I’m getting married.
Now, this is not the start of a manifesto; not for these pages are endless discussion of floral arrangements, or the etiquette for favours. No, it’s simply an observation of the biggest, life-altering, oh my GOD! event that’s on the landscape of my life for the forseeable future.
A date hasn’t been set, mostly because a venue has yet to be confirmed. Families are scattered across the British Isles, and friends across the globe. I don’t think that when my beloved popped the question either of us had any real appreciation of what would be involved, even though we’re trying to lowball it. Not for us the acres of meringue tulle and marquees that cover Cheshire; nor do we need a philharmonic orchestra and a guest list including everyone we’ve ever met, from nursery onwards. This is going to take one hell of a strategy.
Add another complication to the mix, if you’ll permit: this is no ordinary wedding. Nope, both my fiancée and myself are of the female persuasion, ergo the event in question is actually a civil partnership service. Some might welcome the blank canvas in which to create a truly memorable event. I’m floundering in the absence of tradition, lost without a million stupid rules to dictate our special day.
So that’s the main issue plaguing my brain today. Well, it’s easier than actually doing any work.
Eight shows a week, two matinées 