One of the many things I didn’t realise about weddings is that you have to give notice to someone (I’d love to be more specific, but I don’t really know who the notice goes to, or if there is even a real life notice you could go and touch). You’re not just allowed to rock up somewhere and do the deed, which is disappointing, because I always thought that was going to be a drunken mistake I made one day. Back to the drawing board.
So yesterday, fiancé and I had to go and give notice. We hadn’t been there three minutes when I found myself desperately avoiding making eye contact with a toddler, who had arrived with his parents to register the birth of his new sibling, and who was desperate for somebody to acknowledge that he had toy cars with him, and for that person to agree that they were orange. They were not orange. The boy was probably an imbecile.
At the same time I had to avoid eye contact on the other side from the fiancé sitting next to me whose hold on my hand had got a fraction tighter when the boy had disturbed everybody’s peace by running in. He wants children, like, tomorrow. I want them, like, tomorrow plus at least a good five-to-ten years, my own home that I own, and the ability to employ a nanny. So no more eye contact anywhere in the waiting room. It was fine. They had a good seven years’ worth of ‘You’ magazines to flick through. You know, you really should try dry body brushing if you don’t hate yourself already.
This was the first actually piece of wedmin (wedding admin, obvs) that we’ve had to do in our entire nearly-two-year engagement. We have so many restrictions working against us because of the whole visa thing that we haven’t been allowed to book a wedding yet. It turns out that’s a big ‘no no’. When we told that to the quite-scary-but-mainly-lovely Irish lady who had, up until that point, pronounced everything she’d seen or heard from us as ‘grand’, it became abundantly clear that everything was no longer ‘grand’.
You have to know where you’re getting married so it can go on your notice. I think I’m going to have to get that printed on the order of service somewhere to explain why I’m now getting married at the one place I always vehemently said I never wanted to get married. Every window you look out of affords an excellent view of the worst place I have ever worked in my entire life. I’ve refused to enter the building since my last day there, even though I’ve been dying of thirst while walking past when they have a café, or busting for a pee when they have a toilet. No thanks. I’ll take my public indecency charge and go in the street if it’s that bad. And now I get to have it in the background, watching over the biggest day of my life. It’ll definitely be watching, because it has to be sentient in order to suck the joy and life out of people. But when a quite-scary-but-mainly-nice lady is sitting in front of you with pre-filled forms that already list her specific registry office as a venue, and she’s telling you that you’ll have to give notice another day if you don’t have that decided, and you know there’s no space in your schedule of visa paperwork for a single day’s error, you give up your one requirement. Wedding planning is not for people with spines.
After that, it was alright. The quite-scary-but-mainly-nice lady threatened us with perjury charges several times if any of the information we were providing was false, which is fair enough but, for someone who’s had as many intermittent cold feet as somebody who permanently lives in the Arctic, even informing her that I’m definitely sure about getting married was enough to make me develop a small eye twitch. She winked back at me. I think I got away with it.
It was definitely a hump (giggle, snigger) that we needed to get over, and probably means the wedding is in early July. I guess I should be finding a dress, then.