everyone was safe and happy, that was it. I was calm and excited and collected. Probably for the first time in my life, to be honest.

Of course not everyone will feel like this. But sometimes, when things go wrong, it can make you realise what has gone right and what, at the end of the day, really matters. I don't know if that's zen, but it was certainly a welcome, receptive calm. I felt open to what was going to happen, like a happy little sponge.

Oh - and the cake? As it turned out, a minor wedding miracle occurred. The farm owner mentioned she had a friend that decorated cakes. Maybe she could do a bit of a repair job on the broken bit.

I'm not joking when I say a miracle happened. The friend came over, took off all the decorations and re-iced like a mad woman. Miracle worker indeed.

Weekend Wonderings

2012-01-28T07:00:00.003Z

When I was 13 I bought a big ringbound yellow hardback notebook and I started collecting quotes. I carried that book everywhere and I wrote everything down. I collected hundreds and hundreds of quotes over the years. Many of them make me wince now, but I still flick through that book, because it never fails to give me some food for thought.

Handlettering Cite is a blog by Alex Savakis, a lettering designer. He makes beautiful quotes very, very pretty. And he has an Etsy shop. Sorry.

Some of my favourites to inspire you on a Saturday morning:

"Leap and the net will appear." - John Burroughs

"Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature. Life is either a daring adventure or nothing." - Helen Keller

"Don't speak unless you can improve on the silence." - Spanish Proverb

"To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all." - Oscar Wilde

Any Other Photo {Katy and Mat}

2012-01-27T07:00:00.000Z

Happy Friday readers! How are we all today? Me? I'm shattered, and am struggling to remember when I last washed my hair (I think Wednesday. Maybe Tuesday?) but I think that's normal with an eight week old baby, yes? Although, we have recently begun to sleep through until 6am, so I think I'm pretty lucky there (it's always a worry when your definition of an amazing night's sleep is 6 hours). But more on that in a future post, because today we have Katy's Any Other Photo to talk about.

And talk about it we should. This is one of those photos that, when looking at someone's wedding pictures, if it weren't being pointed out to you, you might not necessarily notice. You'd skip on past it, maybe looking for ones that show the dress, or that seemed to have more going on.

But that's because, as Katy says, 'you won't see the tiny details that I do'. You won't know exactly how it felt to be there, in that moment, at that point.

But I think that each of you will have a picture like that.

One that, when you look at it, you're transported back to that seemingly innocuous moment, and can tangibly feel the emotions that were with you at that time.

No one sees the same things in a photo. You may see the basics – happy bride, proud father, smiling groom – but you won’t see the tiny details that I do; the people out of shot; the people out of the room; the things that had been said and the things about to be said.

This isn’t my most flattering photo – there are others where I’m not flaring my nostrils, for example, unlike here. It’s not the ‘best’ photo of the day: you can’t see Mat’s face. You can only see a bit of one of my bridesmaids. Everyone’s looking in different directions. It doesn’t actually show us getting married, or kissing, or dancing, or cutting the cake. You can’t really see the oh-so-important details – the lovingly collected teacups and photo frames; the table heaving with cakes brought by friends and family; the photo booth my dad made; the flower arrangements by my mum and godmother; the party bags for the children made by my sister in law.

The things I see when I look at this photo (apart from the flared nostrils) are how nervous I remember Mat was – it was just before his speech and he had a VERY full glass of wine that he’d barely touched; how nervous I was (ditto: although I’d cracked on with the wine, and continued to do so. A hint for brides to be: bring a toothbrush if you’re planning to drink red wine. Black teeth in wedding photos are not a good look). I also see how happy we both are; happy to be surrounded by friends and family, to have not tripped over in the ceremony, to have had 15 minutes quiet time alone before the meal, to be in love and to be loved by those around us.

This photo is one of a series our fantastic photographer and friend took of the speeches. My dad’s speech was lovely – but he didn’t hold back in teasing me – so a lot of the photos of this time of the day are of me pulling faces, playing to the gallery, being a bit show-offy (well, if you can’t do it when you’re the centre of attention all day, when can you?). This one actually shows me properly looking at Mat, both of us a bit giddy and giggly that we had actually done what we had been planning for what felt like forever, a bit nervous about our speeches, and more than a bit excited about the rest of the day, the roomful of cake, the People’s Disco that evening and our new lives as a Mr and Mrs.

Dear London

2012-01-26T07:00:00.004Z

January 2012

Dear London

I remember the first time I ever saw you. I was ten, and on a coach with my Gran. Nose pressed to the window, motorway became houses became sights and sounds and smells. “Look”, she said, “that’s Speaker’s Corner”. We went to Hamley’s and spent a deliriously happy afternoon looking at helicopters whizzing through the air and playing the display games, a riot of colour and movement and excitement. She asked me to pick a present, I chose a big yellow marbled die, that felt smooth and heavy in my hand and rolled like a dream. “Don’t you want a stuffed toy?” she said. I didn’t.

You were always somewhere far off, mystical, somewhere to be reached at the end of a line, at the end of a train track, or a motorway. On a visit with my parents once I walked down Whitehall staring at the pavement, oblivious to the history around me, oblivious to that black door marked “10” that would come to be what I worked for. My Dad told me to look up, to take it all in. I didn’t see the point, and scuffed my shoes.

When my parents drove me to London, to live, it was September 2004. There were two suitcases in the boot, and I had nowhere to live. I don’t know why I wasn’t apprehensive. I thought it would all fall into place, I suppose, like everything always did. I found a flat in Brixton and convinced the landlady to lease me a room, because I had no-where else to go. My parents weren’t happy, leaving me in Brixton, imagining riots and 1980s BBC footage, but the truth is I lived at the nice end, overlooking a park, in a flat with high ceilings. I was in London, I’d made it, I had a job, this was the beginning of the rest of my life. I took the bus to work, the 155, and sat at the front at the top, and when I crossed Waterloo Bridge my heart jumped in my chest, as it never fails to do at that magnificent vista, and I knew something was beginning.

London, you were a shit for those first few months. You took all my excitement, all my apprehension, all my naivety and threw it back in my face. You gave me a cold, miserable autumn and an even colder winter, in a lonely, disorienting city, with only a couple of friends, a job I didn’t understand, and not enough money. I cried a lot, standing in unfamiliar streets and roundabouts, disoriented. I moved from Brixton to Tooting to move in with two friends, and one of them, my anchor in this unfamiliar place, got stopped at the border and refused entry into the country.

London, you cost more than I could pay for. I lived beyond my means. You exhausted me. I was constantly lost, constantly tired, cross at taking an hour to get anywhere, angry at the sheer pace of London life and the arrogance of Londoners. I was miserable and I was lonely and I hated you and thought you were my biggest mistake. I wanted rambling yellow roses and a village and fields to walk in, to think. I wanted quiet.

And then Spring came. Things turned around. I discovered that there was more to you than the Northern Line. I fell in love with a boy and with it, I started to fall in love with you, too. Bits and pieces of you. The Lebanese cafe in Colliers Wood. The wild commons. The south Indian restaurants in Tooting. There was more to you than the South Bank. You got into my blood and under my skin and I couldn’t shake you off. Slowly, surely, I learnt how to handle you. On how to never assume I would know you, get to grips with you, figure you out, say I’ve “done” London (is there a more patronising term out there?). To respect the multiplicity of people who lived around me, their lives, their businesses, their dreams, what drives them.

In January 2007 I moved to Bow, E3. I’d gone from standing in the middle of a showhome on the phone panicking about mortgages saying “but Dad…what if we break up?” and him saying “you’ll be on the property ladder. Worry about that when it happens” to owning a two-bedroom flat in E3. I loved the East End from the off. It’s not pretty. No yummy mummies would go within a mile of the place. It’s unapologetic. It’s drenched in history. I fell in love with Victoria Park, and taught myself to run one May, past canals and the barges and the people frying bacon sandwiches and drinking coffee on Sunday mornings. I pounded the streets and trained for a half marathon, learning about my body and my limits along the Thames up to Tower Bridge. I went to Roman Road market every Saturday, with the mix of East End market traders and refugees and poverty and wished I’d written down the stories I heard and saw. I discovered Shoreditch, home of the best brunches and markets and cafes in London. I learnt to drive in Bethnal Green, start, stop, left turn past the poorest of the poor. We discovered where to eat; the places that look like run-down cafes serve up the most authentic Chinese, Vietnamese, Indian food. Friends came to stay knowing we would know where to go, what to see, where to eat the best food of your week for small change.

London, I’ve been with you seven and a half years. I’ve walked what feels like most of them. I’ve walked your streets, your alleyways, crisscrossed your maps, and by doing that understood how you’re laid out, who else shares you with me, their lives and their stories, far better than I could have done sitting in a car driving from village to town. I still get insulted buying a round in one of your pubs and wish I could have change from a tenner. I still get sick of your pace and want to smack commuters over the head with a copy of the Metro. I still pine for silence, and to see the sky at night. And I go away for weekends, and get both those things, and then miss you.

We might be buying a house in Highams Park. It’s E4, but I’m not kidding myself, it’s not central London anymore. There’s a lake. There’s Epping Forest round the corner. No more nipping out to Columbia Road flower market on Sunday mornings, to pick up some blooms and have some coffee, just because I can. No more jumping on the Tube to get everywhere. On my walk to the station there’ll be no more seeing the Olympic stadium when I turn my head left, and the City skyline when I turn my head right. Coming into the centre is going to involve an Overground Train – even if it’s only 20 minutes. It’s a shift, it’s a change, it’s us growing up.

It’s not going to be the same, London. I’m not leaving you, but I am leaving the parts of you that I love the most. I want things that you can’t give me. My borough has the highest levels of child poverty in the country – and it also contains Canary Wharf. That breaks my heart. I can’t bring a family up there – it’s not what I want.

I’ve never figured you out, and to claim that I have would dismiss everything that makes you what you are. I’m more of a person for having lived and loved and battled with you than I ever could have been anywhere else. There’s something about you that pushes the boundaries, that switches me on, that makes me feel alive. That makes me run the whole gamut of emotions, every day. That’s taught me about the depth and the breadth of life, because it’s all contained here, in one city, in you.

But seriously. £20 a round?

K x

Birthday came, birthday went…..

2012-01-25T07:00:00.024Z

You loved the first part of Rach M's engagement story, and we're back with the next instalment. More family,more love, with some New York in the mix. If any of you have ever felt the pressure of "not being engaged yet", if you've ever shouldered the burden of a family's expectation...you're about to stand up out of your seat and say YES. You are not alone.

Happy Wednesday, readers. Over to Rach M:

I’ve said before that I have an Irish Mammy whose main concern for a few years was that I would end up “an Old Maid”. She actually uses the term ‘Old Maid’, then whispers fearfully about my cousin who was dumped after an eight year relationship and is now single. “Forty and single” my Mum reminds me. I love my cousin dearly and I hope she doesn’t let any of this nagging get to her.

“Would she not go to salsa?” wonders my Mum. “I heard there’s loads of fellas at salsa”. She goes out to write this on the pad by the phone so she’ll remember to suggest it to my aunt the next time she speaks to her.

You see, O reader, that there’s not just my Mum, the centre-stage narrator of everything, but – enter stage left - a chorus of graceful-throated, tea-drinking, speculating aunties who love nothing more than a good old fat-chew of all of our lives. In some generational baby-naming laziness, they all seem to be called Mary, which if you are around them makes it very difficult to follow the thread of what they are talking about, for example:

“Yes Mary, no Mary, what I mean Mary is…”. My Mum once fell asleep when taking to a Mary on the phone, WHO TALKED FOR HALF AN HOUR WITHOUT REALISING SHE WAS ASLEEP, then Mum woke up with a “Jesus Mary, I was asleep there!” and promptly forgot which Mary it was.

So, Mum and the Marys being given the glimmer of hope that I had a boyfriend and someone could actually stand me, needed no starter whistle to begin the speculation of when M was going to pop the question.

There appears to be a completely unfounded correlation in the minds of the Marys between birthdays and proposals. All this began when my much-referred to cousin turned 30 and the aunts cooed and waited with bated breath for her to be asked (she wasn’t, it all ended some years later), and then discussed on the phone in a withering whisper “Birthday came, birthday went, no ring.” They wheeled out this mantra again for her younger sister, who also passed a ringless 30^th. Another cousin of mine was (cue aunts’ collective shameful gasp) single on her 30^th – and the talk and speculation was she’d ‘missed the boat.’

On her 30^th dancefloor I had to have a few strong words with her Mum who said to me ‘every single one of her friends is married apart from her.’ I took her to task on this, saying wasn’t it better that she found the right one rather than anyone? My aunt, a great avoider of conflict, didn’t answer and instead said something about the party in reply to me. I wanted to scream and shake her. We love our mothers and know that their expectations of us are a part of them but in my family anyhow, they sometimes need reminding that it’s not 1950. I could tell from my aunt’s face that at that moment, she wouldn’t have cared. Anyone would have done, and I was really disappointed in her.

Fortunately for everyone, my cousin went on holiday the very next week and met her future husband. They got married last summer and the Marys are now on babywatch.

Happy 30^th Birthday Brownie from my Irish American cousins

And what of M and I? We moved in together after one year so they had a diamond glint in their eye. Not long afterwards, it was my 30^th – yep, you know the drill. We were off to New York. The aunts were in a frenzy.

Me and M on top of the Rockefeller. We have a thing for climbing tall buildings in foreign cities.

We had a fab time in the Big Apple, but M couldn’t escape the expectation. One night we went to my mum’s cousin’s for dinner. As we were leaving, her husband said to him: “Good man. Remember the Diamond District is just off 5^th!” followed by a belly laugh and a thwack between the shoulder blades that nearly threw him into the family picture wall.

“Christine and I got engaged at the top of the World Trade Center in The Windows of the World restaurant. But don’t worry – there’s still Little Italy!”

We were speechless.

I’m ashamed to tell you that all this speculation got to me and even I thought it might happen. To the point where I did a Beyonce ‘Single Ladies’ shimmy when we passed the glittering gateway to the diamond district. Nothing. Then on our last night glamorous dinner (I’d had a manicure and EVERYTHING), I kept staring at him, willing him on.

“What do you want, a menu?” he asked.

I sulked on the plane home, and told him why.

“Don’t worry,” he said on the Piccadilly Line on the way home as a girl and her fiancé admired her ring, “you’ll get your diamond. One day.”

And I did, but that’s a story for another time. Meanwhile one of my cousins got engaged on Christmas Eve and the first thing my Mum said was:

“Could he not have waited til her birthday?”

Coming Soon!...Part 3: "Mum's The Word"

The Ex Files: Kazakhstan

2012-01-24T13:00:00.001Z

My inspiration for the Friend that Made Me Me series was wanting to honour the friends who made us into the people we are today; recognising the truths they helped inspire and the experiences they helped create. I also wanted to bring to light the point that we are really only ever a sum of our stories and of what people teach us.

But it's not just friends who did that, is it? There's also (shudder) The Exes.

Now, I think exes get a bad rep. I know they weren't all perfect, otherwise we'd be with them now, or married to them, or they'd be canonised. However, chances are most of us spent a significant portion of our lives with partners who helped shape us in some way and made us who we are. Even the really bad breakups taught us something, forged us into better, stronger, shinier, more durable versions of ourselves.

And, for the most part, mine are great. I'd totally go for a beer with them. The ones I had a relationship with, perhaps not the (sometimes ill-advised) flings. Most of them had an international bent, which means I'll probably never get to see them again, but even so! I would.

Mum, if you are reading, please stop here. I'll give you the edited version on the phone. It will involve holding hands and dates at the cinema.

Onto Kazakhstan:

Photograph from here

I had been living in Germany just a few months. It was summer, and I was near the Black Forest, and it was beautiful. The days were long, the classes at University were easy, I was living with a great group of people, my German was the best it's ever been (and that includes my final year oral exams, sadly). One night, I went to a fellow students' house party. There was some animated discussion going on and a lot of beer. I was well into both. I was also on the lookout for a Boyfriend because I thought it would help my language skills and I wanted to meet people that weren't just students, local people from the local community.

A good-looking, tall guy walks up. Despite what you may expect, I’ve seen many tall, good-looking guys in Germany, and they are not usually my type. I like the runts at the back of the class that make me laugh. I look out the window, acting disinterested.

And he’s talking to me. Asking me what my name is, why I’m here, where I’m from. Oh please. Every single international student's conversation starts like this and it's just not imaginative. I mumble a response and look elsewhere for conversation.

He’s from Kazakhstan.

My head whips round. Where? Crap, I can be so shallow. Suddenly tall, potentially-painfully-average guy comes alive with hidden mystique and possibilities. I shift up a gear. Kazakhstan, hey? I go from Ice Queen to intriguing and witty in about six seconds. He studies law, he lives alone, his German is flawless.

About four hours later he offers to walk me home which is nice. Chivalry is not dead. On our way out he gets into a fight, but I assume he’s just attempting to strut around secreting masculinity as some men try and do. I sigh, I ignore it, I figure that if he behaves like that again I don't have to see him anymore.

The next day, he invites me round for dinner. Quite forward, but the flat is in a busy area and I do the usual "get my friend to do an emergency call two hours in" manouvere. I turn up at his flat. I knock on the door. He opens it and greets me warmly yet somewhat shiftily. He ushers me into the dining room.There is a large round table. Around this table are sat; in order; Stalin-esque Father, KGB-agent Mother, face-like-the-ceiling-crashed-down-on-her Sister, and Grandmother (or was it Grandfather? I couldn’t tell).

What? Didn’t he say he lived alone? Always one to throw myself in at the deep end, I pretend like this is no issue. I’m good with parents. I’ll be a natural. Granted, I speak no Russian, but roll with it. I am introduced by Potential Paramour as a “marriage prospect”. I bite my tongue for there is no escape and the KGB human-rights record isn’t exactly spanking clean.

After each bite, I am force-fed a shot of vodka, to “aid my digestion”. After half my zakusky I am absolutely trolleyed. After my main course, I am almost on the floor and to my dismay the Potential Lover has to ask KGB-Mother to go easy on me. Grandmother(/father) is still going a treat, knocking it back like it’s Evian.

Then we are asked to be silent. It is, apparently, time to show the cook our appreciation of the hearty repast. I naively think that all I have to do is say thank-you. Oh no. In turn, we each have to stand up and belch. Loudly. On demand.

What? I can't burp on purpose! It comes round to me and I make a sort of strangulated sound and everyone looks at me disappointedly.

Post meal with Potential Suitor I decide to let the family thing drop. It was a rich cultural experience and I am not one to nit-pick. However, during the meal, his family had been telling me lots about him, in much detail, yet the last two years of his life lie completely unaccounted for. And the fight. And he's living with his family. I cut to the chase whilst entangled in lengthy Slavic limbs on the sofa.

“Have you been to prison?”
Dumbfounded stare. “How did you guess?”
Call me Sherlock. "What did you do?” I asked.
“I don’t want to talk about it”

Right. Sounds great. Am entwined in the embrace of somebody who could well be a psychopathic killer. How am I going to get out of this one?

However, I reason it was only two years, so it couldn’t have been rape or murder, therefore it’s fine. Seriously. That's what I thought. And it WAS fine, but still! So much for rationale! Now I understand why parents want to do MI6-style checks on their daughters' boyfriends.

The Black Forest

Our relationship blossomed over the next few weeks. He taught me to drink vodka Russian-style. He taught me my first Russian words. He introduced me to his friends, more family, his life. He mocked my German incessantly. We got lost in the Black Forest. He let me drive his car and didn’t even shout at me when I drove it into a field. He fed my insatiable curiosity as to what exactly it was like to be in prison.

More Black Forest. It was pretty magical. Even with an ex-con.

I mean can you imagine it? To have you freedom taken away from you, to be let out of your cell for one hour in 24 to take a walk in a concrete yard just able to see a sliver of blue sky, to know you have given up everything you once knew because of one stupid mistake? It emerged that he’d stabbed someone in a fight (I realise I'm not selling him well, here). It didn’t even make me angry. It made me fundamentally reassess my views on prison, on rehabilitation, on justice. He made a mistake. He’s paid his dues. He was taken out of society. He was duly punished. He had a hell of a lot of time to think, enclosed in four walls for two whole years.

It threw up a lot of interesting questions. How long should somebody be punished? Should people be let out again? Is shutting someone up in a darkened room for a long, long time just a very simplistic solution to rehabilitate the complex mind of a criminal?

And reintegration into society is even more difficult to deal with. To have to interact within a society where so many people are bitterly prejudiced against ex-cons. It’s almost as if people are punished their whole life for one mistake; whether they are in prison or out of it.

Bertrand Russell once said; The reformative effect of punishment is a belief that dies hard, chiefly I think, because it is so satisfying to our sadistic impulses..

Is prison really the best solution or does it destroy people far more than we could ever understand?

This is the kind of thing exes should be making you think about! The really important questions! And I'm now working in criminal justice, and trying to answer those very questions, ten years on.

I left said ex-con after a few weeks to go Interrailing around Eastern Europe (with Catherine). When I flew back to the UK I got a call from him. “Send me a picture of you”, he said. “Something I can show my friends and family. All the pictures I have of you you’re laughing or doing something stupid. Send me a picture of you sitting on a chair, in a nice dress, with your hair over your shoulders and with make-up on”

The profanity I unleashed upon his misogynistic soul has no place in this blog. Stabbings, lies and fighting I can cope with. Sexism, not.

On Arguing.

2012-01-24T07:00:00.000Z

I like to think that I'm quite restrained when I'm angry. I scream into pillows, grind my teeth and dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands. I threw a remote control at a wall once, but that was more out of frustration than anything else. I love to have a good sulk and there's nothing like slamming a solid oak door to release some tension. I'm not a shouter, nor am I particularly articulate when I'm het up about something serious, hence the remote control shotput.

Not being a shouty person is generally a good thing, but when it comes to arguing-specifically with Phil-it's nothing but a big fat hindrance.

You see, he's exactly.the.same. A world-class sulker. Professional, almost. HE'S never done anything as irrational as throw the Sky Remote at the bedroom wall. Regardless of the topic of 'discussion', he can assume the air of the correct party (even, and especially when he is very definitely the wrong party!) and sit in silence for hours.

Source

Two pouting sulkypants do not an efficient argument make. We have niggly arguments regularly and when we bicker, it's fun. But when we really argue, when we fight, it can take us days to resolve the conflict. I'm not proud of this, I wish more than anything that we could have a reasoned debate, each stating our case and listening to the other do the same with patience and respect...but it's never going to happen. I choose to hope that it's our kind of 'healthy', the way we fight. Even though there's only been a handful (four, I think...) of times we've really exploded at one another, I still envy couples who can have passionate, intense, short-lived fights and move on with clean slates and consciences.

Is there hope? Might we two adults learn to argue like...adults? What works for you, as a couple? Have you ever thrown a remote at a wall? (I swear-it was just once. And no-one was hurt, not even the remote.)

Real Married: Losing Weight for a Wedding

2012-01-23T07:00:00.006Z

Before we kick off with Esme, who is back with more words of wisdom...let me introduce something exciting for all us bookworms.

It's the AOW Book Store!

In our Book Store (which you can access on the right-hand side of the page), we've added every single book we three or you, our readers, have recommended through our Books That Made Me Me and Book Club posts. Go browse, buy...and enjoy! I'll be adding Kindle versions in slower time, and also announcing the Great AOW Book Swap details over the next few weeks. Back to Esme...

In Esme's Real Married column so far, she's tackled a humanist ceremony, the minefield that is bridesmaids, and now she's taking on the Demon of Skinny. I love this post, because Esme writes about a topic close to many womens' hearts in a frank, funny and matter-of-fact way that makes us realise that the whole thing is a charade, but that, you know, we'll probably do it anyway.

(I also want to punch Esme's ex-colleagues' lights out and stand over their fallen bodies scoffing Dairy Milk but that is by the by.) Over to Esme:

When Tom and I got engaged I was a size 12 and felt good because I knew my boy loved how I looked. On my wedding day, I was a slim size 8. Not exactly a huge difference and certainly not enough to be life changing (or even really that noticeable in most outfits). So, the question is, why on earth did I lose weight for my wedding?

The dress

The first reason was that I bought a sample sale dress that was a bit tight. In the interests of being completely honest with you all, here is an incredibly unflattering picture of me in the first time I tried on my wedding dress (please be kind!):

I fell in love with the dress straight away and had to trust my Mum when she said we could easily alter the dress to fit me. Right there, in that shop, I realised that I was going to have to go back on the one rule I had set myself – that I wouldn’t lose any weight for my wedding. I was happy the size and shape I was and I knew Tom loved how I looked. I have never dieted, never really cared about my weight, always been able to eat sensibly and not had to worry about having an extra slice of cake. I had promised myself that this was how I was going to look on the day. But then the dress came along and I told myself that it would be alright to just lose half an inch around my waist. That was it.

The pressure

So a few months after finding The Dress (and discovering that we could make it slightly larger by moving the A-Line skirt up a few cms, which made me feel a lot better) I started to get used to the idea that loosing a few pounds would be fine.

And then I started to feel The Bridal Pressure.

Nine months before my wedding day I had started watching what I was eating (more on how I did lose the weight below) and so had everyone else. At coffee breaks at work, my colleagues started asking me whether I really should have another biscuit. When it was someone’s birthday and there was cake, nobody asked me if I wanted a slice. There were comments along the lines of ‘it’s so nice to look your best on your wedding day. How much weight are you going to lose?’, ‘Who’s going to do your hair and make-up – it’s so important that you get a professional’ and ‘I didn’t lose enough weight for my wedding and now I look back at the pictures and wish I’d made more of an effort’. I really felt the pressure and started to criticise myself. Tom hated it – he thought I looked great and he started to worry that I was going to starve myself. I’d always been the girl who had a really healthy attitude with food, so much so that I took it upon myself to try and help my friends who had food-related issues. When one friend who has struggled in the past with her weight noticed that I had lost a bit of weight, she took me to one side and warned me not to take it too far. I was worried about myself, I didn’t want to get addicted to losing weight and start the long spiral down to endless dieting and always thinking about what I eat.

Looking slim after our registry office ceremony

Finding a happy medium

The crunch point came about two months before the big day. I knew I had lost all the weight I wanted to and I just wanted to maintain it. I had had my final fitting and felt amazing in my dress. It fitted beautifully and I was feeling confident. My friends were commenting that I was glowing and Tom thought that I looked better than ever (although he made sure that he emphasized he would love me however I looked). One day at work someone was leaving and there was going to be my favourite cake. I had been "good" all week (gosh, I hate that phrase!) so I decided to have a piece. Slices were being offered round and I very loudly said that yes, I would be having a piece of that one, thank you very much. Silence. Finally, one person said ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’. I laughed it off, but I was mortified – did I look awful? Did all brides virtually stop eating months before their wedding? Was I going to regret how I looked at my wedding for the rest of my life? I text my Mum and got the reply ‘F*** ‘em and eat three pieces’. So that was it, no more weight loss for me.

Image by Martmari Photography

What now?

I felt absolutely amazing on my wedding day. I looked beautiful and I’m proud to say that. I am glad that I lost a little bit of weight because my dress looked even better than I had hoped. Four months on I’ve put on a few pounds but am still slimmer than I’ve been in years and I will admit that I do like it. I wish that I hadn’t bowed to the pressure because I thought I was above all of that rubbish, but turns out I was like pretty much every bride and worried about how I was going to look at my wedding. The irony is that the one thing everyone commented on was that the best accessory I had on all day was my massive smile. I was the happiest woman alive on that day and would have felt like that whatever size I was.

How I did it

Are you ready for the big reveal? How a girl who already ate sensibly and was pretty active dropped about two dress sizes in eight-ish months? Drum roll please…

I ate less food and drank less wine.

Seriously, that’s it. I consciously decided to really cut down on drinking (only having one glass of wine a week usually), had slightly smaller portions (which is not difficult in my house as Tom will eat everything I leave on my plate) and only had biscuits or sweet treats when I REALLY wanted them. Simples.

Right, now I’m off to buy a whole new wardrobe because none of my clothes fit me anymore…

Weekend Wonderings

2012-01-21T07:00:00.000Z

There's two things I have to share with you today, that's Saturday AND Sunday catered for! You're welcome...

First up is this exciting giveaway from the stunningly talented wedding photographer Tamara Kuzminski. If you're getting wed between 1st April and 31st December this year, inside the M25, you could win Tamara's services FOR FREE by entering her competition. That's a bit good, no?

My 'Sunday' wondering is more personal, and I know that it's a little like my Christmas post...but I haven't been able to stop thinking about this... Since I started my new job I've been very lucky-lucky enough to visit some of the Olympic sites, attend an amazing party and most of all, to learn about the most heart-warming and incredible of charities. It's the 'Ronald McDonald House Charity' and all I ask of you today is that you wander over to their website and learn a little about what they do. Thanks to the nature of my new job, I may be lucky enough to one day have the chance to work for RMHC. If that day comes, it's a chance I'll be grabbing with both hands.

My 9 year old goddaughter has a school project on the go at the moment, she phoned to ask Phil and I, 'How do you remember your childhood?'

Fondly, for the most part. For which we are eternally thankful and now all the more aware of just how lucky we are.

Source

Any Other Photo {Carly and Karenna}

2012-01-20T07:00:00.000Z

It's very easy to declare, every Friday, 'THIS is my FAVOURITE Any Other Photo. EVER!' I think it's a sign of how wonderful the series is, how it can make you smile, make you feel the love, make you giggle, make you cry. For every emotion, there is an AOP somewhere to match it and that's why it's so easy to have so many favourites!

This one is very special though. Two faces showing such joy and such deep love for one another. Not to mention the bluest sky I've ever seen and talk of a 'Wedding Week' on an island...perfection.

It's not a picture of Carly and her husband (who knows, if AOP is still going in 2014 we may well have that shot too!) but we don't care-no hard and fast rules when it comes to your AOP submissions ladies and gents-just one picture that sums up that amazing day for you.

Over to Carly...

I am the bridesmaid in this photo - taken on the wedding day of my beautiful best friend. I've sent this in as Karenna emigrated to Australia 10 days after this photo was taken, taking with her the most wonderful memories from a perfect wedding week on the Hebridean Island of Colonsay.

I adore this photo and I know that she does too. I have shed many a tear over it since she left as it reminds me of all the reasons why we are friends. I just WISH I could remember what on earth we were laughing at!!

I am recently engaged and we have set a date for 2014, ages away I know, but I'm not getting married without her beside me and we thought it only fair that they had plenty of notice!

(I really hope this can be printed in some shape or form as the Internet is our best form of communication and the tool that keeps our friendship going and it's something she can appreciate just as much in Oz as I can in the UK.)*

*Glad we could help, Carly!

Move Over, Edward Cullen...

2012-01-19T07:00:00.000Z

...I have a new inappropriate teen-fiction crush. His name is Peeta Mellark and he's the hero in the astonishingly fantastic trilogy 'The Hunger Games'. And then there's our heroine and undeniable star of the show, Katniss. She's so wickedly awesome you'll want to learn how to skin a rabbit just so you can be more like her.

In case I've not been clear, I freaking love these books. I lent them to my Mum, they were stolen from her by my Aunt. My 15 year old cousin devoured them, as did her 12 year old brother. They're currently in the possession of my little brother and I've seen his girlfriend eyeing them up. They appeal to all generations and both sexes in equal measure and their political narrative and inescapable sadness keep them free of that 'Twilight-esque' saccharine sweetness. When Anna said that they're amongst the best books she's read 'in the last five years', it confirmed their greatness. The girl has astounding taste in books and isn't easily impressed-testament to the brilliance of 'The Hunger Games'.

Ha-I started writing a post about what I've read recently (as we haven't had a proper session chatting all things literary for a long time) and it's fast turning into a dissertation on the mega-ness of 'The Hunger Games'...moving swiftly on!

My last post sharing my reading material was after my summer holiday, so I suppose this can be classed as the Winter edition! I wasn't working for most of December so I had plenty of time to read, though unfortunately not whilst lying on a sun lounger in the Moroccan sunshine...pfft. As always, I don't profess to have exclusively highbrow taste in reading material...in fact, I think with all the sofa hours I've clocked up in the last 6 weeks I may have slid even further into chick-lit territory than normal! That's where you lovely lot come in though-get recommending!

I'm almost ashamed to admit it, but I currently have in my possession two books. 'Christmas at Tiffany's' and 'Breakfast at Darcy's'...I know. I KNOW. You can practically guess the plot of both without me going into any detail, can't you? Suffice to say, they're both twee, sickly sweet and have unbearably happy endings. There's diamonds and freshly baked bread and men with brooding eyes and rippling biceps. Predictable escapism...maybe a new name for this particular genre? Neither gave the grey matter a workout, but I would recommend if you're going to be waiting at the garage whilst your car is being serviced.

Luckily for me, Anna was on hand to up my intellectual rating with the beautiful Christmas present she bought me...

Isn't it gorgeous? My tattered, annotated, dog-eared copy of 'The Great Gatsby' is one of my most treasured possessions and now this collection of F. Scott Fitzgerald's short stories 'Flappers and Philosophers', is right there with it. Can't bring myself to go near it with a highlighter though... I've rationed myself to one tale at a time and it is HARD work. Definitely one of my favourite presents ever. Thank you, K.

At this point it's worth mentioning (if only to emphasise my fleeting fliratation with high-quality literature) that after the BBC's stunning adaptation of 'Great Expectations' I dusted off the Dickens (snigger) and revisited some of the classics, concentrating on the seasonally appropriate classics. I consider it a positive that I can't read 'A Christmas Carol' without doing so in the voice of Gonzo from the Muppets. I wonder would Charles approve?

Other tomes that have found themselves added to my already groaning bookshelves include 'Cleo', only to be tackled if you like cats and don't mind crying, 'Dear Charlie'-again with the crying, but so worth it to realise how lucky and loved you are; and 'Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy'-we tried to watch the 2011 adaptation but couldn't get on with it so I read the book to see if it would help my understanding. Loved the book, still ambivalent about the film. Meh.

Did you get any great reads for Christmas? Discovered any amazing new authors that I need to know about? Come on readers, we know you love it-let's talk books...

On taking the leap, and self-worth - Mahj

2012-01-18T07:00:00.005Z

It's no secret that we love Mahj. From one of the best wedding reports any of us have ever read (that made all three of us emerge from her world with mascara-streaked faces), to her loyalty and integrity and kick-ass personality, she's ace.

When Mahj sent me this piece, I responded saying I had goosebumps, and felt like I could do anything. Now THAT's how a post should make you feel.

Happy Wednesday, readers. I give you Mahj:

2011 was a big year for a few reasons. Firstly and foremost I became wedded to a wonderful man. And secondly I picked myself up, dusted myself off and got myself a new job.

But perhaps I should back track a bit? Y’see, I’m a qualified Conveyancer but when the Big Rubbish Property Crash of 2008 happened, I found myself made redundant from a job I loved and that I had always presumed I would have until I was ready to move on. And man did I feel like shite. I couldn’t understand how this had happened to me, other friends in the same profession were fine (some wouldn’t remain this way though). I felt like I was being singled out.

Obviously with retrospect I can see now that this wasn’t the case, that it is common for people who have been made redundant to blame themselves for their situation. But at the time you definitely don’t have that foresight!

And so the job hunt began and good God it was awful. There were zilcho Conveyancing jobs on the market, so I began to apply for non-Conveyancing ones as I didn’t have any choice. I did eventually strike it lucky and managed to get an interview for a position as an Assistant in a Marketing and Communications department, which let’s face it, is about as opposite from my chosen career as I could get.

As luck would have it I got the job, which at the time was more a feeling of relief that the bills could be paid. Rather than dwell on the fact that it wasn’t a job of my choosing, I decided to get stuck in and learn everything I could about this new profession. And it was interesting and fun. It wasn’t Conveyancing but I was working and working with a group of people who I really liked and also, perhaps most importantly, my department was so supportive. You see, the week after I’d got the job was when Martin was attacked and put in the hospital for 4 months. They let me start 4 weeks later than I should have. They let me leave early or start later when I needed to get to the hospital. They were just so flippin nice and I am, above all else, loyal. Especially if you have showed me such kindness.

I think a part of me knew that I couldn’t stay there forever, that I was qualified to do something else that I had worked really hard for, for 3 ½ years. But I ignored that. I ignored the fact that I was capable of so much more than they were giving me, that I could do so much more for them, that I was, to put it quite bluntly, bored. And by the beginning of 2011 I knew that I couldn’t ignore it any longer. With the wedding upcoming I knew that after it was all over, work would become my full focus again and I couldn’t afford to ignore my unhappiness with my job any longer. I had to remind myself over and over that I was qualified, that I could do it and that being made redundant wasn’t my fault.

So a couple of weeks after we returned from our honeymoon I started. I had to do some refresher courses to bring my knowledge up to date, which I did at home after being sent the material and I started applying for jobs at the same time. After a couple of months a job came up for a national builders in-house team and I went for it. My CV was all up to date and full of exciting, jobby words like “enthusiastic” “organised” and “hard-working”. And hooray me, because I got an interview!

I literally couldn’t believe it. I thought it would take ages to find a job or even pluck up the courage to apply for one and there I was, end of October, prepping for my interview. I never like to think if I’ve done well or badly in interviews, even though I obsess terribly after them. But in this instance, I honestly thought I’d done ok. I’d tried my best. That maybe the only thing going against me was that I’d been out of Conveyancing for the past 3 years.

As it turns out they didn’t mind that so much as they offered me the job! I found out whilst in my old work and immediately set about doing some kind of celebratory jig in the women’s toilets. God I was so happy and proud. I was proud of myself. For taking the leap and believing that I could do it.

As for the new job? I L-O-V-E it! I’m back doing what I enjoy, I’m busy all day and work with some really lovely people. I have responsibility and am treated as such. People want to hear my opinion, what I think about something. It’s only a 12-month contract but I’m really hoping it becomes something more permanent. But if it doesn’t that’s ok, because I still went for it.

So what did I learn? Being made redundant is crap and it will more than likely make you feel low and in my case, a bit worthless. But you aren’t worthless. You had some bad luck but you are still good at your job and you have to remember that. I stayed in my last job for probably a year longer than I should’ve done for many reasons, planning and paying for a wedding for example, loyalty another. And whilst these may feel noble and right at the time, they probably aren’t the best reasons. A part of me wishes that I had kicked my arse into gear long ago, but then would I have this brilliant job now?

If you’re reading this and are in a similar situation to what I was in, DO IT! Take the leap. Jump. Insert move motivational words here! Similarly to what Aisling wrote a couple of weeks ago, starting this new job really was a eye-opener! I practically spring out of bed, I sing (badly) in the car on the way to work, my work is a challenge. I feel good about myself. I’m cheery all the time!

And perhaps one of the biggest things I learned from all this, is that when your own husband believes in you and tells you can do this and it will work, he’s usually right. And then it’s time to start believing it yourself.

Mahj xoxo

On wanting it all: Working Parents

2012-01-17T13:00:00.026Z

Today’s topic is a subject close to my heart for obvious reasons, and it's something on which I'm still not clear about my feelings, so I've been looking forward to hearing your opinions on
it all.

This afternoon's take on working parents is slightly different to Cat's post this morning. And that's what I absolutely love about AOW - I know that in one day we can post two totally different points of view, and that whether you agree or disagree with either of them you'll have rational and hugely interesting discussions based on them, showing respect for others, without going down the usual internet forum route of descending into nastiness and irrationality.

You guys are, in the words of Aisling, truly amazeballs.
With that, I give you Frankie...

A quick preface from me:

I would put myself into the categories of career woman' AND 'independent woman' yet what I am about to write about will probably make me seem like neither. I'm worried because the views I express are probably not very popular, but I felt, having talked to Anna K, that this discussion is pertinent to quite a few women our age at the moment. I'd love to hear your views and you can tell me I'm wrong... but I'll share what I know. Ps. At various points, I refer to the Mums of my two best friends - for simplicity's sake they are Mum 1 and Mum 2!
Frankie

Looking after your own child is the best start you can give them in life...

I have a truly hilarious yet grounded husband, brilliant supportive friends, lovely family and a career I enjoy. But the day will come in the future where hubby and I will be planning to have children. You'd think I wouldn't worry about it until the time comes and that I'd be waiting before I make any crazy decisions about parenthood... um, no! I'm basically paranoid about becoming stuck in a situation where both hubby and I need to work full-time in order to pay the rent/mortgage, and I'm thinking about this LOADS at the moment.

The reason for this is that if we have children I don't want to have to go back to work while they are young. I agree with my best friend's Mum (Mum 1), a former childminder, school inspector and all-round education guru (seriously!), who says: “Looking after your own child is the best start you can give them in life”.

(Just to clarify early on, this means looking after children until they start Nursery at the age of 3, and then potentially continuing to be available during the first years of school to pick them up, drop them off.)

You might think a person believing that, and who gives the not-working thing more than a moment's thought, must be in a luxurious position, be paid loads, or have rich parents or assets of some kind. Well, er, no - I'm none of these things. I've never been in the position of having financial back-ups. I've worked pretty much non-stop since the age of 16. While others at university were having fun times travelling abroad, I was in an office full-time every holiday. While others were lying in bed hungover on a Saturday morning, I was working in a bookshop. I never stopped: it was the only way I could get through... a student loan was not enough on its own. My point in telling you all that is that I fully, fully appreciate the need to work and earn money and the lack of options so many people have in that respect.

I was brought up by a single working Mum and she was, and is, pretty legendary in my eyes. She worked so hard and put herself second in order to do well at work, and, later, study hard, so that she could bring me up as comfortably as possible, and achieve a better life for us. She is a fantastic role model, a brilliant career woman, and I doubt I would have achieved half of what I have done without her to look up to.

The downside of course is that I didn't always get large chunks of time with her, I spent a lot of time with friends of the family, childminders and in holiday play-schemes. (The latter being pretty dire. But that's another story!) I don't have a chip on my shoulder about any of this. In fact I genuinely spent most of my twenties believing if you have children they could just happily fit into your life as it already is without anything much changing, and that it's normal for children to not spend much time with their parents, because parents have to work.

Then a few years ago I trained as a teacher and all my views changed.

I now know how children learn, and what is vital to their wellbeing, and what happens to a child in the first few years of their life is ridiculously important to them later on. Early experiences are vital to children's physical, social, emotional and intellectual development. It's too much to go into in this short post, but essentially children who are happy and secure and feel loved do develop better and achieve more.

Many things affect this, not just working parents, obviously. I'm writing about this assuming the children we refer to are from relatively stable families where there is love, an engagement with learning, not terrible poverty and so on. All those factors and more obviously have a huge impact, against which the issue of 'working parents' pales into insignificance.

Children who spend a large proportion of time in their formative years with their parents are often the happiest, most confident, content children there are. I've seen it first hand in the Nursery and Reception classes of inner city schools I've worked in. That is NOT at all to say children with working parents, who are partly brought up by nurseries or childminders, are made to feel unloved. However, there is a very special level of security afforded to children who spend more time with their parents than other adults.

The upshot of this whole blog post is just to tell you that I know from research and from seeing it myself that children flourish with their parents as their main carers.

As women in the modern world it has long been unpopular for us to be stay-at-home mums. The feminist argument tells us we are equal to men, we should be having the same careers as them and making as much money as them. I agree with all of this, and I equally advocate fathers being stay-at-home dads and mothers being the ones to go out to work. But at the end of the day if you are to have children, you are responsible for bringing them up, and in my eyes, that potentially means someone's career coming second.

If both parents must work a lot, here are things which make a difference to children:

Clear routine, regularity and consistency;

Children knowing about changes to the routine and having time in advance to prepare for something different happening;

All adults caring for your child having similar expectations and boundaries and communicating them in similar ways;

Once children start nursery and then school (aged 3-4), parents being the ones to drop them off and pick them up;

Parents getting back from work in time to see their children, or leaving for work late enough to have breakfast with them;

When children are ill and are sent home from school, they need their parents or close family members; and

Parents, despite being busy and stressed, making time to talk to their children, to read with them, and laugh with them.

Both my best friends were brought up by fathers who went out to work and mothers who stayed home with them, until school age when they went back to work but for school hours only. Both my best friends' Mums separately told me of the financial struggle which not working brought them, meaning they had to do things like: living without a car, taking on lodgers to help pay the mortgage, relying on second hand or handmade clothes and toys, having no holidays and generally spending very little on anything. As Mum 2 put it “just not wanting for anything...not wanting a bigger house...being happy with the small and modest things you've got”.

I don't know about you but my friends and I talk about “being skint” and “not having much money this month” when that often means “I still have my phone, my car, still went out for a nice meal recently, still spent £30 on a friend's birthday”. What I'm trying to say is I've got to the point where I am all for making changes in lifestyle in order to spend more time with our potential future children. Think how much some people spend on their wedding day! And think about it again in terms of it possibly covering a few months extra maternity or paternity leave. Or fund part time work for a year. It's surely got to be worth fighting for? Why would you want someone else bringing up your child, moulding their views of themselves and their world, unless circumstances mean you really can't do it yourself?

I leave you with the words of Mum 1. She explained her reasoning for going through extremely tight and tough financial times so she (along with her husband whenever he was not at work) could be bringing up their children, and not other people:

“I wanted to be there for their first smile, steps, fall, fight, word, sentence. I wanted to be the one, along with [her husband], that interpreted the world for them, was with them as they explored, discovered and learnt. I wanted to be the one that took them to the park, swimming, the swings, the forest, the zoo, read books with them, put a plaster on their knee, kissed and held them until they felt better if unwell, frustrated, had a temper tantrum. Also guiding them when they were naughty, setting consistent boundaries and expectations for their behaviour towards others and themselves. I wanted it to be my eyes they saw pride and affection in when they painted their first picture, stomped in a puddle whether they were wearing wellies or not, and so much more.”

Do you believe in parents going back to work when their children are young? What would you do/ are you doing? Also, how were you brought up and will you follow a similar path with your own children?

On wanting it all: The Kids Versus Career Conundrum

2012-01-17T07:00:00.005Z

Good morning, readers. Today there will be two thought-provoking posts, on the same issue, from two very different perspectives. The issue in question is one that affects many of us; it's the choice of kids or career, work or motherhood, call it what you will. We're told that you can have both. Today we want to ask this: is that realistic?

This morning's piece is challenging. It is written by my friend Cat, and I want to know what you all think. Cat tackles this choice, the patriarchal structures surrounding this choice, and asks that fundamental question: is having children even worth it?

Please don't hold back because Cat is my friend - that would be beside the point entirely. There are bits here that I disagree with and will be making those points in the comments. But Cat raises undeniable truths which are hard to swallow and that is what we are here at AOW to do; to encourage debate, to question our assumptions, to make ourselves uncomfortable sometimes.

Onwards! I give you Cat. And please come back at 1pm for another view:

I have a confession to make. The older I get, the less I want children. According to popular opinion, I must be a biological freak. It’s every woman’s greatest purpose and ambition to make good use of her womb, right? But instead of feeling the ticking of my supposed biological clock, I am beginning to panic that all the high ambition and hard graft that have shaped my life until now will disappear out of the window the moment I miss my period. In other words, I am worried that a baby will ruin my life.

I turned thirty earlier this year. I am in a stable and loving relationship. Other people’s children like me and I, generally speaking, like them too. I have been told since I was a teenager that I have a knack with young people and that one day I will make a great mother. When I was in my early- to mid-twenties I repeatedly told myself that I wanted my first child by the time I passed into the next decade. Well, that time has now come, but instead of feeling closer to bringing another life into the world, I am feeling increasingly put off by the idea.

Don’t get me wrong. Kids are not seriously on the cards. At least they are not publically on the cards (although inside I have been pondering the idea on and off since I played with my first doll). What I mean is that my boyfriend and I have not discussed it in earnest. On the one hand, while not exactly a raging feminist, he would hate me to feel unhappy or depressed, and would balk at the idea that he could in any way oppress me. On the other, more realistic hand, I can just tell that it would be so easy – I refuse to believe ‘natural’ - for us to slip into those gender roles that society has waiting for us. We are both academics, just starting out. We are both inspired by this incredibly fulfilling yet extremely stressful and competitive career, in which your worth is judged according to the sum total of your publications. If I took a year off to nurture a child, I would most probably never make it past the post of senior lecturer while he would merrily, and deservedly, cruise through to a professorship.

I would be the one who would be the primary care-giver. He would be the one to bring in the money. I would settle for a mediocre career while he would go on to fulfil his intellectual potential. And frankly the unfairness of this makes me want to get my tubes tied. There are few women who make it to senior positions in the Academy, and the bulk of those that do are either single or homosexual. Meanwhile, most of their male equivalents have dinner waiting for them on the table when they come home and their ironed shirts in an orderly pile. A heterosexual relationship just does not seem conducive to a woman’s career.

I have watched with a sinking heart how friend after Facebook friend replaces profile photos of themselves with those of their offspring. I have sighed as previously witty or philosophical status up-dates now consist of call-outs to the mother and baby swimming club. Or when the biggest crisis is that every toy store has sold out of little Jimmy’s desired Christmas present. Or when baby-speak gets dropped into conversation with adults. The thought of a life filled with discussions about the relative qualities of various brands of babywipes while watching my little darling in the sand-pit fills me with dread. So does engaging in that unspoken but fiercely competitive sport of which mother can organise the coolest kid’s birthday party. And the coffee mornings, and the jam-making, and the play-group outings… It all makes me feel a bit ill. I can’t bear the thought that the closest I may get to science after I have given birth is debating the dependent or independent variables relating to nappy rash.

Please don’t misunderstand me – these things are clearly extremely important to the people that are living them. And I am genuinely glad for my friends if they are satisfied in this world of Motherhood. I just don’t think I could be. I hate the thought that I must walk out of a successful career and into a ready-made, one-size-fits-all gender role. So I have come to the conclusion that I must choose. Career or family. As you have probably guessed by now, I think I will choose the former.

Until now I have lived by the motto, ‘if you don’t like something, change it.’ But the huge structures of gender roles that have been entrenched in our world for centuries, if not millennia, just seem to be too big. And I don’t know if I have the strength to turn everything into a battle. A number of articles in the Guardian over the past year have expressly dealt with this problem, and the more I read, the more I realise that the idea that men and women could equally share responsibilities of the home and the challenges of the workplace seems like nothing more than naïve idealism.

But surely this can’t be right, right? I shouldn’t just throw in the towel and give up the chance of a family? That’s why I’m writing this post - I want to know what other women think. How are you dealing with this conundrum, which must affect so many of us? Is a life at home after a decade or more of building a career really as bad as I am assuming? Do you have any strategies? Have you founded a mother and baby club where you read Gramsci to your little ones instead of Blyton? Have you had a really honest discussion with your partner about these problems?

If there is a place on the web where women are empowering each other to build the family they want without compromising their intellectual worth, AOW must be it. That’s why I wanted to share my thoughts on this with you.

Something's Coming...

2012-01-16T07:00:00.026Z

Good morning readers. Today we have a belter of a story for you; one that will make you believe that little bit more in magic, and who couldn't do with that on a Monday morning?

Rach M is a stupendous writer and I have been after her for months to write the story of how she got engaged. I have heard this story in pieces, over too many glasses of wine, and it needed to be written for it has everything; family, love, trials and tribulations, faith and jumping both feet in. And it's so, so funny. Over to you, Rach M:

M and I often get asked how we met. I know it’s one of the things I am most keen to know about couples– the story of them, hearing that look-by-look, word-by-word evolution and energy that changed them from strangers to the couple standing in front of you. I go misty-eyed at the romance, I love people taking risks, jumping for their one chance, love that conquers all. I don’t like settling, the deprecating ‘oh well I suppose he’ll do’ that I have been horrified to hear some friends say or imply. No-one should ‘do’. Better to wait for your someone than have just anyone.

Not that I’m perfect, or that I haven’t had my fair share of ‘anyones’ in my time, but in the year before I met M, I was single and enjoying myself immensely and didn’t want it to be compromised for anyone less than someone. My stomach jumped with excitement and nights out felt full of light and promise. More and more of my friends were settling down and there was a much smaller group around for the sort of nights that were a staple of my late teens. Nevertheless we had ourselves a blast, flirted outrageously, snogged fellas, drank cider in fields and danced to an awful lot of Bon Jovi.

Me, single, drinking cider in a field and loving it.

“No-one’d have my two!” my Mum would joke to relatives at weddings and nod in the direction of my (single) brother and I, who’d roll our eyes and vow that if either of us did tie the knot we’d have to send out a embarrassment disclaimer weeks in advance and get her tranquilised on the day. My Mum is an Irish Mammy – if you have one, you’ll know what I mean. If you don’t, think: larger than life, great fun, loves fiercely, fusses continuously, gossips ferociously and sticks her nose into EVERYTHING.

“But I like being single!” I’d seethe through my grimace. “You don’t want to end up like your cousin”, Mum’d warn, all big-eyed whispered foreboding like a child telling a ghost story. My cousin was with a guy for eight years. She never discussed marriage with her fella, and then one day out of a clear blue sky, he dumped her, saying he didn’t want commitment. I’m gutted for her but unlike my Mum I can see that this could have happened for a variety of reasons, not just the fact that they didn’t have ‘the conversation’. Mum, however will hear none of it. She reads the Daily Mail and in her book, a story’s not a story without someone to blame. “Oooooo, she’ll end up on her own!” says Mum with the finger-wagging, mark-my-words drama that she has down to a fine art.

“Like me, you mean,” I’d point out. “I’m on my own and loving it.” Mum’s point was that I was sailing dangerously close to 30 and by the time I met someone, got to know them, got engaged and then married, my ovaries would be drying up. (I have paraphrased her somewhat here, but I rolled my eyes at all of it).

I loved that (apart from the relentless pressure from my mum) none of my friends ‘worried’ about me. They weren’t trying to fix me up with anyone, they didn’t pity or patronise me, and were brilliantly supportive when one New Year I said ‘Ok, I’m ready to meet someone now.”

I saw an ad for a dating ceilidh, which sounded like a laugh to me. When I tell this story, I‘m amazed at all the little things that lined up to pave our paths together. The first time my friend and I tried to go to it, we didn’t have tickets and were turned away at the door. If we’d got in that night, I’d never have met M. That year, I’d decided to celebrate my birthday on a different weekend, so I happened to be free. M says he was cooking pasta when he took the call from his mate, and at first said ‘No, that he fancied a night in instead.’ The mate persuaded him and M eventually caved. To this day he says he did not know it was a dating thing, that he’d gone to see the Bavarian folk band who were playing. Hmmmmmm, I say to that, with raised brow. Hmm indeed.

I can’t explain why I had such conviction that I was going to meet ‘someone’ that night. I had goosebumps when getting ready and I fizzed with excitement. The night before, one of my best friends handed me a profile she’d written for me for a dating website. It was a brilliant piece that brought tears to my eyes.

“Just give me the nod,” she said, “and I’ll post it for you.”

“Just give me one day”, I replied, “and I’ll let you know if I need it.”

I love to hear him tell the story of how we met. He tells of how I crossed the dancefloor and came right up to him (the only time that’s ever happened to either of us) and started talking. How it was as if we’d walked into each other’s lives and started as we meant to carry on. That we were so busy talking that we forgot to dance, or even kiss. That one of our first conversations was about the Holocaust because I’d been reading If this is a man by Primo Levi.

“Who would stand up, now?” I asked, incensed, passionate. “Who would be a hero today and stake their life to save a stranger?”

He doesn’t tell how impressed I was that he was able for it, that he was thoughtful and articulate. That he told me the story of his grandfather escaping the Nazis in Vienna and that my eyes welled up. He doesn’t tell how in the cab office across the road from the dance hall he turned to me as I left and said in a moment of fear: ‘You won’t text.’

”I will!” I smiled, turned on my heel and departed, triumphant.

Some months later we went to see West Side Story in the theatre over the road from where we met. When I heard Something’s coming it gave me goosebumps as it described that utter conviction of meeting ‘someone’. It’s sort of unofficially become our song. And we’ll be playing it at our wedding back on that dancefloor in summer 2013.

Me, not single, and also loving it. Think it’s the loving it that counts.

Coming Soon!...Part 2: "Birthday Came, Birthday Went"

Weekend Wonderings

2012-01-14T07:00:00.005Z

I found this on India Knight's Tumblr. The poster is discontinued.

It shouldn't be. I want it printed out, at my desk, for when I forget who I am or what I want to become.

Maybe if enough of us petition, we can get it back. Here's to the crazy ones. That's you, readers. Happy weekend.

Here's to the crazy ones.
The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers.
The round pegs in the square holes.
The ones who see things differently.
They're not fond of rules.
And they have no respect for the status quo.

You can praise them, disagree with them, quote them,
disbelieve them, glorify or vilify them.
About the only thing you can't do is ignore them.
Because they change things.
They invent. They imagine.
They heal. They explore. They create. They inspire.
They push the human race forward.
Maybe they have to be crazy.

How else can you stare at an empty canvas and see a work of art?
Or sit in silence and hear a song that’s never been written?
Or gaze at a red planet and see a laboratory on wheels?
While some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius.

Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world,
are the ones who do.

(Advertisement for Apple Computer,

adapted from the writings of Jack Kerouac)

Any Other Photo {Holly and Sean}

2012-01-13T07:00:00.035Z

Readers? We're nearly half-way through January. And that deserves some celebration. That deserves some sunshine, some laughter, some giddy-with-the-weight-of-it love, don't you think?

Today we have just that, and readers, you're welcome. We're delighted to show you Holly's Any Other Photo. Some of you may know Holly, those that don't, should. She writes Nothing But Bonfires which is a beauty of a blog, funny, perceptive, hugely entertaining and wise. Go and lose yourself for hours in the archives. And if you haven't seen Holly's wedding, her writings are here (warning, don't read if you're getting married before June 2012, you'll end up with the shakes and DIY performance anxiety) and her wedding was featured on Style Me Pretty and elsewhere, so you know this wasn't a "throw a flower in a jam jar! Stat!" affair.

So many people talk about having "the moment" at the wedding, the moment away from it all, from the noise, the movement, the everything. This is how to do the moment. I give you Holly:

This isn't the picture I thought I was going to choose at all, but it's the one I kept coming back to when I was trying to decide how best to sum up my wedding. You can't see the fabulous '50s turquoise car we had, or the checkered dance floor, or the millions of vintage travel-themed details we incorporated, or even much of my dress. If we're honest, you can't even really see my husband! But I chose it because it sums up how truly, incredibly, wonderfully, gloriously happy I felt that day, and how I couldn't stop smiling for one minute.

In the shot, we'd just made our entrance at the reception—you can still see pieces of confetti on Sean's jacket—and in the midst of reveling in all that love and goodwill from everyone, we leaned away without even realizing and had our own tiny little moment.

Goodness knows what he's whispering in my ear, but I certainly do look pleased about it.

Ask Anna and Ant: Disliking your friend’s partner

2012-01-12T07:00:00.003Z

Good morning readers! A while back, we introduced the idea of an advice column with a difference. Mr K would take the problem, and in his own delightful way, seek out its essence and resolve it in the most efficient way possible with little regard for feelings and other such periphery nonsense. I’ll then give the answer I would give, being the more…empathetic one in our marriage. Hopefully, somewhere between the two perspectives, readers will find the answer they are looking for.

Onto our first letter! (slightly edited…Mr K made me go back and ask the reader details. Pfft)

28 November 2010

Dear Anna and Ant,

My best friend has started seeing a new man, and it seems to be getting quite serious. The only problem is, he sets off all my (finely tuned) warning bells! There are five main things that make me dislike him:

1) He initially asked my friend’s brother for my friends number, and my friend’s brother refused as he “didn’t’ like him”

2) He has a “history” but no-one will tell me what it is

3) Her mum described him to me as “not that bad really once you get to know him”

4) Intellectually, they are unevenly matched which I always think is a bad sign

5) He seems to be trying to buy her affection with lots of gifts (I treat you to things, therefore I’m nice)

I’ll be seeing her soon and she’s bound to ask me what I think of him and I’m completely useless at hiding my emotions – even when I try really hard to be positive or neutral, my feelings are scrawled really clearly over my face. I’d like to prepare myself so I can respond without being negative or upsetting her.

Yours,

Misgivings of London

Advice from Ant:

Who your friend chooses as her partner is none of your business. Leave her alone. Unless by “warning bells” you mean you have seen him holding a pickaxe or wandering around with blood on his hands, you need to stay out of this. If you tell her how you really feel, there’s no way you can come out of this the good person. If the guy is a loser, and if she’s not an idiot, then she’ll figure it our on her own pretty fast.

If you really can’t keep out of it when she asks you your opinion, then try asking leading questions: Is he smarter than you? Do you learn stuff from each other? Does he make you laugh? Do you feel good being around him when he’s not buying you stuff?

Getting her thinking about these things should do the trick.

In general, women like meddling. Meddling rarely works, unless you have the kind of inseparable friendship that overrides everything else. I don’t think you do have that kind of friendship, because if you did, you’d be able to tell her what you think without going elsewhere for advice.

Advice from Anna:

I’ve been in this situation, and it seriously sucks. This is the plight the world over of the "well-intentioned friend". You want the best for your friend. You know all that she can be. You know what she deserves. And then she goes and picks a tool as her partner who will only drag her down, who’ll never be good enough, who’ll settle for second best with her when you know she has so much more to give.

The problem is, what you want for her may not be what she wants for herself. And you are not her. You are two separate people with different opinions, different lives, different circumstances. Who you would choose is not necessarily who she'd choose. And it is sometimes really hard to remember that.

As someone who also has a terrible poker face, when she asks you what you think, just bite your tongue and answer with a “I can see he really makes you happy”. Hopefully she’ll be so in the throes of young love that she won’t notice.

This is just one of those situations where you are going to have to go against the “fixing” instinct and just swallow it. I assume she’s a smart girl. She’ll figure it out eventually. And when she does, you can be there for her, and there, in the post-match analysis, is where you can do your magic with her self esteem, and tell her she was worth so much more than him, and how much more she deserves. And then hopefully next time she will pick someone who you think is more worthy.

If you do it now, she’ll just resent you for it, and ask why you can’t be happy for her.

Good luck with this, Misgivings.

Behind Closed Doors {Mental Health}

2012-01-11T07:00:00.000Z

At AnyOtherWedding, you can talk about anything. Anything you want at all. Any subject, any time. We are proud to be able to provide that platform for you, it makes our hearts sing. But we do understand that sometimes there are topics that are too sensitive, too divisive, simply too hard to write about and broadcast without a second thought. No-one wants to hurt their loved ones unnecessarily and yet sometimes a story needs to be told.

This is your place for those subjects. A place for you to tell those tales you'd not considered telling before. No names, no justifications, no apologies.

You can send your BCD submissions to behindcloseddoors@live.co.uk and we promise that you'll remain anonymous throughout the entire process.

***********************************************

I’ve been thinking about writing this post for some time. But I’ve never quite known where to start. Firstly, because I’m writing about a real person who is going through an incredibly difficult time right now, and therefore, it just feels so disloyal to share it with an online community. However, I feel I need the opportunity to tell this story. Not as a warning or a lesson, but perhaps as a chance to just acknowledge the complexities of female friendships, especially when a whole host of other problems are thrown into the mix too.

My friend Mary is in an intensive psychiatric unit right now, following several recent suicide attempts. There’s no nice way to put it really, and even typing it gives me a horrible sicky feeling in my stomach. But its true. She doesn’t want to live on this world with us anymore, and the only thing that’s stopping her from carrying through with a plan is a large amount of medication and a 24/7 staff rota.

Of course it hasn’t been like this always. We met at university over 7 years ago, and right from Freshers Week, we dideverything together. From all day underwear shopping expeditions, to hitting the pub at 11am, to dressing up in matching outfits, we were the Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dumber of our campus. We laughed, we cried over boys, but mostly we got very drunk and had a very good time.

However, it soon became apparent that this was a friendship like no other. Yes there were amazing highs, but, there were some goddawful lows. For instance, the time I was ‘accidentally’ copied into an email from her bitching about my boyfriend (and now fiancé). Or the time when she refused to thank me for organising her an amazing birthday party the last weekend before Christmas because ‘not enough people were there’. Or the time when I found she lied about her cocaine use to my face again and again and again.

Aren’t our friends the ones who support, love, listen to, care and cheerlead for us throughout our lives? Even when jobs, relationships, money, family members and life in general threatens our psychological wellbeing, girl friends are meant to be there to pick us up, dust us off, and skip off to cocktail bar with us?

Or that’s how I thought it would be with Mary. But unfortunately, friendships are just not that simple with her.

Looking back, I don’t know why I didn’t end the friendship then. I think I’m a pretty secure, well adjusted person with lots of other friends, so perhaps I didn’t take it to heart. But in hindsight I wonder if I should have said something sooner, and perhaps that might have made a difference to how things are now.

But no, like a fool, I just let this friendship continue on in a dysfunctional way for the next 7 years.

However, as these things do, it all came to a head after my birthday this year, where she left the restaurant with no explanation, no goodbye, and without paying her share of the bill. I sent her a slightly miffed text, and thought nothing of it. The next morning, I was woken to a phonecall informing me that she had attempted suicide and was in hospital. It was only really then, that I realised, I was caught up in something very complex indeed.

But, dear readers, what would you do? By distancing myself from her, I am protecting myself from being involved in this very confusing and chaotic pattern that has gone beyond the realms of any other friendship in my life. But to abandon a friend, a friend in need, well, doesn’t that make me the bad one?

The more I understand about mental health, the more I realise that the only person who can help Mary is herself. But if she doesn’t want to help herself, can I sit back and watch her self destruct? Can I? Should I?

Roses, Thorns, Consuela Banana Hammock...etc

2012-01-10T13:00:00.000Z

Oh....do i have a conundrum for you this afternoon, lovely readers. It's a simple question, on the surface. But dig a little deeper....and holy complex Batman! You've got a jumbo-size can of wiggly worms right there... I present to you...How to Pick a Name for Your Baby.

Via

Phil and I are currently very hopefully planning for a baby at some point in the next 18 months, which I'm sure comes as no surprise to you! A huge part of this planning is what to name our future baby (or babies?! With drug-assisted conception comes an 11% chance of twins-amaze.) and oh my, we are struggling. We have exactly three full girl's names-first names and middle names, initials that don't spell out anything inappropriate....all the important qualities! It was always important to me to have a fairly unique name and Phil has always said that an unusual name would 'fit' us well and our girl choices reflect this whilst taking into account family ties and traditions. We could conceive female triplets tomorrow and be absolutely fine. But boys? Boys are a different matter ENTIRELY.

There have been lots of babies recently-the smushable Emilia, obviously! Then there's wee Florence, the scrumptious Elsie, cheeky Matilda, Abigail, Lola and Ellie...as well as Isabella and Dominique-all girls! (And all named perfectly, naturally...) This leads me to think that there is a veryveryvery solid chance that Phil and I could possibly be destined to have a boy-9 girls in a year is quite impressive, no?

So...boy's names. Boy's names coupled with my horrendous association-disorder. UGH. I cannot help but be reminded of people I know, knew or have heard of who have the same name, and if I don't like them or have any kind of issue with them-the name is done for. For some reason, this seems to have ruined more boy's names for me than girl's-I have no clue why?! Add to this that Phil seems to have a complete aversion to every boy's name under the sun and we are STUCK. Well and truly. So much so, we refer to a possible baby boy as 'Chip'. Yeah.

Via

Oh, I also have a problem with nicknames being given as first names. I'm all for 'Charlie' and 'Alfie' and 'Bella' or 'Cassie' but my own personal brand of OCD says that birth certificates should read 'Charles, Alfred, Isabella or Cassandra'. Sorry, I know that it's silly. Can't help it. NO WONDER we can't find a name that works...

Help, lovely AOWers. Please?!

The realities of marriage

2012-01-10T07:00:00.000Z

Divorce is definitely a hot topic here at AOW at the moment and Alex's take on what a marriage has the potential to be or not be is a refreshing and honest one.

I picked the line 'the realities of marriage' from Alex's piece as the title because it really intrigued me... I think that everyone's realities must be very different, no? Ultimately though, as far as divorce is concerned, I find myself agreeing with Alex. This is her very personal story, and why the reality of her impending marriage will mean being ready for anything....

When I met Mr M, who is now going to be my husband (in just under 3 months EEEEEEKKKK!) I was firmly in camp Anna K on the whole marriage ideal. I didn't really believe one person would love another person for the rest of their life, forever after the end and all that jazz. I was always happy to stick two fingers up at the idea, and made no attempt to hide this from Mr M at all, as early as a month in I think I pointed out there would be no forever. How lovely and not at all scary mary for your new fella to hear eh? Mmmh quite.
Mr M would always tell me to stop being so pessimistic and he would always say "I will love you forever" and I used to say "Shut your piehole, you can't possibly know that, and I am so not saying it back!"

Now then, the reasons behind this little ones objection to marriage was that typical cliche of parental divorce. And not at a young age either like most of the statistics will probably show. No no no, my parents got divorced in their mid 50s, and after 34 freaking years of marriage! I shit you not! (Sorry for the language...it is my worst feature!) I was 15 at the time and up until this point always was your typical "can't wait to be a bride" sorta gal, dressing up in my mum's wedding dress (or anyone else's I could get my mits on whilst pretending to go to their toilet). I would even pretend to toss a fake plastic flower arrangement to the guests who had come to watch me marry my prince charming! THAT is how much I longed to be a bride and a wife, I wanted to be all homely and lovely and wear silky lace slips for nightgowns (is that weird as a child?) and suits to work and wait for my husband to get home.

I guess in reality divorce happens to almost everyone's parents at school and you probably think it's a bit drastic to turn against everything you believe in just cos your parents split up? The thing is, it wasn't just your run of the mill breakdown/arguing/screaming divorce. My dad actually had another life! With another woman, another house, a child on the way and a whole load of friends who knew him and his "mistress" as a couple. They didn't know of my mum, my sisters or me and abracadabra my dad was a cunning master of adultery! He had also, we later found out, had an affair with a 19 year old whilst in his early forties and met this "mistress" on the rebound from her, and he had been with this "mistress" for a good 8 years. Oh yes, a modern day charmer my pa, for someone who smokes like a chimney, drinks like a fish and had real money issues he certainly had a way with the laydees!

Needless to say, it all came out by accident as my dad had a nervous breakdown due to probably his "mistress" being about to go into labour and also him withdrawing from heavy alcohol abuse cold turkey. God knows how long it would have gone on for if this hadn't happened, my mum and me lived in France so we were well out of it all, I wonder if that was his plan all along?

Anyway, long story short he totally and irrevocably ruined my mum's life. He is still with his "mistress" and at 64years old has a 9 year old and a 12 year old with her and is now married to her, I have very little to do with them. He divorced my mum after they had been separated over 7 years as he knew once you have separated for that long the other person can't dispute the divorce. My mum lives in a house my sister bought for her and is still alone in terms of partner, I don't think she will ever want to meet anyone else. Deep down, I think she still loves my dad for some strange reason, she once did say to me "your feelings are not like a tap you can just switch off regardless of how many people think you should". He left my mum with nothing but me and the things she had on her, he never paid a penny for me and never gave my mum anything since then. She had a really tough time, she even went and spent a new year with my dad and his mistress and child in some bizarre nervous breakdown way, that is how much she tried to cling on to him. Heartbreaking. Literally she pulled all her own hair out one day, can you imagine?! I couldn't. And I certainly couldn't risk that ever happening to me. No way was I going to entrust my life to another so completely for them to go and shit all over me and leave me for dead. I was much wiser and stronger, I didn't need that in my life after seeing what it had done to my mum.

So there I was, and then Mr M came and turned my world and all I believed in upside down. He made me the very thing I was desperate not to become...truly and madly in love with someone to the point that you feel you can't quite function right without them. He is my all and as much as I hate to say it, if he ever left me, be it affair or just got fed up with my constant worrying, I would have no idea how to fill the void he would leave. I would probably empty ASDA of all its biscuits - that's a given. I feel incredibly sad imagining what my mum must have felt now knowing how I feel about another human being, and this is only 3 years in. I can't imagine it after spending 35 years together and having had three children.

Am I deluded enough to think I am impervious to any of the realities of marriage? Lack of sex, lack of time, family stress, work stress, getting older, saggier, greyer? Nope. But I sure as hell am going to work my arse off to make it work, every.single.day. Forever??? Who knows, I still think that is impossible to say, but I know I want to believe it's forever. He really is the man I always dreamed of meeting and I get to marry him and that makes me happier than a huge tower of cheese and wine!

So I know this isn't your lovely fairytale story but it is real life. And I think divorce can happen to anyone at anytime regardless of what you think.

Adventures of a Wedding Belle-My Wedlife Crisis

2012-01-09T07:00:00.000Z

Firstly, may I just say that I freaking LOVE Doctor Who, and as such, our Bella has just further cemented her place in my heart as the best thing ever in the world. Secondly, as I said to Bella after she had e-mailed me her piece, I truly believe that she is getting better and better with each submission. It's exactly what we'd hoped for when we thought about having a 'real bride'...someone who drew you into their story, who made you feel their excitement, their anxiety, their hope.

That's exactly what Bella has done. With just 8 months until the moment arrives, Bella is drawing us ever deeper into her world...and it's a fabulous place to be, readers.

It is now the year I am getting married. Not the year before. I can no longer say ‘next September’ when people ask when the big day is. It’s just September. This September. 8 months to be exact. That’s 7 of these posts left, 7 paychecks, a planned 80 trips to the gym (ha!) and approximately 14 copies of Heat magazine (I don’t buy it every week). It’s also £100 on anti-cellulite cream and £50 on spanx due to the (roughly) 72 gym sessions skipped and over 500 hours of wedmin-ing.

The first six months of our engagement was all about the feelings – in both brilliant and rubbish ways – but in truth it’s probably time I started nailing down those all important details. Invitations, décor, the practical bits and pieces…. The dress. Our ‘theme’ has shifted slightly from vintage country fete with a hint of 1930s glam, to full on 1930s glam with a country fete plonked on top of it, like Doctor Who when he turns up at Agatha Christie’s party – you know, the one with the giant alien wasp? Historial inaccuracies (from myself and the ‘Who) aside, we still want a relaxed, outdoorsy, slightly rustic feel, but with lashings of art deco styling, crystal perfume atomisers, a whisky bar and, er, lemon sherberts.

None of this will be a surprise to you AOW-ers, but wedding planning has given me a total wedlife crisis. I swore I wouldn’t be one of those brides who gives herself an ulcer worrying about the exact shade of vintage rose ribbon (although I did find it in Elys in Wimbledon. Not using it though.) Well ha to my first-flush-of-engaged-goodness self. Ha, I say.

I’m not sure what the right word is for how I am feeling, stressed would be too strong, worried too weak: I have concerns that it won’t be fun, and am second guessing every single decision to see if it is ‘us’ enough. Well pish to us (sorry, Betrothed) because honestly? We kind of just like stuff. Salmon and lamb aren’t ‘us’, we just like them (and are having them) so why on earth am I trying to ensure that every single piece of ribbon and stationery, the placement of napkin ties and of course, the dreaded favours, encapsulate a four year relationship that has had incredible times, some tough ones, and reflect two people’s tastes?

I find the nights the hardest. During the day I am happy with the decisions made (the fab Telephone message pad I bought at Liberty as a potential guest book stylee thing, the wallpaper samples I found that have inspired the invitation patterns) but the nights? Oh, the nights. I don’t want to regret a single decision, and I want Betrothed to have an amazing time. And I want my parents to be relaxed and happy. And I don’t want to drive my bridesmaids mad. And I don’t want to spend the next 8 months nurturing that ulcer. I just want everyone to have fun. That’s a lot of wants isn’t it?

“Life is full of amazing moments, but if you don’t stop and look around once in a while you might just miss it” – not a random divergence, I’m watching Independence Day (I used to think I’d marry Will Smith, when I was 15. Yep, 15 and delusional) and that little voiceover quote just popped up on an advert. I couldn’t put it better – I want to enjoy this once in a lifetime period of engagement, and not spend every week feeling this fear that I’m going to let everyone down.

I think, with very wise tough love from Anna K and Gemma, and of course the knowledge that so many bridelets have been through this exact same period of self-doubt, I can come to understand that there are eleventymillion options out there and whatever I choose will be ‘right’ for us, simply by virtue of the fact the we chose it. However, there are a few sticking points I would really love some input on!

To wedsite, or not to wedsite? Many of our guests are traveling from abroad, and a wediste would probably be useful in some respects, but do people actually look at them? Do guests actually RSVP through them? Or do they think they are a wee bit self indulgent?

And the bride wore… green? A very good friend of mine convinced me not to wear green (not strictly just green – Jenny Packham’s Joy dress in silver and green…) after I went on a mammoth googling session having realized my beloved dress from Phase Eight just was not going to work – as it’s a definite no now, this was her. Lush.

Have any of you fab ladies not worn white? If so, did you feel you’d missed out on some magical white dress moment? I’m not thinking of wearing bright blue, or fuschia pink (although if you did, let me see), but I definitely don’t want white. I have recently discovered Sue Wong, whose dresses are that perfect blend of art deco glam and relaxed elegance, see how pretty! But I feel possibly too pale for me. The embellishment is amazing though!

I am cautious about sharing too many fabulous images just incase I go for one of these...

Plus… who? Betrothed and I are classic includers (with a guestlist of 207 and counting) – because we hate hate hate leaving people we care about ‘out’. But what of their plus ones? We made a rule when we drafted the guest list: if we knew a friend’s significant other they would be invited, or if a guest wouldn’t know anyone it was only fair to ‘plus one’. But how do you define ‘know’? Met once at the pub? Know the name of? Facebook friends?!

We recently added two guests to our list – a groomsmen’s girlfriend (who is gorgeous and wonderful and I love – which is handy as we are having a wedding party table!) and a cousin’s girlfriend who will be meeting the entire family (his side, so the big side) at the wedding. Including both of these gorgeous girls is genuinely my pleasure - I have been a plus one at two of Betrothed’s family weddings and not only were they brilliantly fun, but it really cemented me with his friends and family – important in a fledgling romance.

But I am feeling an uneasy sense of guilt over friends who I know are seeing someone, but I haven’t met/haven’t heard a great deal about – are we dreadful for not ‘plus one-ing’? I have asked a couple of friends, with partners we don’t know at all, and they have been unendingly supportive about this – it’s not personal and it really is about space, cost and practicality, not about upsetting them or excluding their loved one. But I know there will be a few annoyed faces when the invites do arrive and that really upsets me. I feel like I have to justify every decision.

What do you think? Did you have a ‘plus one’ rule at all or was it the more the merrier? Did you (hushed tones) have a reserve list?

Any advice/wise words/similar dilemmas to share? Oh and if any of you feel like passing by the field on September 7^th THIS YEAR and are handy with a length of ribbon, oasis for flowers and like going up ladders let me know, as I have just found my CAD marquee plans and the marquee is 48 metres by 60 metres… which I am in charge of decorating. No sweat, right?!

Weekend Wonderings

2012-01-07T07:00:00.000Z

I've always enjoyed the Twilight series. The books, the films, the Edward... I enjoy them all. I'm pretty sure my interest in Twilight would be the first thing Anna would state if asked to list my character flaws. What's a girl going to do? More than the books or the films or hunky, brooding, bloodsucking classical music buffs, though, I adore the soundtracks that accompany the films. Really adore them.

I love music that has the power to transport you back to a place or time; a song can remind you of a person loved and lost, of the best or worst times of your life. Florence's 'Lungs' album was the soundtrack to when we moved into our home, it never fails to make my heart soar and get my blood pumping. I can't look at the CD case of Duffy's 'Rockferry' because it reminds me of the time that Phil and I separated and it just hurts too much to contemplate listening to again. Anything by Pink Floyd transports me back to when my Dad, complete with ginger afro, and 3 year old me would sing and dance on the balcony of our London flat with the sliding doors closed after my baby brother had gone to sleep.

I've loved all the Twilight soundtracks, but Breaking Dawn Part 1's music has taken the biscuit. (And it has nothing to do with my ginormous crush on Bruno Mars.) There are shouty ballads, ranty rock songs, stunningly quiet instrumental pieces and a song with the line 'I suggest you use the loo before the long drive...' Oh yes, this album has it all.

But there is a song that blows my mind every time I hear it. Every time I hear the line...

'Nothing prepared me for what the privilege of being yours would do'

...I cry a little.

Ladies and gentlemen, I would like you to sit down, close your eyes and get lost in the insane beauty of this song.

'Turning Page' by Sleeping at Last.

Any Other Photo - {Martha and Chris}

2012-01-06T07:00:00.000Z


I know that AOW is traditionally all about the emotion and not SO much about the pretty, but before we focus in the fact that Martha so beautifully sums up what so many people worry about, and the fact that you can actually feel the happiness (and relief) radiating out of this picture, can we please talk about the dress?! The dress! 





When Martha first sent us this post it provoked a flurry of emails between the three of us declaring how much we all adored the dress, and how utterly beautiful Martha looked in it. This is such a wonderful example of someone choosing the right dress for them and really 'owning' it (sorry for the amercanism but it's absolutely the right word here). 





But enough of the dress love - I'll leave you with Martha and her wonderful photo...

Walking back down the aisle…the look of relief on our faces as we had finally said “I do” and all that planning and fretting and stressing was over. For Chris and I, the actual wedding logistics had not been a worry…our venue, As You Like It, a very eclectic and “shabby-chic” eatery and bar in Jesmond, Newcastle, had everything we needed and we enjoyed all the usual prep, assisted by the wonderfully helpful staff. No, we were worried about standing up in front of our families and loved ones, being the centre of attention, being photographed and speaking in public. The actual marriage thing – pah, all fine! I was so nervous that the week beforehand saw me crying in the toilets at work, unable to say anything to anyone without appearing a jabbering wreck and being sick at the thought of walking down the aisle! For Chris too, it was hard as he hates reading / speaking in public due to suffering from dyslexia, so the pair of us were no good to anyone on Thursday 22nd September!

This picture therefore, sums up the complete contrast in our emotions as we actually said our vows…we loved every single minute and from start to finish we were proud to have made that commitment to each other so publicly, and felt at peace with our pre-wedding worry demons!

Doing what you need to do...

2012-01-05T07:00:00.000Z

Hi AOWers! It's Aisling, with my first post of 2012. I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas and New Years and thank you to everyone who tweeted or e-mailed with well wishes, you're all so very lovely.

With the new year and new starts in mind, I wanted to talk today about work and how I struggled with needing to be defined by my career. It took me a long tim to realise that I am more than just a job...has anyone else ever felt the same way?

I started a new job recently and it's been a revelation. For the first time in a long while I don't feel sick as I travel to work. I don't have to swallow down a lump of anxiety upon waking in the mornings. I can get dressed in the morning and my hands don't shake as I button my blouse. I'm able to eat breakfast. I've NEVER eaten breakfast, always thinking that I couldn't eat at that time of the morning. Turns out, I was missing out-breakfast is awesome.

Via

I know I make it sound as though I was an idiot, that I 'stuck it out' for too long and so made myself feel terrible. The truth is, I didn't realise that some people-in fact, most people-don't have panic attacks at the very thought of starting their working day. I genuinely thought that going to work had to be difficult, that it had to be hard work. I believed that to make a career for myself I had to suffer in the process and that of course it would be a struggle-this was the industry I was going to work in forever, they were hardly going to hand me my pension on a silver platter, were they? The trouble with that thought process was that I began to endure all kinds of being 'dumped on' with the air of a weary martyr-'it's fine. I don't mind. I'll be ok...' and that's no fun for anyone. I wore myself out, I wore Phil out with my constant exhaustion and misery. My friends either had to listen to me moaning or not hear from me at all, for days on end...I was far from a desirable party guest.

I enjoyed my job, once upon a time. I was good at it, thought it could be a career. Whilst it wasn't 'helping people' or saving lives, it was fast-paced and fun. I was brilliant at training others, I could see improvements that could be made. I worked more effectively than any of my colleagues and I got results. I thought that if I could maintain all these positive points, I would stop comparing myself to my best friend the lawyer, my cousin the journalist, the nurses and creatives and all the other people I know who excel in their chosen professions and are confident in the career choices they've made.

And therein lies the problem. As long as I was comparing myself to anyone else, as long as I was struggling with being so jealous of those who had jobs they loved and careers they were proud of, I was never going to happy. A change had to be made.

And change I did. Not just the job, but the attitude. I may well have envied my friend Rebecca, the nurse...but I could no more be a nurse than the man on the moon. I'm impatient and the sight of internal organs makes me hurl. Now, instead of jealous, I am proud of Becca. Laura, my bestest friend in the world is training to be a solicitor. Instead of wishing I had a wicked line in pencil skirts and an impressive job title, I'm simply in awe of her intelligence and work ethic. And I can apply the same logic to all of my friends and their career choices, because I am finally happy in my own.

Via

I wanted to be the girl who loves her job. The girl who was saving the world, or saving libraries. Bringing life into the world, or helping to stop life being extinguished. Discovering new species, or creating new laws. I thought I could only ever be important through my career, that I would only ever earn respect with an impressive job title and matching salary. Turns out, that's crap. Turns out, people respect me for the person I am, not the job that I do.

In my new job the work is challenging and the money pays the bills. The people make me howl with laughter. My free time is my own and I am slowly adjusting to being valued at work. I'm not curing cancer and I'm not classifying frogs...but I'm working hard at a job that needs to be done and I'm happy doing it. What more, really, can I ask for?

For love is strong as death

2012-01-04T07:00:00.012Z

I met Rachel (or Mrs Joan Hunter Dunn) for coffee one dark November night to discuss this post. It was supposed to be a joint post, talking about why we chose the wedding readings we did, what they meant to us, and thinking about inventive readings for the whole breadth of our readership. Readings that are as diverse as you are, that speak to different people at different times in their lives. As no wedding is the same and no married couple is the same, readings should reflect that, we thought.

I got there, and Rachel blew me away. She had books, and print outs, and suggestions galore and who was I kidding? She's good at this. Too good for the likes of me. This is why Flowers and Stripes is such a perfect read; because Rachel lives, breathes and loves literature.

I give you Rachel:

How and why did we choose our readings? Firstly our wedding ceremony was in a Church of England church.

There was a lot of thought that went into our ceremony but perhaps it’s easiest to explain it by a list:

My faith is important.

For Simon it’s not, but he knew how important it was to me.

So it was always going to be a church ceremony.

We both have many friends who do not have a faith and we wanted them to be included fully in our service.

Part of my family are Jewish. We wanted them to feel fully included in our service.

I wanted the ceremony to be substantial. Three hymns and three readings. Two to be from the bible, one not.

Choosing the biblical readings was easy. Plus we had all the wonderful words in the hymns, prayers, address and anthem to choose from to continue to say what we wanted to say. We did, or rather I did, look at all the different translations to see which ones I liked best.

Song of Songs 2: 10-13; 8:6,7

My beloved speaks and says to me:

‘Arise, my love, my fair one,

and come away;

for now the winter is past,

the rain is over and gone.

The flowers appear on the earth;

the time of singing has come,

the voice of the turtle dove is heard in our land.

The fig tree puts forth its figs,

the vines are in blossom;

they give forth fragrance.

Arise, my love; my fair one,

and come away.’

Set me as a seal upon your heart,

as a seal on your arm;

for love is strong as death,

passion fierce as the grave.

Its flashes are flashes of fire,

a raging flame.

Many waters cannot quench love,

neither can floods drown it.

If one offered for love

all the wealth of one’s house,

it would be utterly scorned.

Philippians 4: 4-9

Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Have no anxiety, but in everything make your requests known to God in prayer and petition with thanksgiving. Then the peace of God which is beyond our utmost understanding, will keep guard over your hearts and your thoughts in Christ Jesus.

And now, my friends, all that is true, all that is noble, all that is just and pure, all that is lovable and gracious, whatever is excellent and admirable – fill all your thoughts with these things.

Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you.

I have always liked this passage. Gentleness, true, noble, just, pure, lovable, gracious, excellent, admirable.. Don’t we all strive to try and live like this with our spouse, our family, our friends, strangers?

The non religious reading:

We both love reading. It was a great excuse to look through many books, buy new poetry anthologies.

We wanted a passage that wasn’t going to be difficult to read. Goodbye some favourite e.e.cummings poems – just where would you breathe?

We didn’t want it too short. Goodbye George Eliot – I read the whole of Adam Bede to check the passage I loved wasn’t about adultery.

On that note – we didn’t want the reading to be about an adulterous love. Goodbye all the best readable parts from Anna Karenina.

We both lived good full lives before meeting each other. Quite a few of our friends are single. We didn’t have a mad whirlwind romance. Goodbye all the poems and passages about now I’m fulfilled now we’re together, now the sun can shine.

Simon was very certain that he wanted the passage to be able to be read to each other so goodbye ‘To my dear and loving husband’.

We had a seven-month engagement we were running out of time. So what did we choose?

Reader, we had two readings from the Bible and saved all our favourite lines for the back of our menu cards.

Anna here...interjecting. Rachel sent me this list of quotes that she and Warmth put on the back of the menu cards, and asked me to pick and choose. Er...I couldn't. So I didn't. Rachel's explained why they chose these quotes, in the hopes that it might inspire you, our readers:

Jose Saramago is Warmth's favourite author:
The man and woman over there...you can see that they like each other, that they're fond of each other, that they love each other, you can see that they're happy, look they just smiled.' Jose Saramago Seeing

I love sleeping...:
'At night they slept curled together like two cashews' Anne Tyler Digging to America

We'd watched Life is Beautiful and both loved it. Warmth wrote this in my valentine's card that year:
'Last night, I dreamt about you all night' Life is Beautiful

We both have strong childhood memories of "Old Possom's Book of Practical Cats", and it connects to our London life:
'The cottagers of Rotherhithe knew something of his fame;
At Hammersmith and Putney people shuddered at his name.
They would fortify the hen-house, lock up the silly goose,
When the rumour ran along the shore:
GROWLTIGER'S ON THE LOOSE!' T. S. Eliot, Growltiger's Last Stand from Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats

Charles Dickens is my favourite author:
'A heart well worth winning, and well won. A heart that, once won, goes through fire and water for the winner, and never changes, and is never daunted.' Charles Dickens Our Mutual Friend

Anna Karenina was Warmth's Valentines day gift to me after we'd been dating a few weeks - I knew he liked me when I received this:
'In their conversation everything had been said; it had been said that she loved him, and that she would tell her father and mother that he would come tomorrow morning.'

'There were no other eyes like those in the world. There was only one creature in the world who would concentrate for him all the brightness and meaning of life. It was she.'
Leo Tolstoy Anna Karenina

Our first dance:
'And when you smile the world is brighter
You touch my hand and I'm a king
Your kiss to me is worth a fortune
Your love for me is everything
Elvis Presley - The Wonder of You

I read the whole of Adam Bede for this passage. It was nearly going to be in our service:
'What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are joined together to strengthen each other in all sorrow, to share with each other in al gladness, to be one with each other in the silent unspoken memories.' George Eliot Adam Bede

A favourite book for both of us, and a quote to acknowledge that it's not always simple:
'A realisation that the founding principle of exiatence is what we call love, which works itself out sometimes not clearly, not cleanly, not immediately, nonetheless ineluctably.' Yann Martel The Life of Pi

There had to be Shakespeare. Warmth sent me this play as a 'save the date' for a date at The Globe:
'You see me,... where I stand,
Such as I am. Though for myself alone
I would not be ambitious in my wish
To wish myself much better, yet for you
I would be trebled twenty times myself,
A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times
More rich, that only to stand in your account
I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends,
Exceed account.'
Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

We loved Rapture and Duffy had become Poet Laureate in 2009:
'as I open the bedroom door. The curtains stir. There you are
on the bed, like a gift, like a touchable dream.'
Carol Ann Duffy - Rapture

Part of our Russian literature reading:
'Countless as the sands of the sea are human passions.' Nikolai Gogol

Readers, what did you have as your ceremony readings, or throughout the day, and what did they say about you? I had Captain Corelli's Mandolin because it broke my heart, and The Invitation (abridged,chopping out the last two stanzas to end on something uplifting) because it gave me fire. I am not sure I'd choose the same again. You?