“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…

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