Six weeks off; amazing, great!
It’s only the last five you’ll fucking hate.
You’ve done everything in week one, you filled your days,
With crafting and baking, it was gone in a haze.
The house is a tip now and you can’t see the floor,
But it’ll soon pass, there’s only five more.
Week two draws in and you wake filled with dread,
What do we do now? My head is a shed.
A family day out, a lovely idea!
It pisses it down with rain, pass me a beer.
Three weeks in and you’re going mad,
You didn’t think finding shit to do would be so bad.
You’re nagged and you’re moaned at more and more,
Can we? Can we? Can we? It’s becoming a bore.
Week four can fuck off, this is the worst,
Just over half way and an empty purse.
You’ve been uniform shopping and you’ve spent all your cash,
And all you want is a night on the lash.
Week five is strop week, you’ve heard and seen it all,
Get them in bed so you can stare at the wall.
Week six and more moaning that there’s nothing to do,
And you hide behind the fridge door mouthing ‘fuck you’.
But inside you’re smug, smug as can be,
Because it’s back to school next week, you’ve survived – yippee!!
This weekend, in a rather unconventional move, I took my fiancé with me to choose my wedding dress. Yes, some of my friends were horrified, “you can’t do that!!!” one shouted at me. When I asked her why, she told me it’s bad luck. Well, we’ve had a hell of a lot of bad luck since we got together and we are stronger than ever, hence the whole getting married thing. I didn’t see that a stupid, age-old superstition was going to make much difference. Not only that, but he is my best friend and his opinion counts more than anybody else’s, it made so much sense to me to take him, almost stupid not to.
We headed to a boutique in York and I picked out three dresses before heading to the fitting rooms with an assistant.
The first dress I tried on, I knew I didn’t like as soon as she began forcing it over my child-bearing hips. More so, I knew Jon would hate it too, it just wasn’t me. But, because the lovely assistant seemed to think it would suit me and because I like wasting everyone’s time, I stood patiently while she tugged at the ribbons holding in my fat bits. I looked like an overweight mermaid; one that should spend less time flirting with sailors on rocks and more time swimming. I stepped out of the fitting room and before the curtain had fully gone back, Jon was shaking his head, “no way,” he said. Alright dick-head, at least be subtle.
So back in the fitting room I once again stood patiently while she released me and I could breath again. Meanwhile, I could hear Jon dishing out fashion advice to other brides-to-be like Salford’s answer to Gok Wan – “it looks lovely Lisa, but do you feel confident?” I heard him say. Jesus. Who am I marrying? “We don’t get many men in here,” the assistant told me, “a few dads, but never grooms”. And it occurred to me, there bloody well should be. Jon’s always one for an honest opinion and I could tell the other soon-to-be wives appreciated a man’s view on what she would be wearing for her big day.
The second dress I tried on, although beautiful, wasn’t me either. It was too floaty and as Jon said, I looked like a fairy. So dress number three, I loved. I came out and Jon’s face lit up. I spent ages twirling around in it in front of the mirror before deciding that we’d leave for lunch, have a think and come back. Jon was hungover as hell from our gin-drinking session at home the evening before and was desperate for a panini.
“Is it the one?” he asked me when we left. “I think so, but I really wanted you to cry when you saw it,” I told him. “Darling, I’m so hungover and dehydrated, I couldn’t force out a single tear even if I wanted to,” he replied. So, we spent the next hour discussing ‘the dress’ before heading back to the boutique for me to try it on again. Back in the fitting room with the dress on, I felt something was missing. I don’t want to give away what it was but once I’d added that something, I knew it was the dress for me. I headed out of the fitting room and, thanks to him having rehydrated with a bottle of Evian and a Coke from Greggs, or perhaps because I’d moaned about it, I got my tear. “You look beautiful” he told me welling up, and I wanted to cry too. “SOLD,” I told the assistant. More tears from Jon once he’d seen the price tag and we were on our way with one beautiful wedding dress.
“When I woke up this morning I didn’t think I’d be buying my wedding dress,” I told him on the way home. “When I woke up this morning I wanted to fucking die,” he replied. True love, right there.