I Heart You

Heart shaped feckin' EVERYTHING!

PERSONALLY I blame the drugs.

There’s no other excuse really. Why else would a reasonably sane, grown, intelligent woman buy heart-shaped cookie cutters, with no intention of making cookies, for Valentines Day?

I must have been off my face.

It was supposed to be a simple trip to the supermarket, to pick up a Valentine’s Day card for Yer Man and some lamb for stew for tomorrow’s dinner.

But some madness, no doubt brought on by the painkillers I’m horsing into me to try to cure the laryngitis and tonsilitis I’ve been plagued with since last Wednesday, made me stop by the Valentine’s Day tat on special offer.

Heart-shaped candles. Heart-shaped fake petals. Heart-shaped boxes of chocolates. Heart-shaped poxy ramekins. (What IS a ramekin anyway, why isn’t it just a dish?)

Anyway, I should have just walked on by, as I usually do, rolling my eyes at the tat, wondering who on earth buys this sort of stuff.

But something made me stop. Something caught my eye. Sweet little heart-shaped cookie cutters. For €1.50. They were practically giving them away.

‘But you’re not making cookies,’ the rational part of my brain piped up, reminding me that cookies aren’t Slimming World friendly.

‘Yeah but, shut up, I could make heart-shaped something else’s,’ I wittily riposted, fighting my way through the throng of last-minute shoppers, and flinging them triumphantly into my basket.

Vegetables, I thought feverishly, wandering aimlessly up and down the aisles. I could cut out heart-shaped vegetables to go into the lamb stew!

Yes! Heart-shaped vegetables! I could even mould the meat into a heart shape as well! Heart-shaped EVERYTHINGS!

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not against a little Valentine’s Day cheese, I always buy Yer Man a card and a box of chocolates is always welcome, but that’s generally where I draw the line.

Actively planning to spend hours chopping vegetables into the shape of a heart is just that one step to far. That way madness lies. It’s a thin line between that and calling my husband Bunny, in company.

What have I become?

I actually like Valentine’s Day – I know it’s commercialised, blah de blah, I know. But a day to celebrate love can’t be all that bad. It’s not all that bad. It needn’t cost anything and in today’s busy world, often couples forget to stop and smell the (heart-shaped) roses. So a reminder every February 14th isn’t the worst thing in the world.

But heart-shaped vegetables?

I’ve gone over to the dark side. And it is heart-shaped.

 

Pic: http://www.wallpaperfreehd.com/love/big-red-heart–371.html

Sunday Night Blues

Brush teeth, fall into bed.

Kiss husband goodnight.

Settle back smugly against pillows and close eyes.

Open eyes in panic, check alarm has been set.

It has. Relax.

Cast eye over clock. Great. Seven hours sleep.

Close eyes again. Rub feet together to warm up. Muse on coldness of bathroom floor.

Turn over into more comfortable position.

Try to empty mind.

Emptying of mind disturbed by snoring husband.

Open one eye, annoyed. How does he sleep so quickly?

Dig husband with knee, shifting him on to his side. Snoring abates.

Close eye, satisfied.

Become aware of dead arm from lying on side. Turn over on to back.

Wriggle around, trying to get comfortable. Wonder why can’t.

Ah. Feet. Feet now far too warm. How is anybody supposed to sleep with feet on fire?

Throw blankets off feet. Better. Much better.

Scratch nose.

Scratch arm.

Scratch nose again.

Realise sleeping position giving self whiplash. Turn over onto other side.

Better. Much better.

Try to drift off. Feel sleep creep up on self, but can’t quite catch…

Fuck it.

Itchy nipple.

Scratch nipple. Squirm at horrible scratchy nipple feeling.

Turn onto back. Cast eye at clock.

Great. Six hours sleep.

Settle down on to pillows.

Become aware of blocks of ice at bottom of bed. Ah. Feet.

Feet freezing now, pull blankets back onto feet.

Better. Much better.

Doze, intermittently, waking when enormous bang from back garden wakes self.

Burglars!

Definitely burglars!

What’s that noise?!

Burglars!

Oh. Neighbour’s garden shed door banging. Cats mating.

Not burglars after all.

Scratch nose.

Scratch arm.

Ooof, itchy shoulderblade.

Cast eye over clock. Five hours sleep. Respectable.

Turn over, snuggle up to husband’s strong back. Bliss.

Warm though.

Bit too warm maybe.

Can’t breathe now. Am suffocating self in husband’s back.

Peel self away from husband. Ah. Feet.

Feet ablaze. Throw blankets off feet.

Better. Much better.

Turn onto back.

Count sheep. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5…

Scratch nose.

Scratch eye.

Scratch forehead.

Where was I? 6, 7, 8, 9…

Narrow eyes as husband shifts and starts snoring again.

Try to block out. 10, 11, 12, 13…

Cast eye over clock. Four hours sleep. Doable.

Turn over onto side.

Wonder how one supposed to sleep when feet in so much pain from cold.

Shuffle feet back under blankets. Better. Much better.

Squeeze eyes shut. Stop it! Go to sleep!

Drift off and have disturbing dream about virtual pals on Twitter competing on The Voice with lizard Kian Egan.

Start awake, heart pounding from Kian Egan debacle. Make mental note to lay off Twitter.

Cast eye over clock. Two hours sleep. Laughable.

Scratch nose.

Scratch arm.

Scratch nipple. Urgh.

Ponder possibility of scabies.

Notice light under curtains getting brighter.

Turn over.

Become aware of feet being boiled alive. Skin surely flayed off feet.

Kick blankets off feet. Better. Much better.

Notice husband breathing funny. Breathing out but unable to get breath in.

Panic!

What’s wrong with him?

Husband manages to gasp breath. Mumbles ‘toothpaste on the breadroll’ and snorts loudly, settling down to rumbling snore.

Huh. Well for him. Fucker.

Cast eye over clock. One hour sleep. Disaster.

Turn onto back. Pull feet under blankets one last time. Better. Much better.

Scratch nose.

Give self stern talking to. Go. To. Sleep.

Wonder if there’s any point in…

FUUUUCCKKK….??

Alarm clock. Drag self from bed. Sunday night over for another week.

Hungry like the Wolf

Spaghetti and meatballs, the Slimming World way

I THOUGHT about changing the name of this blog now that I’m married and no longer have to worry about the wedding dress, but then I thought, meh, I’m fat, I’m always beating myself into SOME sort of dress.

So I’m leaving it. And on that note:

When I was 25 I lasted four days on the Atkins Diet before flinging myself, wild eyed, into the door of an Italian restaurant and begging them to bring me a plate of pasta. Stat.

I think I probably wasn’t the first desperate, fat, slightly sweaty, carb-deprived Irish woman to come through their door because they seated me with a smile and brought me complimentary garlic bread while I was waiting.

When I was 26 I bought slimming tablets from an infomercial on late night TV. The tablets were made, I found out later, from fish guts, which they claimed bound fat together leaving you lean and serene, while you sat on your hole eating cakes and watching, well, infomercials.

The only thing that got leaner on that diet was my wallet. And I started to smell like fish, too.

Over the years I’ve tried the Cabbage Soup Diet (yes, it gave me the scutters), the Slimfast Diet (gank), the Special K Diet (well, it’s cardboard really, isn’t it?) calorie-counting, even group diets like WeightWatchers and I never stuck to any of them.

They bored me rigid. You thought about food, constantly. I started to obsess about food and I’m sure I drove my family and friends to distraction going on about the new one and veering between crazily counting out exactly 19 grains of rice, and stuffing eclairs down my throat like they were about to put a levy on them.

Call it laziness, call it lack of will-power, call it whatever you want, me and diets just do not work.

Actually, now that I’m older and wiser, I know for sure it was laziness. It still is.

I can’t tell you how many psychological profiles I’ve filled in online and in nutritionists’ offices, searching for the why, trying to find out how I got to be the size I am.

I’m a comfort eater, I eat when I’m distracted thus not realising what or how much I’m eating, like all fat people, I eat to hide the tears. I’ve heard it all. Blah blah blah.

Here’s the truth – I love to eat, and I hate to exercise. I love all food. Good nutritious food, fruit, vegetables, salad and also the bad stuff, the tip of the pyramid stuff. Chocolate. Cakes. Butter. All of it. I love it all. Too much in, not enough out equals thunder thighs. And Sumo belly. And bingo wings. You get the idea.

There is no mystery with me. No deep psychological scar. No childhood trauma. No glandular problem. No secret binge eating, or throwing up, nothing like that.

I simply love to eat, and hate to exercise. And despite envying slim women for their fashion sense and their ability to wear heels, in general I’m happy with myself.

Always have been.

The medical profession however, is not. Bet you thought this was going to be a ‘love yourself, have another cupcake’ post didn’t you?

‘Fraid not.

I might be, truly, happy with myself and how I look. I might hate diets. I might not care that my thighs meet, that I have back fat, that I have to buy plus-sized clothes. I might feel a pang when I read a fashion magazine and see the gorgeousness but I always shrug it off easily. I’m not slim, so what?

But my doctor doesn’t agree. And sadly, he’s right. I have to lose weight, I have to diet for my health, it really is as simple as that. Boring, but simple. It’s been going on too long and I have to make a change.

‘What am I going to do?’ I asked, teary eyed, logging on to the online wedding forum I can’t seem to give up even though I’m nine months married at this stage.

And then, like an angel, she appeared. An online pal, with two magic words. Slimming World.

‘I’ve tried all that before,’ I protested. ‘Counting points, obsessing over Extra Light or Extra Extra Light mayo, wearing cling-film for 24-hours before weigh-in, I’ve done it all.’

‘You haven’t tried this,’ she said and emailed me the information.

The difference between Slimming World and, well, every other diet in the world, is that on Slimming World – you’re actually allowed to eat. You’re positively encouraged to eat.

It has been a revelation. There are some rules, of course. The unlimited eating doesn’t apply to the top of the pyramid stuff. But if it’s real, tasty, filling dinners you’re after? Then Slimming World is your man.

It relies on three basic principals – superfree food (your fruits and vegetables) free foods (lean meat, potatoes, pasta and rice) and synned food (your cakes, chocolate and oils).

You eat all you want of superfree and free foods, ensuring that 1/3 of your plate is filled with superfree, and then you count your syns. And that’s it.

No, really. That’s it.

You weigh nothing. Well, very little. Your bread and dairy is controlled along with the treats. But apart from those, you weigh nothing. You count nothing. You find the calorie content of nothing.

How many calories are there in an egg? I couldn’t tell you, I don’t need to know.

Once you trim the visible layer of fat off a steak, you can eat it. Without guilt. Once you cook your food without fat or oil, you can eat it. Roast beef dinner? Yes you can. Spaghetti Bolognese? Yes, you can. Chicken curry? I had that this evening!

You do have to cook almost everything from scratch, you spend a lot of your time chopping vegetables and dinner can take an hour most evenings to cook, so there is a downside. Very little pre-packaged or processed food is allowed. But once you’ve finished the chopping and cooking, you can eat the results. And eat until you’re full. Really full. Not ‘I’d eat my own arm but I’m powering through’ full, but really, satisfyingly full.

And the weight comes off. It won’t fall off you overnight, it averages about 1lb a week, but it comes off. It comes off and you can eat. What more do you want?

I did fall off the wagon over Christmas – alright then, if you’re being like that about it, for the whole month of December – as my inner lazy hoor surfaced and I had a break from all the chopping and cooking. But getting back on the wagon has been incredibly easy. I fell back into it on day one, chopping and cooking up a storm, without a backward glance to the tin of Roses.

I think this time I might be able to stick to this thing. I think this time it will work and I will lose weight. For good. Although Slimming World is not an exercise programme, I am exercising as well, walking and using my stationary bike, to improve my fitness levels. Being able to eat and enjoy food helps with the motivation.

Of course it could all end in tears. It has before. And it may again. I’ve already fallen off the wagon. But getting back on is becoming easier and easier and I’m losing weight.

So now, how do you like them apples?

 

Check out www.slimmingworld.com for more details.

 

 

 

 

 

The things they don’t tell you

This is a departure from the usual content of this blog, but I feel the subject warrants it. Earlier this week news broke of a potential crisis in the gastroenterology service at Our Lady’s Children’s Hospital Crumlin. Specialists there want to highlight the fact that the waiting list for some gastro investigations and tests, for diseases like Crohn’s and Colitis as well as Coeliac, is as long as 18 months. Meaning, every day, children all over the country wait in vain for a simple test which could lead to diagnosis and treatment. I am not a parent, but I do have Crohn’s Disease. And I remember well the horror of being on a waiting list, in pain and afraid.

ONE of the things they don’t tell you about having Crohn’s Disease is that sometimes, particularly at the start, few people will believe you when you say you feel dreadful. Again. Because for the most part Crohn’s is invisible and you’ll look fine.

They also don’t tell you that people will whisper behind your back at your sudden and dramatic weightloss as the disease progresses, hushed conversations about crash diets and speed.

Or that doctors will sigh wearily, when you explain that you vomit after every meal, and ask if you’re actually making yourself sick, suggesting you have bulimia.

And they certainly don’t tell you that at times, when the illness really takes hold, you may soil yourself. In public.

Crohn’s Disease is a chronic, incurable inflammatory disease of the gastrointestinal tract, so can occur anywhere between the mouth and the anus, though generally manifests in the small bowel or colon.

Symptoms include vomiting, constant diarrhea, anal bleeding, fever, pain, weightloss, fistulas, liver inflammation, mouth ulcers, bleeding gums and a whole host of other problems.

The disease can range from mild to severe and often goes into remission for long periods of time. People with Crohn’s can live full, healthy and active lives and with medication or surgery their disease can be managed very successfully.

But, at times, it is no picnic.

A story I tell about waking up from a colonoscopy to find a male nurse heartily wiping lubricant from my behind and telling me he recognised my…face…from my home town regularly draws gales of laughter from friends and family.

The story about the time I crawled on my hands and knees to the toilet in my office, because I was bent double with pain, and vomited blood before passing out briefly, however, isn’t so funny.

I was diagnosed in May 2002 following nine long months of sickness, pain, tests, more tests, waiting lists and yet more tests. During those nine months, because doctors were unsure what was wrong with me, I received no treatment and simply had to suffer through.

I had started to feel unwell the previous September, throwing up every time I ate, no appetite, running to the loo every five minutes, classic symptoms which terrified me, as I knew exactly what they pointed to.

My eldest sister had been diagnosed with Crohn’s 12 years earlier and had gone through the exact same thing, so when it started happening to me, I knew. I knew I had Crohn’s, I just had to wait for the doctors to find it.

At 22 though, thankfully, I was adult enough to be able to wait. I could understand what was happening to my body and managed to cling on by my fingernails, knowing that eventually help would come.

A child isn’t so lucky. A tiny child has no idea what is happening to it, what the pain is, why suddenly every trip to the loo is a living nightmare. Or why they have to wait months and months and months to be tested and start treatment

What is happening at Crumlin Children’s Hospital is nothing short of scandalous. So long are the waiting lists for gastrointestinal tests and investigations for conditions like Crohn’s, Colitis and Coeliac Disease that tiny children are being put through hell on a daily basis.

I can’t imagine a child going through what I went through.

Not just the pain and the vomiting and the diarrhea, not just the embarrassment and the fear and the need to be within 20 paces of a bathroom at all times – but the sheer mind-numbing, crushing, constantness of it.

When Crohn’s has you in its grip, particularly before diagnosis and during those first few bewildering months after, there is no let up.

No respite.

It is never-ending, the pain simply doesn’t go away and I know personally, during that very dark time, I often prayed for it, all of it, to end.

It is indefensible that any child should have to go through that. Is this what our country has come to? That tiny children, sick children, are left to languish for 18 months before getting access to a simple 20 minute test? A test that could get to the root of their problem and give them their life back?

For a country that only last week showed off the brightest and best that Ireland has to offer, on a world stage, this serious shortfall and backlog in our health system is shameful.

It must be addressed as soon as possible. It may make no difference but I will be writing to my TDs and political representatives and perhaps, if you feel as angry as I do, you might too.

A final note – I do not wish to scaremonger. Nor would I wish someone recently diagnosed with Crohn’s to come upon this post and be scared silly by what I have written. Once I was diagnosed and found a medication to suit me I started to get better. Much better. I have received, and continue to receive, excellent care in the public health system, despite the waiting lists, and currently I am well and happy. I have a normal, full, wonderful life. Crohn’s is very treatable, it is not a life sentence and medication and treatment continues to come on in leaps and bounds. What I wanted to do with this post was to give a glimpse of the harsh reality of being ill and being on a waiting list. As I said, it is no picnic

So – what happens now?

I DON’T feel married.

There.

I said it.

I know I AM married, that I know for sure. I have the photos and the sparkly wedding ring to prove it.

And the husband, I suppose.

“How’s married life treating ya,” people ask me regularly, grinning and nodding at me in a jocular fashion.

“Very oddly. Married life is very odd indeed,” is surprisingly not the answer most people are expecting.

It is most disconcerting to wake up one morning and suddenly have a husband. Despite the years we’ve been together and the many years we planned this wedding, it still felt very sudden.

I have a husband. That’s him there, on the right, in the photo above.

He will be the father of my children. He’s legally my next of kin. He has a say in whether or not my organs are donated. How’s that for romance?

But I still don’t feel married.

I don’t know what I was expecting. Of course, I’m happy. Blissfully so.

Then, I was happy before the wedding. Blissfully so.

I feel very secure in my relationship, but I’ve felt secure since our second date.

I get butterflies when I see him walking toward me, but I’ve always felt those flutters of excitement.

How are you supposed to feel? See – that’s the thing, nobody tells you how you’re supposed to feel.

Personally, I blame Hollywood.

There are plenty of movies out there about meeting The One, you know, boy meets girl, girl loves boy, boy’s not so sure, girl gets in a huff and says everything’s ‘fine’ when it’s clearly not, boy cops on, boy and girl live happily ever after.

But what happens after that? There’s plenty of walking off into the sunset, even movies about the actual wedding itself, but the aftermath is rarely shown.

If Twentieth Century Fox doesn’t tell me how to feel, am I really married at all? That is the question.

Is this it?

Is it normal to feel like the wedding day was a dream, like it happened years ago, or perhaps didn’t even happen at all?

Is it normal for life to continue on as usual, exactly the same as before the wedding – just as happy, just as in love, just the same?

Or am I a monster with no soul?

Photo courtesy of the lovely and talented Red Mum www.redmum.ie

The ten-day itch

The before picture...

And the unfortunate 'after' picture...

WE were ten days married when Yer Man was relegated to the spare room.

That’s what marriage does folks, happy for years and years and then one very expensive day and an ivory dress later, boom, someone’s in the spare room.

“We’re like Marilyn Manson and Dita von Teese,” I yelled out across the landing.

“What?” he yelled back.

“I said, we’re like Marilyn MANSON and Dita von TEESE,” I screamed, a little more impatiently this time.

“How is that now?” he asked, coming to the door of the bedroom in his kaks, bleary eyed.

“You know, Marilyn Manson and Dita von Teese. They went out together quite happily for eight years, then got married and were divorced within the year, remember?”

“Oh yeah,” he yawned hugely “but you can hardly compare the two. We’re not getting divorced Karen, you just have the chicken pox.”

He was right, of course, I did just have the chicken pox, but that’s not nearly as glamorous as emulating the Spawn of Satan and his missus and being divorced within days.

The few spots that had appeared on my face and chest during our last 48 hours on honeymoon turned out to be full blown chicken pox, much to my embarrassment.

What 32-year-old grown MARRIED woman gets the bloody chicken pox? On honeymoon, of all times to get them?

I slunk into the doctor’s surgery immediately after touching down at Dublin Airport, scarleh for myself, finding it hard to believe that rather than returning home from honeymoon glowing and laden down with Infant of Prague tat, I was returning covered in pus-filled spots and laden with a raging fever.

“Jaysus,” the doctor said, taking a step back when I walked into his office “what happened to you? The last time I saw you, well…”

The last time he’d seen me had been ten days earlier, at my wedding. It was a real before and after moment for him, let me tell you.

Anyway, he gathered himself and diagnosed the pox, sending me on my way with an antihistamine and instructions to get calamine lotion and some bread soda to try to control the itch.

By that night, the spots had spread further and I was covered in them – they were itchy and tender and vast amounts of calamine lotion and sudocrem was the only thing that gave any relief.

I could only sleep in the starfish position so that no inch of flesh touched another inch, hence why Yer Man had to move out so that I could have more room in the bed and be more comfortable.

If truth be told, I think he was relieved – having to sleep beside a sweating, red-faced, pock covered monstrosity was probably not his idea of a honeymoon.

The week wore on, with me lounging on the sofa, popping antihistamines, trying desperately not to scratch and watching more episodes of the Gilmore Girls than is healthy.

After a few days I felt better and thought it was about time Yer Man was welcomed back into the fold and into the bed.

Until we noticed the scabs.

Turns out when chicken pox is on the way out, the spots scab over and turn into horrible crusty black tipped yokes which FALL OFF all over the house, your clothes, your bed. You get the picture.

“It’s not so bad,” I lied, sweeping a hape of scabs onto the floor, out of sight “come on, come back into the bed with me, it’s nice here.”

I nodded encouragingly at Yer Man, causing another shower of scabs to fall off my face, begging him, pleading with my scabby eyes for him to return to the marital bed.

“I don’t think so,” he said looking terrified and slipping on a pile of scabs as he backed out of the room “Just call me Marilyn, I think I’ll take that divorce after all.”

The Missus and Him Indoors

THERE is a surprising dearth of opportunity to tell people you’re on your honeymoon, when you’re on your honeymoon.

You’d think it’d be easy, right?

There you are, all loved up after the wedding, sporting blindingly shiny new rings, hardly able to keep your paws off each other. AMPLE opportunity for someone – a waitress, an air hostess, a taxi driver – to ask “So what brings you to town?”

But it didn’t happen. Not once.

After the wedding day itself (which was truly wonderful and one of the happiest days of my life) it was the thing we were both looking forward to the most – gushing about being on our honeymoon and referring to each other as ‘my husband’ and ‘my wife’. We really couldn’t wait for that part.

We had it all planned out. First we’d smile winningly at the girl on the check-in desk at the airport, and gush that we were honeymooners so she’d automatically bump us up to first class, offer us champagne and gifts, and bring us into the cockpit (ooh Matron) to meet the pilot.

Didn’t happen.

Bloody Aer Lingus doesn’t HAVE check-in desks anymore. It’s self-service, so you check in yourself, pick your own seat and print out your own boarding card.

Yer Man was most disappointed, jabbing at the screen half-heartedly and turning to me with a mournful look. “I’m on my honeymoon,” he said sadly.

We cheered up though once on the flight as we figured that one of the smiling hostesses would bring us something inedible masquerading as food, zero in on the rings, realise we were on our honeymoon and bump us up to first class, offer us champagne and gifts and bring us into the cockpit (ooh er Matron) to meet the pilot.

Didn’t happen.

On European flights you don’t get any free food off them. So they pass by with the food for sale on a trolley at breakneck speed, only pausing if you purchase something. We weren’t THAT desperate.

The hotel, we consoled ourselves, the hotel will SURELY acknowledge our honeymoon.

They didn’t.

Oh they were very nice and all – big suite, friendly staff, lovely restaurant – but they simply smiled at us and welcomed us to Prague, gave us our key and sent us on our way. Not a word about being on honeymoon and no opportunity for us to mention it either.

It was starting to really upset us – what if NOBODY asked us why we were in Prague? What if we got NO free stuff? No complimentary drinks or token souvenirs or even a simple round of applause?

This wouldn’t do at all. At. All.

“Ok, here’s the plan,” sez I, grimly, sitting Yer Man down in the suite to go over things with him. “What we’ll do is this. We’ll go down to the restaurant and be seated and get our menus. Then you will go to the loo and stay there for ten minutes. Meanwhile, when the waiter comes back to get our drinks order because you’re taking so long in the toilet I will say ‘I’ll have a Coke and my husband will have an orange.’ Then you will come back from the loo and call over the waiter again and say ‘Sorry to bother you, but my wife ordered me an orange, but I actually wanted a Sprite. We’re only married a week and already she’s ordering for me! And getting it wrong! Bwahahah!’ We’ll sound like gobshites, but we’ll get to call each other husband and wife, it’ll work, trust me.”

It didn’t.

Of course it didn’t.

What happened was that we were seated, Yer Man went to the loo and the waiter, being a normal human being and good at his job, waited until Yer Man got back from the jacks before taking our drinks order.

“What will you have Madam,” he asked politely.

“A Coke,” I replied, through gritted teeth.

“And you Sir?”

“A Sprite,” Yer Man grunted, dropping his head into his hands.

The best laid plans, eh? No need for anybody to call anybody husband or wife, no telling anyone we were only a week married. Nothing. We ate in silence, disgusted with one another. We could have been brother and sister for crying out loud!

After that we gave it up as a bad job and just got on with the honeymoon and had a blast. We consoled ourselves by only referring to one another as ‘my husband’ or ‘my wife’ refusing to use our real names for the whole eight days. It helped, even if we were still a bit secretly disappointed.

Finally though, on the last day of the honeymoon, we caught a break.

As soon as the plane touched down in Dublin Airport, we went straight to the doctor’s office as I had become very unwell in Prague the day before and wanted to check that it wasn’t anything too serious.

After seeing the doctor, I was sent home to bed and Yer Man was sent to the chemist to fill my prescription.

“Here’s the prescription,” he sighed wearily, sagging against the counter, “I have to get two bottles of calamine lotion as well. My wife has the chicken pox.”

Leavin’ on a jet plane…

BUT before I leave, here’s a quick peek at one or two wedding photos. It was a wonderful day and I’m still on a high, I couldn’t be happier.

 

 

 

 

Ding dong the bells are gonna chime…

“NEXT Tuesday, April 12, at 9pm, here on BBC One…” the announcer’s voice boomed out from my television advertising some programme or other, something I normally wouldn’t pay attention to.

But this time the date caught my ear.

April 12?

But April 12 doesn’t exist, surely?

In my world the calendar only goes as far as April 7.

Our wedding day.

For the past two years, five months and 12 days the whole focus of my universe has been April 7, 2011 and it’s suddenly hard to get used to the fact that after this date, life goes on.

I don’t know how I’m going to cope.

Everything, and I mean everything, has been geared towards this date.

There isn’t a piece of bread in this house that has a sell by date past April 7.

Ditto milk.

There’s nothing in our freezer, nothing now.

Not even the obligatory bag of Brussels sprouts bought at Christmas and left to fester there ever since.

We cleared out all our presses and our fridge well in advance so nothing could go off while we’re on honeymoon. If I eat another Chinese takeaway, I swear, I’m going to go into spontaneous heart failure.

There is exactly enough loo roll to get us to the morning of April 7 and that’s it.

I have my knickers and socks counted to last me until Thursday, everything else is in the wash, or put away for the honeymoon.

Our house smells of laundry detergent and bleach, with a little nervous sweat thrown in for good measure. Surfaces sparkle, we’re almost afraid to touch anything, in case it gets messed up.

Everything needs to be kept clean, for April 7.

Married women tell you to enjoy the run up to the wedding, the last few days, as they’re over in the blink of an eye and they’re right.

It does go by, so quickly.

What they don’t tell you however is how surreal these last few days are.

You can be doing something totally mundane, like say buying loo roll in Tesco, and suddenly it hits you like a train – I’m getting married on Thursday.

You look at the man beside you deliberating over whether it’s cheaper to buy 12 rolls in a multi-pack or three packs of four rolls and marvel at how in two days he’s going to be your husband.

They don’t tell you how receiving a card in the post addressed to your married name can make you drop what you’re holding in fright.

Or that at this stage in the proceedings you will be counting the hours, rather than the days.

So it is there, with about 36 hours to go, that I sign off.

There is not a lot to be done, but a lot to take in and I intend to enjoy every second of it.

I will be back, of course. On the other side, with tales to tell and photos to show off but for now, I’m off. And thank you for reading.

Ding dong, the bells are gonna chime…

You might feel a little pinch…

I’VE decided I’m never having children.

Sorry now, but no.

It’s not because I simply don’t want them, or because I’m some sort of child-hater who sits in restaurants and cafes looking disapprovingly at kids in my vicinity, or because I’m afraid I wouldn’t make a good mother.

It’s because of my eyebrows.

I got them done today, for the first time ever.

I know, call the Beauty Police, a 32-year-old woman who’s never had her eyebrows done.

But there’s the hairy truth.

I hadn’t intended to get them done either, for the wedding. It hadn’t even crossed my mind.

I throw a razor over my pits and my shins from time to time and besides washing my hair and having a shower every day, that’s about the extent of my grooming regime.

But that was BW. Before Wedding.

A few weeks ago my sister hired a make-up artist to meet with me to do a trial for the wedding. The make-up lady was going to do ‘a face’ for me and then my sister planned to copy that for the wedding day.

Grand, no problem there.

In she bustled, the make-up lady, looking me up and down as she unpacked her case.

“Are you prone to dark circles?” she asked, prodding the area under my eye and staring me down.

“Er, yes, I guess so,” I replied, terrified.

“And blemishes, and oily skin I see as well,” she continued, in a martyred voice, not even giving me the chance to respond that time.

“Naturally, you’ll be doing something about those eyebrows,” she said, again a statement, not a question.

“My eyebrows?”

I was puzzled. My eyebrows were fine, I didn’t see any problem with them. They sit on top of my eyes, in a normal fashion, not doing anything outrageous. What exactly did I need to ‘do’ with them?

“You’ll be getting them waxed. Or tweezed? Threaded maybe?” she replied, almost pleading with me.

It wasn’t something I had considered but judging by the pitying glances the make-up lady was throwing me, they needed to be done.

So today I bit the bullet and took myself off to the Brow Bar at the Benefit counter in Debenhams on Henry Street.

To be fair to the lovely girl who served with me, even though she actually clutched her throat in horror when she saw the state of my brows, she managed to compose herself and sorted me out with a smile.

Not before she tortured me though.

And here comes the point of this story.

The PAIN of it.

Honest to God, the sheer physical PAIN of it was like nothing I’ve ever experienced.

Because I’d never had my eyebrows done before, they couldn’t wax them as I hadn’t had a patch test and didn’t know if I’d react badly to the wax.

The last thing I wanted 12 days before the wedding was an allergic reaction anywhere near my face.

So I agreed to a tweeze instead.

“It might be a little bit sore….” the lovely girl said kindly, taking me by the hand and backing me into a chair before I could change my mind “but I’ll be quick.”

The liar.

It was AGONY. And she took her time. Though to be fair, she was only doing what I asked her to do. The cow.

“How are you doing there?” she asked gently, halfway through the first eyebrow.

“Nrrrghghghghhhhhh,” I replied as amiably as possible.

“Don’t worry, I’m nearly finished,” she soothed.

The liar.

Hours later, HOURS, I stumbled out into the main store, face numb, forehead roaring red, palms bleeding where I had dug my fingernails in, though it has to be said with beautifully shaped brows.

It actually only took about 15 minutes, but it felt like a lifetime.

If a simple eyebrow tweeze can bring tears to my eyes, imagine what I’d be like trying to force an eight pound baby out through my hoo-ha?

And some women can be in labour for days. Days!

So no, I’ll be having no children thank you very much and from this moment on my eyebrows will grow wild and bushy, the way Liam Gallagher and nature intended.