So I'm standing here, on this little dais; but fortunately have three people fussing over me to keep me calm and focused.
There is the designer, his principle seamstress and some poor unfortunate (there’s always one in a crowd of more than two girls; isn’t there?) who was being continually berated – by me.
I’m not, in any way, one of those hairbrained misfits, but it is the little things done not quite right, pins dropped and tapes mismeasuring, that do get under a girl’s skin at times such as this.
Let’s be honest, we weren’t just planning a dress; this was to be a creation.
And a creation which would be appearing in magazines, the puerile popular press and, almost certainly, on the odd TV station.
In a situation like this no-one is happy unless the bride is radiant.
Well right now the bride (definitely still-to-be) is only ever so slightly rampant.
And that’s just not me.
Normally I would never berate an unmentionable.
Those who know understand I wouldn’t even normally acknowledge one.
It makes them feel uncomfortable – and I don’t do patronising. But I was considering passing her a few dollars beyond her weekend fitting fee as some small commendation for doing her best; although I am using that word loosely.
But with the wedding a week away; and me still thinking about the whole concept, I am just starting to see this circus has taken on a life of its own; that things are speeding up and I can’t do anything about it.
A sense of unease that, not for the first time, has sent fleeting images of that movie Runaway Bride dashing across my mind. It didn’t make it at the box office and more than once in the early (not too early) hours of the morning I have lain there awake thinking about the fine little mess into which I have got myself.
And wondering if I can make it.
After all, the man I am going to marry had best understand his primary job is keeping me happy; if I don’t make it he will have no-one to blame but himself.
Well that can be his primary job in a year or so.
In the first blush of marital ardour his primary job is me. Well, let’s admit it girls, that’s always going to be his job, isn’t it, so he might as well start the way I intend him to keep going.
And speaking of going, have I given you even the slightest hint of where we are going for our honeymoon?
I don’t want to say too much because I have agreed with just one magazine to let them break the news to the hoi polloi, who seem endlessly fascinated by people like me (but if you are reading this, then definitely not people like you).
Well I can give you a few small hints – think Mediterranean, think snow, think northern lights and then think the most obvious next stop – why can’t it be you?
If that all sounds like some sort of around the world jaunt; you would be very close.
Only the word jaunt is out of place – this is seven star all the way; it’s going to take a few months and it’s going to be glorious.
You could follow me on social media, except I doubt you are on my approved list.
Just getting approved to be on that list is an achievement.
And life is so full of so many underachievers.
Anyways, I have to keep moving.
The design team has stepped back, finished their appropriate oohs and aahs, and next is my lingerie.
That could be a story on its own, but it is something I won’t be sharing with anyone but him.
Oh, and the photographer.
Then I suppose there might be one or two in the magazine; which you can buy to see if you can afford to copy me.
Of course that is a trifle ambitious on your part, but I am never one to discourage people trying to better themselves.