Double, double tyre and trouble

Firstly, apologies for not writing a post for over 6 months! With the wedding, the honeymoon and applying for new jobs- the time has flown. However, I am back on track now (as a married woman) and ready to put my ramblings out there again for all to see!

So, something happened to me yesterday that I have managed to avoid for 11 whole years. No, the Board of Education did not finally catch up with me and reveal I cheated in my A levels. It was the dreaded flat tyre.

Picture a cold, excessively windy Monday morning at 8am down a busy road in North London. Having already pushed the limit for the time I have to leave the house in order not to be late for work, I scurried over to the car to be confronted by a pathetic mass of deflated rubber...with a shiny, pointy screw sticking cheekily out of the top. Cue panic stations tantamount to the announcement of World War 3.

What should I do? Where do I go?? I'm immobilised!!

Quickly ringing my boss to explain my Monday morning lateness was not due to over exposure to the snooze button, I decided there was only one thing for it.

Wake the husband.

As you can imagine, being woken from the cosy warmth of your bed to attempt to perform a mechanical manoevure whilst the moon is practically still out did not get received with the politest response. In fact, complete with shirking under the duvet, the words "Go" and "Away" were definitely uttered. Playing the helpless wife card he eventually relented and joined me as we stood, puzzled, staring at the offending tyre and wishing Top Gear was actually useful for something other than looking at flash cars we can't afford.

Digging through shoes, books, empty petrol containers and pairs of socks that I keep in the boot for emergencies, we discovered what looked like a missing tyre of a wheelbarrow (apparently also known as a "SpaceSaver" spare tyre) and a random assortment of dusty tools. Between us, the amount of knowledge on changing a tyre amounted to one experience Lee had 14 years ago.

Lying on the floor and looking suprisingly confident, he began to unscrew the tyre whilst I attempted to prevent a Marilyn Monroe moment as my dress flapped about insanely in the wind.

Credit where credits due, he got the tyre off and replaced it with the equivalent in the tyre world of Jeremy Beadles right hand. It was then left to me to drive to a garage to play the hapless female who just didn't know what to do and hope for a speedy and cost effective service. Luckily, I had it all repaired and replaced within 20 minutes of arriving at the garage and only dented my purse by £15.

I honestly had never felt so redundant in my life, I'm not a girly girl but had absolutely no clue what to do in the situation and was very pleased it didn't happen anywhere than outside my doorstep! That reminds me, must put my membership details for the AA actually INSIDE the car and not in the flat....

Parental Control...

Strange sense of panic, mad desire to clean, dust and polish, custard creams on standby... can only mean one thing. The parents are coming to visit. At 7am (urgh) tomorrow morning they shall be making their way from the North to the South courtesy of Richard Branson and his tilting trains to see me for the second time since I moved here 18 months ago. I'm not offended by their reluctance to visit, in fact, its much easier if I go to see them. The hassle of asking them to do anything that involves veering from the usual routine is enough to cause even me, the generally most laid back person you can meet, to be pushed the the brink of sanity. Not only that but my Dad is affectionately and accurately known as "Calamity Tony".... if there is an accident to be had, he will find it. Typical British worry-warts, they love nothing more than to stress over the smallthings- trust me, if the ironing isn't done by 9am then it's practicallyWW3. To imagine them, think of the pairing of Hyacinth Bucket and FrankSpencer. Enough said.

So it's now less than 24 hours until they arrive and my palms are sweatywith the thought of the housework I have to do tonight to avoiddisapproving looks and have them dust the crumbs off the sofa before theysit down. Don't get me wrong, I am not completely devoid of thehouse-proud gene but with a full time job, trying to start a writingcareer, a wedding to plan and two new kittens- it just gets put to the backof the to do list. I don't mind if shoes are not put away, the tomatoketchup stays on the table for a couple of days or if the ironing waitspatiently for two weeks to be done. This "laissez faire" attitude howeverdoes not go down well with Ma and Pa- in fact, they are so concerned at myapparent lack of hygiene (must stress, this is completely over the top),that they actually bring their own glasses to drink from. In fact, I justhad a phone to call to ask me if I have any apples in the house and when Isaid yes, the response was "Well, we'll bring our own anyway....".Hilarious.I have activities planned for them which include a trip to Windsor (justabout high brow enough for Hyacinth) and a walk up to Primrose Hill (hopingthat Frank doesn't tumble), plus, cuddle time for the real reason they arevisiting- the kittens. Wish me luck!

Count the memories, not the pennies

As a habitual worrier over financial matters, to spend £17 on one single cocktail is something I would usually have cold sweats over. But last night, to my amazement, I brazenly handed over my trusty debit card and signed off £34.00 worth of drinks as if it was my last night on earth. See, my lovely fiance had decided to treat me to a meal at the delicious Wolseley restaurant in Picadilly, London and despite my usual protests at such extravagance, last night felt different and I think I know why.

I have been listening to a record recently called "Enjoy Yourself, It's Later Than You Think" by Guy Lombardo and somehow, the words have really struck a chord deep inside me. Pretty much as depressing as the title may suggest, the song is about living life to the full and being aware it's no good regretting it when you're six feet under. I certainly don't want to be stood at the pearly gates and be thinking if I could go back and give myself one piece of advice in life it would be the exact title of the song. So, we cracked open the bottle of bubbly that had been sitting in the cupboard for months, waiting for something "champagne-worthy" to happen and toasted to...er, nothing. We got suited and booted, went for cocktails at The Ritz and pretended to the world this was completely normal. Sliding in to our seats amongst the rich and famous (Steven Spielberg was eating at the next table!), we ordered wine, delicious food and giggled with the posh ladies surrounding us. I didn't just enjoy it because it was expensive (if anything, that would usually make me detest it), I enjoyed it because I actually just did. I didn't worry about the consequences, after all, what does being a few pounds overdrawn really matter? I know I'm not irresponsible or careless with money and am still happy getting clothes from Tesco so why shouldn't I create some memories that will last far longer than my wages? We came home happy and full... and for me, I really am going to try and remember that life is for living and when I look back, I want to know I gave it a damn good shot.

Listen for yourself...

http://www.metrolyrics.com/enjoy-yourself-its-later-than-you-think-lyrics-guy-lombardo.html

To believe or not to believe?

I have always been somewhat of a sceptic when it comes to the unknown. Don't get me wrong, I am terrified of the thought of paranormal activity, would run a mile if someone asked me to do a Ouiji board and have always been just a little uneasy watching Ghostbusters. But I have never been convinced that it's not a just a state of mind- we see and believe what we want to and nothing else. So when a good friend of mine told me about a pyschic who was so accurate it was hard not to keep the goosebumps at bay, I decided I would part with my hard earned cash, book a session and kill the cynic in me once and for all.
It started today with me arriving at the psychics house to be greeted by a petite blond woman with a tan to rival David Dickinson. Cascades of charm bracelets graced her frail arms and aside from the too-tight-leggings, she looked relatively harmless. She advised me I had to drink a cup of Greek coffee so she could read my coffee cup afterwards. Watching her boil the dark brown liquid in a golden minature saucepan I couldn't help but stare intently in case a little sedative went in so I wouldn't quite remember... (and also wonder if I had just stumbled in to a 2010 version of Hansel and Gretel).
Soon enough I was drinking the liquid which quite frankly, tasted like I imagine the bottom of the kittens litter tray does. Starting with the Tarot cards, I watched as she flipped them over, telling me how I was loved, how changes were on the way and how I was feeling a little stressed. I have an extremely expressive face and you certainly didn't need to be a pyschic to see I was less then impressed. Who isn't stressed? Who doesn't want to hear that changes are on the way? After all, if everything was perfect with my life why would be hankering after clues to my future? After ten minutes I was starting to think I had proved myself right and could smugly go back to work declaring fraud. When she asked me if I could see the tortoise in the remains of the coffee I'd drunk I almost choked. Then rather randomly she started asking who was the person with the initial "J". She then correctly announced my sisters name, advised me of how close we are in age and constantly kept referring to my deceased Grandma. She expressed concerns my Grandma always had about me, how she died and even described something of hers that I have. Next came my dad's name and the fact that I was a writer! (Apparently I have a Chinese Philopsher watching over me and he wants me to write a novel as it will be a success. I will obviously include this in my covering letter to future publishers... what more security could they need??!). On followed referalls to my finances (or lack of) and the notion that in a matter of time she could only refer to as "3", everything would settle down. Just under 3 months to the big day!
Trust me, this lady only ever had my first name and I refused to answer her with anything other than a "Hmmm" or an "OK".
I can't say I'm completely converted, after all, I would do anything to believe I have a Guardian Angel watching over me in the shape of a beloved grandparent. But I definitely left there with a tingle up my spine and certainly a stronger belief that we are most definitely NOT alone....

Thursday pleasure = Friday pain

At almost 29 years of age, I'd hardly call myself "past it", but judging by the monstrous hangover I have been suffering with all day, my liver begs to differ. In fact, at precisely 6:40 am this morning when my alarm pierced my brain like a pneumatic drill, I think my body auto-piloted out of bed and in to the bathroom, pausing only to glance at my sleeping fiance and hating him for a brief second for having a job that doesn't start at 08:30. Last night we were out celebrating his best friend/best man's birthday and despite it being a "school night", we lapsed in to those days of youth when you didn't care if you got your 8 hours a night as your body could hack it. Unfortunately, those days were left behind with the Alcopops and the Rimmel Heather Shimmer lipstick. I should have resisted when the rounds of Sambuca started flying round, I should not have agreed to the tenth vodka and coke and I certainly should NOT have demolished a Tesco cheese twist and a donut on the way home. Crawling in to bed at 1:30 this morning, laughing and philosophising about our evening, the world of reality seemed a million miles away (not the pathetic several hours that it was). All day waves of nausea have washed over my stomach, teasing me with how much I can stand before the Tsunami of vomit overcomes it. Having managed to resist riding the crest of hurl all day, I am now settling down with a box of Jaffa Cakes and Big Brother. Worringly, I have also been having flashbacks of the titbits I was given of the potential best man's speech and I can't remember if I actually drunkenly dreamt it or not. Let's just say it will either be hilarious.... or horrendous.

Wine for breakfast? Only at a wedding....

If there's one part of the planning of the wedding I've been especially looking forward to, it happened this weekend. Wine and food tasting at the venue, complete with chauffeurs in the form of real, responsible adults (parents).
With just under 3 months to go, we journeyed from the sunny south of England up to my home town of Manchester where, you guessed it, the skies looked thunderously grey, ready to loosen our jeans and pick the wedding breakfast meal! I knew I shouldn't have devoured the tempting crusty bread roll that lay innocently on my right .... however as a valid member of Carboholics Anonymous, it was always going to happen. Once the food started appearing and I watched the waitress narrowly miss dripping turkey gravy on my mum's skirt and wobble roast potatoes over people's drinks, I couldn't help a little flutter of nerves at the massive task of ensuring all our 90 guests would be fed and watered at the same time. Obviously, I'm sure my fears are all completely irrational, venues host weddings everyday of the week... plus I seriously doubt I'll be worrying about who got served the sugar snap peas first on the actual day.

Next came the wine, lo and behold out pops 8 glasses of red and white wine, each resting on a napkin dictating the brand and more importantly, the price. Starting with the cheapest, we passed the glasses around the table, all 7 of us taking a sip and pretending to be the wine connoisseurs we most definitely are not. For me, if I didn’t wretch or hold my nose, it was a winner. For my dad, if he could smell the sweet scent of more money wafting through the grapes, it was struck off the list. We finally settled on an extravagant white and a more reasonable red (the basis being that everyone will drink the white first and then be relatively intoxicated enough not notice!). Needless to say, not wanting to show the unlucky wine's any disrespect, my fiance and I managed to work our way through the remaining glasses...

Veils, vows and a celebratory chuckle...

As the days quickly slip on by in a blur of work, TV and ironing (ok, that last one is a lie, I never iron if I can help it. Replace it with running. Or blogging. Both of which make me sound much less lazy), I can't quite believe it's only 11 weeks until I become Mrs Gregory. After 2 years of blissful engagement, on October 10 at 12:30 I will leave behind my "Miss" status and cross firmly over the line in to the grounds of a married woman. The entire event seems such a mature thing to do, I'm nervous I'll start giggling like a flirty schoolgirl as I walk down the aisle. (This often occurs in the most inappropriate of situations.... I won't tell you what once happened during a minute's silence in a busy office but suffice to say it involved fits of uncontrollable laughter, looks of utter disgust and lunch times alone for a VERY long time....)

Anyway, lets assume I make it down the aisle without needing oxygen/wine and/or stumbling over my own size 8's. The next challenge is to actually say the right words and not stand gaping like a suffocating trout. Trying to keep my voice on an even keel and not wibble or wobble when the tears start (I already know there is no escaping that and am currently searching for an industrial strength mascara- recommendations welcome!) will be so hard that I might forget what I'm supposed to be pledging and quite possibly could start reciting my two times table.

Despite being 29 years old when I actually wed, I'm still convinced I will see my 12 year old self in the mirror, all caterpillar eye-browed and puppy fat faced. When shopping for my wedding dress, it was so surreal to be being heaved and wedged in to these beautiful creations that it almost felt like I was back in the carnival playing the part of Cinderella and collecting 2p's for charity.

I am sincerely hoping that I have the ability to remain composed when I catch my best friends eye or notice that the Registrar has spinach stuck in their front teeth.... but I wouldn't stake my 3 tiered sponge on it!