The Aftermath...

Dear All,

Just a wee postcard from Sri Lanka for you...

Ah well, you were all wondering, weren't you: will she, won't he, will he, won't she? Well, we did. And it was beautiful, and when I get back from Sri Lanka, you will hear all about it, and I may even upload a few photos so you can finally get to see what Agnes Mildew, Charles Parsnip and Daughters #1 & #2 look like...If you want...

So, here we are in the Mount Lavinia Hotel, Sri Lanka. I was somewhat perturbed a few weeks ago, to know that our honeymoon was here, as in February there were a few problems, what with the Tamil Tigers kicking off and deciding to blow up a public transport bus not far from our hotel, killing a number of civilians. Hmm...that is what had put me off coming here with The Ex some years ago. But, ever the trooper, I was determined not to let a few terrorists intimidate Agnes Mildew-Parsnip this time!

We left Manchester on Sunday morning in a flurry of late spring snow. We had both dressed for the prospect of warmer climes and thus, when Mr P suggested a final cigarette outside the airport terminal, I, in my ignorance of the lack of designated smoking areas, declined, preferring the warmth indoors. I was most distressed, after check-in, to discover that a very long, nicotine-free nine hours lay ahead of me, and got somewhat mardy at one point...

The flight itself was very uneventful, excepting the exchange of foodstuffs between me and Mr P. I no longer eat any other meat but fish and the only options were lamb or chicken. So Mr P had my chicken (from Business Class, as Camel Class had run out), his own chicken, and I had two salads and two smoked salmons. He also had two cheesecakes. And two biscuits and cheese. And two bread rolls. Is he carrying twins, I wonder?

Our stopover was in Dubai airport - a place I am very familiar with, due to my sojourns in the Middle East. Indeed, arriving in the Irish Village (the airport pub) was like being home from home. We were a bit fuddled with the time difference, and Mr P started to get agitated by my blasé attitude towards making the gate exactly 37.63 minutes before take-off. I have a more Middle Eastern IBM attitude - In sh'Allah Bukrah Mumkin (Tomorrow, God Willing, Perhaps, if you care to...) and thus ambled along to gate 53. Which happened to be the wrong gate, approximately half a mile in the wrong direction.

Mr P turned a strange shade of red, refused to talk, look at me, or breath properly and strode out like a man possessed towards the correct gate. I hopped and capered alongside him, making reassuring coo-ing noises, telling him things would be fine.

It didn't wash...At all...

I won't describe our first 'discussion' as husband and wife, but suffice it to say, I won.

And so we arrived here, and haven't we done well for ourselves? The Mount Lavinia Hotel is a fine specimen of Colonial architecture and we happily ensconced ourselves in what the Brits abroad do best - bugger all: drinking, eating and getting sunburned.



Mr P is mortified to discover that the Asiatic Crows are so bloody cheeky and will blatantly dive-bomb you as you partake of breakfast to nick your toast and marmalade, and he was horrified when one sat upon his clean shorts and emptied its bowels. I suggested to him, in between bouts of hysteria, that it was either a very poorly bird, or someone had emptied a pot of muesli yoghurt onto his kecks.

He didn't see the funny side...

I, on the other hand, thought it hilarious, and that is because he wet his pants laughing when a pigeon plopped on my head during our four day break to Barcelona (first time round), two years ago. Revenge is sweet, Mr P. So, so sweet...

We haven't done anything but sit around the pool, talk rubbish, read books and buy gorgeous Sri Lankan jewels. Well, I have snuck off to buy jewels, but don't tell my new husband that. He must never know, OK?

So, he is currently pushing out the zeds as he has had such a hard day of it, sheltering from the tropical storm we have experienced, drinking red wine, reading his strange Sci-Fi novel which looks like something to come as a free gift with the Sunday Express, and eating Tandoori Chicken butties. Ah me...such is life.

The hardest part is to ring daughters #1 & #2 up tonight and ask if their day has been as good as ours...

Will keep you all posted!

Wish you were here *ahem*

Agnes x

It's the Final Countdown...

It's been a bit quiet on the old blogging front at HexMyEx. That's simply because I have found myself in the unenviable position of juggling three full-time jobs recently: those of marketing manager, full-time mother (daughters #1 and #2 refusing to see their father) and housewife. I strongly object to being married to a house but it certainly feels like I am chained to the sink at present, so I definitely understand the expression.

I have only ever wanted a quiet life. My idea of larks is to jump out on Mr Parsnip when he is least expecting it and scare him witless...Indeed, I attempted to do this some months ago at our local cinema, by hiding behind a life-size cut-out of Jonny Depp as Sweeney Todd. After standing there, braced and ready to jump for about ten minutes, I pondered as to whether Mr P had fallen down the toilet, so long was he taking. I poked my head around Jonny's and, much to my chagrin, there he was on the other side, wondering where the hell I was. I had missed him leaving the gents' and my ruse fell flat on its face.

So, considering that I am now in my final week of being a single woman (the big day arrives this Saturday, 19th), I am now wondering what has happened to my sanity as daughter #1 screams that she is not coming to this 'flippin', God-forsaken wedding!'. This, dear reader, is because I dobbed her in it at High School. She has been taking £2 each day from me for lunch and then spending it on sweets. So I did what any normal, indignant, but sneaky, parent would do and reported her to her Year Head who is now going to monitor her every move in the dinner queue. The fact that she is being treated like 'a spaz' has left her mortified and hating me for the rest of my life. I can live with it. Really, I can...

The bridesmaids have been the bane of my life. They are daughters #1 and #2. Trying to find something that is both girly (#1) and tomboy-ish (#2) has been a task even Trinny and Susannah would find difficult. Therefore, they are both in cappuccino coloured (brown, for the plain speakers), simple dresses, but with a splash of beading and lattice work to appease #1's girly tendencies.

Despite ordering these dresses before Christmas last year, they only actually arrived in the shop six days ago. My hair has been turning greyer and greyer, I shake like I have the DTs, and I cannot sleep properly for envisaging #2 getting the hump and pitching up in combats and wellies. The seamstress at the bridal shop has a strong, drawling Scouse accent which has served to drive me up the wall: Don' worreeeee, Agnessssssssssssssssss. Ir'll all be all rice.

But #2 goes away for a week on Monday and won't be back till Friday. She doesn't have time for a fitting. What am I going to doooooo???

[It's at this point, that an observer would be reminded of Edvard Munch's The Scream]

Don' worreeeee, Agnessssssssssssssssss. Ir'll all be all rice.

It wasn't alright.

The girls went for their dress fittings on Saturday, and the supplier had sent the wrong sizes. #1 who is a slim 13 year old was fitted in a woman's size 16 which would have swamped me, and #2 who could hide behind a river reed comfortably was fitted in a woman's size 8, which might have just fitted me with a bit of shoe-horning. I was suitably distressed, turned a few shades of crimson, stuttered, came out of the changing rooms to find Mr P looking furtively at posh frocks and wailed. Mr P offered to go out and get some veg from the grocers if that would help...

In order to stop me from panicking about the girls' dresses, the seamstress, Julie, offered to let me try my hoop on. I'd also panicked about that as the last time I had tried one on, the Saturday girl gave me a size 20, so the only way I could walk in it was to spread my legs as far as they could go and take giant strides around the shop floor. I could really imagine arriving at the ceremony to the dulcit strings of Mozart, clomping like a fairy elephant...

This hoop fit me perfectly, thankfully, but it was as I was stepping out of it, still in my jeans and boots, that Julie ducked to her knees to assist me. She had just, at that point, told me not to 'worreeeee' again, and I kneed her in the forehead. It was an accident, really it was, but she was sent flying across the changing room and got up a bit shakily. I hope it served as a warning to her, despite it being accidental...

My work colleagues tell me I am exceptionally cool, calm and collected, considering I marry in four days time. I tell them I am an exterior Ice Maiden, but beneath this frosty surface, I am a nervous wreck. One colleague continually tries to take my mind off things by telling all and sundry that she marries in 87 days, has rubber Calla lillies in her bouquet, and the guests' favours are sample size perfumes she has extorted from one of the perfume suppliers. I ignore her, preferring to keep referring to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office website to see whether the terrorism in Sri Lanka (where we go for our honeymoon) has changed yet from being High Risk to Don't-Go-There-Whatever-You-Do...

It's also throwing it down in Sri Lanka: thunder and lightning storms. Semi-monsoon season.

Great...

Forecast here for Saturday is scattered showers, 7degC and a bit on the breezy side. So, I will certainly fulfil that old wedding rhyme of 'Something Old, Something New...' I'll be the 'blue' and Mr P is the 'Something Old'...He wasn't impressed when I jocularly quipped this to our travel agent, and asked for seperate seats on the plane from me.

Some people have no sense of humour...

So, next time I blog will no doubt be upon my return from Colombo. Unless the Tamil Tigers kidnap me and use me as their domestic for the next five years. I'd be good at that.

Goodbye for now. Next time we meet, I will be Mrs Mildew-Parsnip. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?