how you know if you're a brit

One thing about the general English population that both astounds me, beyond the fact that they like eating things like black pudding and wearing Uggs, is the whole torturously unreactive passive-aggressive thing.

Everyone knows that no one talks on the tube, and generally, that's great. Because I don't like talking to people on tubes either. But it's when they're openly confronted, and they don't say anything, that really baffles the befuck out of me.

To make matters worse, since living in Britain, I've found myself becoming more passive-aggressive as time goes by too. It kind of starts to seep through your skin. ("Ooh no don't say anything/pretend you didn't see that/it would be rude to stare/don't argue it'll just make matters worse/avert your eyes avert your eyes!")

Bullshit. This is just not my natural style. And yet, I find myself being that way more and more. It's infuriating.

So. How British are you then? It's not what you eat, what you laugh at or whether you say things like, "I really worked hard today I did," or "I was sat next to a roight geezer this morning I was."
It's how you'd react to the following situation:

A Brit: "I was in the lift the other day, clutching a Starbucks freezachino, and the straw was sticking out to my right. Some tosser standing next to me took a bloody sip from my freezachino. Standing next to me. Just like that. Can you believe that?"

Peas: Well, what did you do?

A Brit: I...didn't do anything. I just climbed out at the next floor.

Peas: WHAT? You didn't even say, "Hey dude, what the fuck you doing with my drink?"

She Who Also Wears Tweed: I wouldn't say anything. Way too awkward.

Peas: Wow.

Tweed: No ways man. Closed, confined space. I'd just pretend nothing happened.

[And herein lies the problem. To so many things.]

Peas: You people astound me. That is just crazy.

Another Brit: I'd do something, but I wouldn't say anything.

Peas: What would you do then? Punch him in the face?

Other Brit: Oh God no, don't be ridiculous.

Peas: Well?

Other Brit:...I'd tut.

Peas: Jesus. I worry about this nation, I really really do sometimes.

The Quiet American: Yip, that just about sums it up. She'd ignore him, he'd tut, I mean what the fuck man?

Peas: I'd say, "What the hell are you doing?"

Another Brit: I would go so far as to say, "Dude, are you serious?"

American: Oh I'd say something. That's my fucking drink you're helping yourself to, man.

                                                              ---------

[Later went home and asked my Brit what he'd do. I was really concerned now.]

My Brit: "I wouldn't say I thing. This is what I'd do: I'd look at him, slurp up the rest of my drink up in his face and then throw the empty cup at him........[pause] then storm out of the lift."

OK. Not all Brits then. And that's why I married him, see, amongst other things. He's the easiest man on Earth to wind up. I was fucking worried there for a second; that this kind of unreactive hell-bent stoic behaviour was the entire population and not just an exempt few.

The Brit once shouted at someone for pushing me into a crowded tube. He said, "Was that really necessary?" loudly enough that I cringed. And then we all stood there, avertign eyes, pretending nothing happened, while we stood right up in each other's faces in a packed carriage.

It was so awkward, I nearly daad.
However, I'd rather feel devastatingly awkward than have a husband who is too scared to say anything at all.
British and [sometimes] outspoken; he's a rare breed on this island.

In other news, this has been circulating our press office this week. Touche.

schengen plan

This year I have very rudely neglected my SEE THE WORLD plan.

Weddings, no visa, chaos at work, well, something's gotta take a back seat. But I'm not going to see all 100 countries before I die by just sitting around am I?

So. Back to focusing on the plan. I'm currently in the process of sorting out a Schengen visa (with a little advice from friends and lovely strangers who have both suggested I go through France as they're the nicest and give longer visas apparently) and then I realised being married came with a surprising little perk: Enter the EU SPOUSAL VISA.

Oh, hello.

Instead of having to give the embassy a rainforest-sized stack of paperwork, I only have to show them our marriage certificate, the Brit's passport an three photos. No hotel bookings or flights or other crap, just those three important things - and apparently they usually give me a year-long visa!

Just for being married to a Brit. Good Lord my husband is so goddamn useful. And beautiful.

The Dove (with her little British passport) is coming over in July/August, so as I do, I opened up a Google map and set about looking at new places my Schengen hasn't taken me before. Research.

We are planning one of our annual trips, and was hoping to do one of the ex-communist, cray, insane noone-else-wants-to-ever-go-there-but-we-love-them countries, but none of them are on fucking Schengen. Yet.
Bosnia? No. Serbia? No. Bulgaria? Pending approval. Romania? Pending approval. Macedonia? No. Albania? No.

They all need separate visas. Which I just haven't the time, money or capacity to do. I'm trying to save for a house in Primrose fucking Hill, for Christ's sake. 

So we are choosing a Schengen country that we both haven't been or seen yet. Ref. my picture above.
Red ticks where I've been, yellow ticks random ex-communist countries I NEED to go and pink means these are Schengen places I haven't yet been.
I have been to pretty much all of the Schengen countries (high fives!), bar just the following:

Iceland - northern lights, country is run on thermal energy so lots of hot springs and sauna vaabs, maybe hit up a Bjork concert dressed as swans?

Finland -  Helsinki is the new Berlin. Some Russian told me that in an Estonian bar, so the source isn't a reliable one. We almost went last year, but were too hungover to climb aboard the ferry to cross the Baltic Sea.

Cyprus - still teetering on the brink of economic collapse. Wouldn't be a great holiday if we were there when it finally happened.

Slovenia - Apparently Lljubljana is not shit. In fact it's the shit. And is listed up there with Sarajevo as the new cultural city of the year or something. 

Malta - come to Mama. My paternal grandmother was born here, and according to Dove, her mother nearly married a hairdresser here called Manuel until her mother intervened. Deemed 'the most Mediterranean place on Earth' (by the Maltese Tourist Board, to be fair). Beaches. Cobbled streets. Amazing food. We could get drunk on the beach all. Day. Long.

And given I still haven't had nearly enough sunshine this year - our thoughts were uninimous:
Let's go to fucking Malta. And find Manuel and your grandmother's birthplace.

We are 'gnising it as we speak. It's not Ukraine, sure. But it'll definitely do.

That'll be country 48. Just after country 47, Singapore, which we will go to via honeymoon to Borneo. (Borneo doesn't count as a new country for me; we are going to the Malaysian side, and I've been to Malaysia. The Indonesian side of Borneo is practically jungle and pirates, and the honeymoon company won't take us there. Pussies.)

I guess the rest of the beautiful stark, grey, undiscovered Eastern Bloc is going to have to wait until I'm actually British.

primrose hill

OMG.

I went to see The Quiet American on Saturday, finally, and to get to see his 'neighbourhood' after years of telling me how great it is.

So I got on a train and ventured north, after buying a pair of your grandma's curtains to put on my legs.

This is what's happening here. In the world of pants. Go to any Zara and you won't be able to buy pants that don't have patterns, floral or your Nan's sofa on all of them. 
Plain pants are done, people.
This fine pair is one of the more subtle varieties of trouser, trust me. There are all kinds of geometric and chevron shapes, paisleys in cray cray colours going on this summer.

Anyway. Where was I. So I pulled on the chintz pants and headed up to Chalk Farm station. One beyond Camden.
Doesn't sound like much does it?

Well. Chalk Farm is the station you get out at in Primrose Hill.
WHICH IS SO GOBSMACKINGLY AMAZING, I AM NOW OBSESSED WITH IT.

I just can't believe I haven't explored this area before. What. A Knobhead. For if I'd known a place like Promrose Hill existed - the village and the hill itself -  I wouldn't have ever bothered with hanging out anywhere else in this town.

So obsessed and blown away by its sheer, ridiculous perfectness I was, I dragged the Brit there on Sunday to see it all over again.

Peas: "Right. How can we live here, we have to live here, we need to win the lottery, we need to make a PLAN, MAN."

Brit: We need to be billionaires. Or a rock star. Rock stars that have Hollywood star, live here Peas.

Peas: I KNOW. According to Wikipedia, we are talking Jamie Oliver, Gwen Stefani, Kate Moss, Gwyneth Paltrow. HOW can we make this work for us?! WE NEED TO MAKE THIS WORK, ANYTHING, ANYHOW.

We had this type of conversation ad infinitum while we toured the streets.

I can gush all day, but really, this is the London that I was meant to have been born. This is where the sun shines even when it doesn't.

THIS is why Primrose Hill is, hands down, without a shadow of a doubt, my favourite favourite part of London and I will aspire like a motherfucker - for the rest of my non-rock star life - to live there one day:

Because you can see the whole of the moving, swarming city from the top of the Hill.

Because there are tons of little mews, garden tea shops, beer gardens, nooks and crannies - all independently owned, and all wonderful and filled with intellectual, arty people.

Not starving intellectual arty types, oh no. The types that have actually made it. And have published novels. Or have a rock band that's not in their garage.

We stopped at this one for tea and to people watch. While I kept banging on about how we are to solve this: how the Brit-On-Toasts (See that? Our new double-barrel surname. Very Primrose Hill) will find enough cash in their lifetimes to live in this paradise of a place.

(By the way, I wasn't high. It might sound like I was, but I wasn't. I am sober gushing.)

The other thing is the size of the pavements and streets. London is a crowded place. Mostly tourists and chavs clog the streets; and my tolerance for both is at an all time low.
Tourists don't know about Primrose Hill. They go to Camden, 15 minutes to the left.
Chavs don't go to Primrose Hill. I did not see one chav the whole weekend.

So while there's a strong community spirit and lots of buzz going on, it's not overinflated by people that generally annoy me.  It's just the locals; and as the streets are wide and the pavements - you're not bumped, or hassled or continously have to watch your feet wherever you go. This is a BIG thing.

The streets are also impeccably clean.

 Yeah. We were in heaven.

Myself, the husband and my Nan's Laura Ashley cushions, took themselves to the hill to catch some afternoon sunshine (the sun shines in Primrose Hill. Of course it fucking does), and laze about looking onto London Zoo and Regents Park below.

 The grass is not manicured to perfection on the Hill - it's all tufty, soft and green. So help me God.

Now. The trees. The other startling realisation in this area is the abundance and establishedness of the trees. Huge, mightily tall Oak and one's that look like Magnolias, but aren't, as I understand it.
Huge trees that rise up and make normal-sized trees look like tumbleweeds.

Again. I wasn't tripping.

The cafe culture pavement vibe is worth mentioning - you can actually get a seat if you look hard enough. No endless queues.

 The trees, the park! Primrose Hill is north London's Chelseafied version of itself. The only difference is you're far from the madding crowd, and there are less cunts walking around in red trousers.

It's intellectual-exclusive, but not crazily snobby that you feel bad for not being born with a trust fund.

Pity that a house like the one above would cost anything from £1.2million and upwards.

What, oh dear sweet, merciful Christ above, ARE we to do? Because by the looks of things, we can't afford to buy a paper bag in Primrose Hill.

The Brit-On-Toasts  are wracking their brains and looking at rentals instead.

Word.

 Moroccan tea

People watching. Look, the lady behind is ALSO wearing her Nan's curtains!

WE ARE SO ON TREND.

20 things I now know about my own wedding day

Things I learnt about getting married, for those out there preparing for your big, bright day:

I've been married 20 days today! 

You won't eat the week you get married
You'll want to. But you won't have time, the adrenaline will make you a bit meh about the burger sitting on your plate, and unless you force yourself, it's going to be hard.
So if like me a full course meal makes you sweat, eat tons of little snacks and meals all day. Take anything that comes your way, because you will lose weight.

On the weight
I'd spent 6 months prior to our wedding getting primed baby. I was eating healthily, gyming, all of that. (And still am, have you know.) I had hit my ideal weight - the one where my dress fitted fucking perfectly, and my ass was looking the best it could look, quite frankly.
Then I went and lost two kilos and my dress was slightly loose around my boob area.
It was fine, but did worry that my boobie would pop out when I was throwing shapes to Usher's I Wanna Make Love In This Club.

So. Don't diet like a crazy person. Your wedding gift from nature will be those two kilos that drop off you from stress, nerves and excitement.

Your bridal party will pull together and make the day amazing for you
If they don't down a bottle of cane before the speeches. My bridesmaids offered to be my wedding slaves. They kept me calm, made endless pots of tea and gin and tonics and generally helped everything be smooth and amazing. The Brit's ushers/groomsmen were the same. Everyone looks after you.

People will stand and get caught on your dress. A million times. 
Just laugh.

Little things go wrong, but nobody cares
You'll probably be the only one that notices.

Take a long, hot bath the night before
I loaded a bath with bath salts and lavender, after a final chat and kiss with the Brit (Conversation: "We are going to look after each other forever, no matter what happens, we're in this together, yeah?")
And just soak.

You won't sleep helluva well a few nights before
But weirdly, slept really well the night before the big day. Twas the bath.
Take sleeping tabs if you need to - you need the sleep, to think rationally if anything.

The photographers are bossy
They know how you should stand, put your hand there, stick that out there, look that way, etc. They will bark orders to you. Continuously. It can be painful. Just keep smiling. And have someone ready with drinks/coolerbox. Our groomsmen bought along champers in a coolerbox for us for the photos, which was a lifesaver.

You'll sweat
I had a bead of sweat trickle down my arm during our ceremony. Our hands shook and fingers swelled. (Had to literally push and twist the Brit's ring on). You'll also sweat under your dress.

You'll probably be tired of all that smiling by the end of the night
..but at the same time, you won't want the night to ever end. Your face will be sore.

You need someone on standby with lipgloss
All the smiling, photos, and you'll have your hands full  - make sure there's a stray lipgloss floating around near you at all times. My lips started to crack. Attractive.
Eat your dinner
Must. Eat.

"No one likes a trashed bride."
A friend said that once. No doubles, just singles. Even so, it's rare you see a trashed bride (unless you watch British bridal documentaries), because you're so busy flitting around you leave your glass everywhere and you just don't get drunk. That said, was wobbly when I stood on the chair to throw the bouquet and garter.

Our retro photobooth was a hit
I could've spent all night in there. Most people did. We had a table full of props, and the photos print out so that people can take the strip home and we get to keep one for the guestbook ourselves. They are hilarious.

I managed to speak to most people
Or jam with them, one way or another. A few I regretfully didn't get to spend much time with, but hopefully most people understand and had fun anyway.

Send the DJ a list of mandatory songs
He played most of them, and at the perfect times. All the cheesy shit that you insist has to be there. Hello Monster Hits of the 90s. And Usher. And Def Leppard.

Sit.
You have this need to be in and amongst it all the time, but take time to sit, kick off the old heels and chill with some friends at a table.

When you need to pee, take a mate
I was like a big white truck reversing. [Beep beep beep] Lifting the dress up, reversing into the toilet cubicle. You need assistance. Just to find the seat.

Celebrate [just] with your husband
We took a few moments together to absorb all the vibes and love and people around us and marvel in it. "We did it!" with a mini toast just to us. And he'll look more handsome and amazing than you've ever seen him.

You'll feel very secure, happy and loved
'Sno joke. Something does change when you get married. You know you're in this together. You have a partner in crime for everything. Everywhere. Anytime. Someone is with you on this ride. It's fucking cool. And it feels very unique. (Even if it isn't.) 

Finally, my favouriet wedding scene. Catherine Tate. If this doesn't happen, then consider everything else a success:

the days following the nuptials

I'd been told by other ex-brides that after the big day, you're absolutely knackered. Good enough reason for couples to go on honeymoon right after it all happens.

I was also told:
1) You'll be too drunk/tired to do anything kinky on your wedding night, apart from try to wrench yourself out of the dress
2) That until you do this, you can have your marriage annulled (only after you do it, is it divorce. So sex suddenly makes everything really expensive if you were to split, basically.)

 Having an outdoor bathroom does help, though.

I'll get to the actual wedding day eventually - and how unbelievably full of love it was, and all the jitters and craziness that a wedding day comes with, plus the professional photos.
For now, I wanted to share our familymoon.

People do this nowadays - familymoons and buddymoons, especially when they get wed in a place far from home. We opted for familymoon, as I rarely get to see my extended family in one place, and Mum had organised a kick-ass four days in Kruger for all of us.

A lion. Eyeballing me. 

The Brit has been to the bush before, but never to the Big Daddy. The Glastonbury of game parks, if you will.

 Lazing. And chilling. And eating. And reading. And drinking. And sunbathing.

It was truly sublime. We had our own private camp in Sabi Sands, and for four blissful days, did the following:
Slept. A lot.
Went on morning and evening game drives, spotting an abundance of big-ass game, save a leopard. We saw lots of lion, but no leopard.
Ate fuckloads of biltong.
Sat around a big bonfire everynight, telling stories and drinking gin and tonics.
Chilling with family.
Getting used to being a waaf.

Husband and wifey and ring collection.

 About 30 elephants cruised into our camp one morning. Trumpeting and, well, doing things elephants do.

Warthogs. The world's underrated animals. They don't really give a fuck do they? They kind of do their own thing, and unless something is actively trying to eat them, they don't seem too stressed out at all. They laze around, enjoying mud baths and direct sunlight, pop their aerial tails up, and are basically, hilarious.

I want one. I'd called him Duncan.

Buck and stuff.

Another eyeballer. Giraffes have the funniest mouths. They chew cud like demons.

There's that sunset I miss.

Our REAL honeymoon is in T-minus 6 weeks.So help me God, it feels like a lifetime away.

We are going to BORNEO.

Dude. Holy Jesus and all his prophets, we are going trekking in the jungle.

the wedding video

Axe-murderers - they're a very real thing in this world.
Short-man syndrome - it's a very real thing in this world.
Post wedding blues - it's a very real thing in this world.

I have the third one. For those of you who have/are all three of these, you must be one crazy motherfucker.

Seriously. Can't motivate myself to do anything except eat cake and stare out of the window wondering whether I'll need to write postcards to the sun because I don't know when I'll see it again.

Did go to gym twice. Not sure how I managed that. Perhaps I had an outer body experience.

This Mrs officially has the post-wedding blues. I thought I was too good for PWB. I'm not. I'm feeling more blah than Blah Blah MacBlahberson.

And so does my husband. We drank the last bottle of our wedding wine this weekend with some friends (Diemersfontein Pinotage obviously), and cleaned - no, but cleaned - but cleaned like Mary Poppins with OCD and on methamphetamine cleans - our flat. From top to bottom.

We also watched our wedding video footage from start to finish. Again.

We didn't get a videographer; we decided to spend more money on topnotch-crazy-beautiful photography. (Which I wait for, like a dog at a door, with a cocked head, everyday.) Instead, we had the groomsmen and uncles pass around a video camera throughout the reception, and take footage of us all getting ready, the ceremony, the speeches and the full-on party at the end.

We plan to edit it someday, maybe. But for now, watching the raw debauchery and wonderfulness of our wedding party isn't old yet. And frankly, it's at least half gratifying to watch it all and discover new things. ("Hey......I didn't realise my bouquet hit the ceiling fan?")
Wedding videos (unedited, raw, free, unprofessional versions) hold so many secrets. It's genius, I tell you, genius.
Friends giving us their well wishes, to sound advice, to people licking the screen and giving us beautifully inappropriate - yet heartfelt - tips on how to bring up a child to roll the perfect joint.

(Thanks Dockers for that.)

It's like being in your own reality TV show, in a big white dress. Watching the dynamics of the night that you couldn't really observe as you were running around talking to everyone. Couples having a barney, to couples in the photobooth, Jaegerbombing, people hovering around the dessert table.

Now we are like, "Hey hey hey, look at Roland. He's properly chatting up Cynthia...and there it is.. oh yes...he's leaning in...and...a cheeky kiss."

"Ah look, bless, Dudley is on the John Deeres - look. And he's just ordered another one. Has no idea what he's actually drinking does he?"

"Luke is jammin'! Oh yes there goes his arm...and he's wiggling his ass. He's totally wiggling his ass and has no idea there's a camera watching."

"Oooh! Look at me, look at me! Look! There we are! My dress is pretty hey babe? Tell me again how pretty my dress was."

"You're so handsome in your morning suit. Can you put it on again today? How about we scrub the bathroom wearing our wedding clothes?"

It's rather nice being married. And having a detergent party with your husband in the kitchen. (Spray fights with the nozzles on the Dettol Surface Cleaner, sponging down the dining room tables together, putting toilet duck in the bowl....it's just groovy.)

Seriously. I'm getting used to saying, "Husband! Shall we watch our wedding footage again?"

As one person said to me, and it's so true: you wish you could be a guest at your own wedding.
Our wedding video has helped us to do just that.

my wedding favours

Wanted to show you the wedding favours I made for our guests.

Most wedding favours are usually something like this or more traditional, like this. Many people now give away teeny tiny potplants or seeds to grow, or even little ornaments. I've been to weddings where the new thing is to now donate money to a charity on the guest's behalf. Either way, I couldn't make 80 potplants to bring to South Africa.
And I figured almonds in a bag was overkill - there were loads of other sweet treats at our wedding already.

I had to make something light, that people from all over the world could take back with them, and something that was crafty and unique.

Those that know us, will know that we have an entire cupboard at home stuffed with tea. All types and kinds. We are tea people. And tea is light and lovely.

So, I set about sourcing teas that reflected the moment - love. Many infusions/herbal teas are often called names, so I set about finding teas that were called 'love' by name.
I found three. All high quality, wrapped in beautiful little sachets, all pink, from various parts of the world.
I found 'LØv' tea, from Sweden, which comes in little muslin bags, and Kusmi's 'Sweet Love' tea. Quite spicy and fruity. Sourced from Paris.

 Then finally, I found a third tea, good old English Pukka, entitled simply 'Love.'

Boom.

Everyone got one of each.

 Our wedding theme was 'vintage travel.' Our relationship started on this basis; having to meet in foreign countries over an extended period of time. We also love to travel (OK, I love to travel - majority passion), but it's a big thing in our relationship and wanted to reflect this in the pacakaging.

So I bought me some baker's twine. It's not 'airmail' twine, but pink, as that was the main colour of our wedding vibe.

Then I found a little shop on Etsy, a woman from Canada that sold vintage stamps. There were 100 stamps for £5 - all used, but in good condition and from all parts of the world.

I had SO much fun sticking these onto little beige envelopes. You have no idea how therapeutic it is.

 Then I ordered some vintage travel luggage stickers from a woman in Singapore. Two tins of vintage stickers that I could mix and match with the stamps.

Etsy packages were arriving at my desk daily - it was amazing. All handcrafted, with cool things like strips of washi tape down the side and little notes saying thank you.

Honestly, Etsy is amaaazing.




Luggage label stickers!








Then, the final detail was a little 'thank you' note or 'with love,' or whatever to attach to the wtine on the package. Also ordered these from Singapore on Etsy, cheap cheap.

How fucking cute are they?

The main result being...

...on everyone's side plates, which can be slotted into a pocket and enjoyed the next day when extremely hungover.

the days leading up to the nuptials

 We are back in Blighty. And it's sunny and warm. Thank goodness. Because if you can imagine what it would look like to grab onto a flagpole with both hands during a hurricane, that is what I looked like leaving South Africa.

It was incredibly difficult to leave. Best two weeks of our lives? You could say that.

Here's where it all began. This is my suitcase, crammed full of wedding dress, at Heathrow Airport.

 Now, the dress had been in here for two weeks. And yet, when I finally released the captive dress, it just popped out without a crease or a anything. So that was pretty surprising.

 

After my hen do, I set about tanning my rump. I decided in the end not to go for a spray tan or a cancerific sunbed.I decided that looking orange was far worse than looking pale. 

Pale might not be the most flattering colour in an ivory dress, but it's way fucking better than looking like Amy Childs out of The Only Way Is Essex. 

I managed to get a substantial amount of colour in the week leading up to the wedding, just by sitting in a sun a few hours, on and off, every day.

 

I drove down to Natal with my bridesmaids - The Ant was driving so it was a particularly hairy Italian experience -  but it was great. I got to catch up with the girls and take in the the Free State scenery.

We stopped in a dorp, ate a fuck off breakfast in this little place below. Dude. They served us coffees with real doilies.  Real, knitted doilies.

This is our venue. Us, the bridal party and our families stayed here for three blissful days.

I'm not a religious person, but I did say a little prayer on the night before the wedding and to say thanks. As we had THREE FULL DAYS OF BRILLIANT, BEAUTIFUL, FLAWLESS sunshine. Seriously. The Brits had thought they'd died and gone to the ninth level of heaven. Like, they didn't want to leave.  Some stayed extra nights.

The irony is, our first choice of date was the weekend before. But it was already booked. Apparently it pissed down - sheet rain style - the whole weekend. So if I'm a little bit all "oh my God, we are so blessed!" and "Oh my God, there actually might be a God," then it's because someone, something, orchestrated the most beautiful weather - highlighting everything that I love so much about the Midlands.

Being back in the Midlands always evokes various emotions for me. It was my home for 18 years, and it's the one place on Earth that I've lived the longest [thus far.]

It's home-home.

The ladies set up a little kitchen tea where all the aunties and grannies and cousins could come, in Nottingham Road. That sunlight burning out the retinas in our eyeballs? Check it.

Then we got our nails done.

In lots of different colours. Personally - and I realise this is subjective as fuck - but I think I was actually quite a chilled bride.

I know. Really. Mostly. Maybe 80% of the time.

I didn't do one of those French manicure things. My mother hates them ("They look so...Edenvale!"), I disagree and given every bride on the planet gets one, that kind of offends the whole of bridekind. But I wanted just a pale alabaster (yes, it's a hue).

Morning of the wedding was great. We ended up lolling about having our faces and hair done while drinking 8000 litres of tea.

The Brit and I exchanged gifts (one of the husband's was a runner between each place), and I got this amazing vintage bracelet from the Brit that matches my ring. (Not diamonds and platinum though, but just as beautiful.)

It came wrapped in this little box. God he's a doll. How did I ever get so lucky?

 I ..handcraft wrapped mine. Not my best work. (That's still coming!) With a roll of love sweets and a bespoke handmade British leather wallet inside. A more practical gift. (Is that shit?) He really loves it though, as his other wallet was broken and this one is seamless with a Union Jack inside.

 Then I had my hair done, after my four bridesmaids. I opted for a "messy but neat romantic updo."
"Messy but neat" is a really important part of this job. I didn't want tendrils or weird shit coming out of it.

Check it out, with my roses. I kept my 'do in for 48 hours. That's two days if you're not concentrating. After the wedding we headed to the Oyster Box for a night, and by that stage it looked like seagulls had taken residence in my rat's nest, but it was held together with 67 bobby pins and I just loved it.

My old house. I grew up here. That's a snapshot of my childhood right there. It's a heritage site now, as the house was built in 1875. There was a cafe attached it a few years back, but now it's a just a home again. I had to take my Brit.

I always cry when I go there.

Winding, Midlands Curry's Post road.

More tomoz.