As our two readers are aware, Mr Parsnip proposed to me on 5 November 2007. As none of you are aware, we have set our wedding date for 19 April 2008. To this end, most evenings and weekends are a social whirl of meeting photographers, wedding planners at hotels, registrars, florists, chauffeurs and hairdressers. It’s all a bit alien to me, to be honest, and I have taken a bit of a back seat, really, allowing Mr P to take command and be masterful, as he is My Hero. Don’t puke…it is what I say to him when I am being sarcastic…
I was married once before, as you both know – hence, Hex My Ex. That wedding was totally organised by me under the strict monetary guidance of Anal, the ex. As I couldn’t organise a Piss Up In A Brewery, you can imagine that it was a bit of a Mickey Mouse affair. Everything was done on the cheap – marrying a staunch Yorkshireman with his eye on the purse strings and having an interfering mother who demanded that I bought a pink nylon lace wedding dress from Albert’s Stall on the Market and marry over the anvil at the Blacksmith's in her village made me feel as though I had to save as much money as possible – even my underwear was bought from Oxfam…(that’s a fib, to be perfectly honest!).
Our wedding rings were the first saving: he had been jilted the year before and had kept the bands and engagement ring which was returned when she declared that she couldn’t marry the most selfish man she had ever met. I also had a wedding band passed down to me from a deceased relative. So, into the melting pot they all went and two new bands were created. Were they already hexed? I was even offered the former fiancées engagement ring until the ex realised that he could get a better deal by pulling an insurance scam, obtaining a new ring and flogging it to raise funds. As a bit of a nube, I concurred to his initial suggestion and wore aforesaid ring until his bright idea pinged into life.
I worked as a personal tax consultant at the time and two of my clients were in the bridal industry. So off I went to see them, offering to get them as much of a tax rebate as was possible if they could do me a deal on my dress and flowers. I ended up with a dress, which wasn’t my first choice due to costs, looked like a meringue with a dash of squirty cream, and the tackiest silk flower bouquet known to man. The ex deemed fresh flowers a waste of money, and at least the silk ones ‘would keep’.
Next up, the wedding breakfast…we went to a local pub, Harewood House, which is quite a pretty place and booked the cheapest set menu offered. I think the menu consisted of Heinz tomato soup, Bernard Matthews roast chicken and Chivers jelly…maybe not, but you get the picture. The ex refused to shell out for champagne so we went to Food Giant, bought their cheapest Asti Spumante and then got charged £7 per bottle, corkage. He saved £10 per bottle by doing that.
Our wedding vehicle was a Mercedes. It was actually quite nice and one of the few things for which we paid full price, in effect. But as it was only driving us for approximately six miles round trip, they discounted that for us, too.
The photographer was an old buddy of his grandfather and smelt dreadfully, but gave a discount. Many of my photographic proofs show me wincing in distaste at his BO. Thankfully, the distant shots were OK and we just about managed to garner an album’s worth. Ever frugal, the ex ‘hired’ his mate to video the whole shebang. Phil, who had never used a video camera in his life thought that if the camera was turned on its side, a ‘portrait’ view would be seen. For the first 20 minutes, we are all horizontal. We have a scene of me sneaking a cigarette from Phil’s wife horizontally, attempting to keep it secret as my parents didn’t know I smoked at the time, and thus expostulating to Phil to clear off in case the evidence was filmed; we have the ex sneaking horizontally behind the graves at the back of the church to urinate which caused me so much embarrassment I cannot tell you how much I remonstrated with him afterwards; we have the most excruciating Best Man’s speech, vertically, which bangs on about aforesaid ex visiting prostitutes in Paris, of which I was not aware until that point in time; and we have me permanently holding my hand in front of my dress, both horizontally and vertically, as, when I got into the car, the hoop caused the skirt to hit my mouth and a smeary pink stain can be seen with the naked eye from space.
THIS WILL NOT HAPPEN AGAIN…
Mr P wants this wedding to be special. He claims I am ‘special’ because I went to a special school and thus, we deserve it. I think he is right, actually. It has been a bit of an effort not to suggest traipsing off to the Charity Shops for a second hand wedding gown, and to go to the local pub for our ‘do’, but I am reigning in my pennywise attitude to a greater degree.
So, I have the gown of my dreams; the bridesmaids, #1 and #2 are kitted out in ‘cappuccino’ coloured dresses, despite #2 wanting to wear combats and camouflage teamed with wellies; we have a fantastic venue which is palatial, yet elegant and discreet; we have matching wedding bands which are unique to us; and we have Sir Matt Chingduvé as my giving away chappy as my parents no longer talk to me because I decided to live my own life instead of theirs.
One of my main concerns is not to fluff the first dance. Mr P has booked us some private dancing lessons. I can only hope and pray that my two left feet don’t let me down…
My other concern is whether Mr P wants to become Mr Charles Mildew…!