A GUILTY pleasure most brides give in to, but rarely admit, is swanning around the house in wedding paraphernalia when no-one else is around.

Some do the hoovering in their veils.

Others slip on their dresses and spend ages in front of the mirror working out which angle makes them look thinner.

A multitude hang out the washing in their wedding shoes, pretending they’re ‘breaking them in’ but in reality it’s just an excuse to wear them and marvel at their gorgeousness.

Me – I flick a duster around the place wearing my wedding ring and my sister’s uber-expensive crystal tiara which she lent me as my Something Borrowed.

“Now mind this,” she said nervously, stroking it lovingly. “It was hand-made for me and cost an absolute fortune. Keep it in the box and have the hairdresser gently place it on your head on the morning of the wedding.”

Her words came back to haunt me last week when I bent over to clean the loo and almost lost it under a sea of Toilet Duck. I made a grab for it just in time thankfully. She’s scary when she’s riled is my sister particularly when we’re talking hand-crafted tiaras.

I get a little rush every time I slide my wedding band onto my finger. White gold. Decorated with five tiny sparkly diamonds. It glows warmly on my finger, glinting brightly up at me.

I feel happy and giggly when it’s on. It sits perfectly with my engagement ring, my hand a flash of white ice when I move it in the light.

I see a brief snapshot of my future with Yer Man and my heart beats faster, joyfully. I feel good and married.

Hellooooo, Mrs Yer Man,” I addressed myself in the mirror a couple of weeks ago, on a secret wedding binge, waving my left hand around a little wildly, watching my diamonds bounce and glisten. “How are you today Mrs Yer Man? That’s a lovely tiara you have there Mrs Yer Man.”

Huh.

Mrs Yer Man.

“So you’re definitely taking his name then?” I asked my reflection in surprise.

She looked back at me, equally surprised and shrugged. Useless bitch.

I hadn’t really thought about it that much. I’d always thought I’d probably take Yer Man’s name after our marriage though I thought I’d keep my own name for work purposes.

Now that I’m unemployed though…

I like the idea of both of us having the same surname, creating our own little family, being a unit. But even if I don’t change my name, we’ll still be our own little family, still be a unit.

I like my own name. It’s been mine for 31 years. I’m proud of it. People know me by my name. If I change it, who will I be? Will I change somehow?

But it’s just a name. It’s not who I am. I’ll still be me, no matter what my passport says. A new me. But still me.

Double-barreled maybe? Or a hybrid of both names?

Yer Man, of course, is no help whatsoever. He’s very much a ‘whatever you’re into yourself’ kinda guy and doesn’t mind one way or another. He’ll be equally happy if I take his name or keep my own.

“Just once I can call you The Wife,” he leered at me “that’s what I’m really looking forward to. Better get home to The Wife wha’?!”

So it looks like it’s up to me. Although I think it’ll probably end up being Mrs Yer Man, and a huge chunk of me is looking forward to being Mrs Yer Man, the matter is still open for discussion and change.

Five months and three days to go. Decisions decisions, eh?

Advertisements