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Fourth part of my wedding blog

Decisions, decisions…

My forthcoming nuptials are 16 months away (counting, me? No. not really. Well okay, maybe a bit). Despite this, I can already hear the wedding dress clock tick, tick ticking. Don’t even get me started on the ‘biological clock’. That’s another post for another day. My mother is in town and we’re on our way to see THE DRESS. Unfortunately, London’s transport system is not as enthusiastic as we are and grinds to a halt as soon as we step foot on the train. Fortunately I had accounted for this possibility (maybe it’s because I’m a (n adopted) Londoner), and so an hour later, after much delay, the train trundles into the station, we jump off, grab a quick coffee and swoosh round to the wedding dress boutique.

On approach I notice the black metal grid over the door. Closed. Crap. Mum and I hover outside expectantly (cue Mum: “Well, this is London for you. This is what they do”). We pop to the nearest clothes shop for a pointless rummage, then return in the hope the great black bars will have disappeared. But they’ve not. As I peer through the gates – no-one even seems to be in the shop – why, godammit! – I notice something to my left. Inconspicuous. A small, black, round button. Ah yes, that would be the doorbell. That one must press for the staff to know you are waiting outside, so they can let you in. What a fool…

Button pressed, entrance permitted. Now for the serious stuff. Once again, I am stripped down, metaphorically and literally. I begin to wish I hadn’t eaten for the last fortnight as  I’m surgically squeezed, pushed and moulded into the dress.

Mum is quite approving – there were no initial tears (disappointing if you know my mother) although I was later reliably informed that a few were shed when the veil went on. She does. however, take umbridge with a part of the dress that is particularly sparkly - that’s ‘bling bling’ in 21st century talk. “Oh no, that’s got to go”…That’s me told.

So that should be it. Job done. Except that is just the beginning. Because if I want to order said dress, there is a procedure. Not a surgical one, as in the removal of that kidney I previously mentioned in order to pay for said garment.  No, there will now be fittings. Lots of them. “Why don’t we take your measurements now?”, asks the assistant. Hmm, just as I was about to return to my longed-after comfort zone of being fully dressed.

“Ok”. Before I can blink, there’s another assistant in the room. Big hair, big voice and even bigger measuring tape round neck. She starts speaking about the weather in London the weather in Scotland, the weather in Sydney, whilst simultaneously putting the tape round my breasts in one svelte move.

Figures are bellowed at the other assistant, then poof!  She disappears. Like a bizarre fairytale-cum-episode of Ab Fab. Weird.

The usual pleasantries are exchanged and mum and I leave the shop. Mum initially loved the dress. “Apart from that bit of sparkly stuff. I knew as soon as I saw it that I didn’t like it”. Two hours and glasses of wine later, she’s now suggesting I go back to see what it looks like in “daylight”. Thinking about it, she’s got a point. The artificial lighting in the changing rooms means I could be seeing a Kate Middleton, when in the cold light of day (literally) I’m a Bride of Frankenstein.

The saga continues…

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