Frock fitting weekend

This sign should probably read 'beware of the chicken poo'

We’ve just returned from a weekend of ‘wedmin’ up in the ‘Shire. It was a lovely relaxing weekend and we ticked a few more things off one of my many lists. (“Can you please just make one list in one notebook??” – quote of the weekend from Fiance.)

Upon arrival at Brownlow (Mom’s house/reception venue) we were astonished by the lawn. Bless my folks, they’d not only chopped down a massive tree and dug up the roots, but they’d also turfed over some flowerbeds, all in readiness for the marquee. It’s a good job they aren’t avid gardeners isn’t it? Alan Titchmarsh would have had a pink fit at the prospect of digging up his hardy perennials. But the lawn now looks huge, and I could almost picture our 50 guests on it. Almost. It’s still very hard to imagine the whole affair to be honest.

No more tree, no more flower bed, but lots of room for us to dance like loons.

Fiance cutting the grass and a Norman Wisdom-esque 'lawn mower in border' scenario waiting to happen.

Mind that wheelbarrow...

That afternoon, we visited the florist to check out the trial-run bouquet. My Mom and hubby-to-be were both with me and after some debate about whether it was unlucky for HTB to see it (apparently it is – I thought it was just the dress?) we sent him to stand in a corner like a naughty child, and all was revealed.

It was gorgeous and exactly what I had in mind. So much so I filled up when I saw it. The florist must have thought I was a right idiot – and want on earth am I going to be like on the day if I am weeping over a handful of flowers?!?

Anyway, despite me doing the blubbering bride routine two months early, the florist very kindly allowed us to borrow the bouquet for the afternoon. She knew we were on the way to my dress fitting and thought it’d be a good idea to see how it looked with the frock.

Now, I’d been nervous about this fitting, in case my arse/backfat had expanded since I last tried it on, (trust me, this really could happen – I only have to look at a cake and I put on five pounds. And I'd looked at a lot if cake lately). But it was ok, all those sodding rice cakes (bleurgh) had paid off and I won’t need elastic panels sewn in to accommodate extra blubber. Though cruelly, my boobs have suffered a bit if shrinkage. So ironically, I will need a bra with scaffolding to ensure I don’t look all Keira Knightly. Isn’t nature cruel? Why couldn’t that weight have come off my bloody thighs or my bingo wings?!

Anyway Joan the dressmaking lady was a legend - I was worried the adjustments wouldn’t be do-able, but she wasn’t fazed. She just hoisted me up onto a small table and got stuck in with her pins. Turns out Joan was an expert - she must have been in her 70’s and has had a lifetime of adjusting posh clothes, wedding frocks and more recently, a bishop’s cassock. (I wonder if he was worried about his backfat?)

We were actually having the fitting done in a boutique in Much Wenlock where Mom bought her dress and had it fitted. It was only four o’clock, but Gail, the owner of the shop, saw it as an excuse to close early and even booted out some potential paying customers. It was astonishing – no shop in London would dare to close before 7pm on a Saturday for fear they might get struck by lightening, or in case the God of Retail placed a curse upon their till. Or something.

So Gail, Joan, Mom and I all chatted while hems were pinned, and there was all round approval of our idea not to spend thousands on our big day. Joan had a cracking nugget of advice - don't spend too much money on shoes, ("I’ve seen so many brides just kick their shoes off before the day’s out!") and instead, spend the money on a good pair of knickers instead. Sound advice, I thought. Good undercrackers are vital in any situation, but probably more so on your wedding day.

Back at Brownlow, Mom and I tested out the cake stand that had arrived earlier in the week. We did this by placing her fairy cakes on it. And then eating them. Well, it had to be true test right? We also worked out that Mom’s sponge is better than mine and my butter icing is smoother than hers. So we’ll be setting up a production line of Mom baking the cakes, and me in charge of icing and decorating. So excited. Squeezing icing bags is massively therapeutic.

Testing the cake stand: Place cake on. Look at cake. Take cake off. Eat it.
Yep, that works fine. Tick.