“SO who does the best man thank, then?” Yer Man licked his pencil with relish and waited.

I looked at him blankly.

“For the speech like, are there particular people the best man thanks, or what?” he gestured a bit impatiently now at the clean sheet of paper he held, ready and waiting.

He’s at it again.

Yer Man.

Treating me like a wife, before we’re even married.

Treating me like I know the answers to everything, just because I have a womb.

I’ve tried, many times, to introduce him to the wonder that is Google but he’s not biting. He prefers to hear it from the horse’s mouth.

He was like this for a while when we moved in together first. Treating me like the missus. Her indoors. She who knows everything.

Oh sure, there was lots of hanky panky – in the kitchen, the dining room, on the stairs (I wouldn’t recommend it, the steps really bite into your back) even on the landing, but there was also lots of questions.

Have you seen my keys?

Where’s that gas bill from six months ago?

I used to have a blue jumper…?

Like I had suddenly gone from being my usual scatty, disorganised self to Saint Anthony overnight, just because we were now sharing a bedroom.

I beat that out of him, well I thought I had, by repeating on a loop ‘look for it yourself, you lazy bastard, look for it yourself you lazy bastard’ but it looks as though he’s forgotten that, or he thinks that we’re so near the wedding day now that previous rules no longer apply.

Because I am the woman, I am supposed to know about all things domestic. Like what temperature curtains are supposed to be washed at. Or where the stopcock is. Or WHAT a stopcock is.

Because I am the woman, I am supposed to know about all things grocery. Like if €9 is actually a good price for a lamb chop. Or can you reheat rice the next day in the microwave.

Because I am the woman, I am supposed to have a readily available supply of stamps, batteries, envelopes and sellotape, I’m NOT supposed to shrug my shoulders and say ‘borrow it from Mary next door’.

Because I am the woman, I have now discovered, I am supposed to know about all things wedding. Like should the mother of the bride’s outfit match the bridesmaids. How much is too much for flowers. How far should you push the hotel when negotiating. Who thanks who in the speeches. I’m just supposed to know all of this.

I’m dreading the day we bring a little pink or blue bundle home from Holles Street. He’ll expect me to just know what to do with it too, won’t he?

I’ll just have to know how to feed it and mind it and not kill it the first hour I have it on my own. I’ll have to just know how to entertain it and burp it and school it and rear it.

It’s now 36 days to the wedding and while I’m quite looking forward to gaining a husband I’m wondering if I might somehow be able to acquire a wife too. Because I think I’m going to need her!

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