Sometimes I'll sit with a bowl of gin or a vase of wine and find myself wondering what on earth this wedding malarky is all about. Then I go get a top-up and keep on slogging at it anyway in the hope that it'll all be worth it on the day. If I can remember any of it.
I've now nailed down the centre pieces, got the majority of the RSVPs back (to the stragglers reading this, you know who you are), planned the finishing touches and booked to give notice at our local council - who were rather sceptical that our ceremony location is even registered to administer civil marriages. Which inspired confidence.
The next item on the agenda is to change my name by deed poll as I'm double-barrelling the new surname with my rightfully inherited maiden one. Now, I refuse on this blog to get into the controversial debate of why not all women in this day and age have to change their names, whether they want to or not, upon finding a man willing to marry them. Am I a bra-burning feminist? No (quite frankly I don’t think I could live without my undergarments, regardless of the good cause their flammability might prevail). Is my maiden name particularly unique or humorous? No (although apparently there are lots of northerners with the same name, and northerners seem to believe we all belong to some kind of secret organisation, with weekly meetings taking place ‘north of the wall’). Or do I just secretly hate my husband-to-be and want to humiliate him in front of all his traditional friends and family who would not tolerate this kind of behaviour of their own wives? No (not yet anyway).
I've now nailed down the centre pieces, got the majority of the RSVPs back (to the stragglers reading this, you know who you are), planned the finishing touches and booked to give notice at our local council - who were rather sceptical that our ceremony location is even registered to administer civil marriages. Which inspired confidence.
The next item on the agenda is to change my name by deed poll as I'm double-barrelling the new surname with my rightfully inherited maiden one. Now, I refuse on this blog to get into the controversial debate of why not all women in this day and age have to change their names, whether they want to or not, upon finding a man willing to marry them. Am I a bra-burning feminist? No (quite frankly I don’t think I could live without my undergarments, regardless of the good cause their flammability might prevail). Is my maiden name particularly unique or humorous? No (although apparently there are lots of northerners with the same name, and northerners seem to believe we all belong to some kind of secret organisation, with weekly meetings taking place ‘north of the wall’). Or do I just secretly hate my husband-to-be and want to humiliate him in front of all his traditional friends and family who would not tolerate this kind of behaviour of their own wives? No (not yet anyway).
So I’m just going to assume that you, the lovely reader of this blog, are fully on board with my decision to not scrap my maiden name altogether and we can move right along, thank you very much.
The thing that’s annoying is that I still haven’t really mastered the signature I’ve already got, let alone now start practising a new one. Usually when I sign anything, unless I really take my time and concentrate, my writing hand gives up on my signature after the third or fourth letter and just opt for a stylistic scribble. Because Mr Tesco Delivery Man doesn’t know that’s not what my signature looks like and I’m sure if he did he wouldn’t care. So when I sign something and manage to get it all right without even trying, every letter is there and even the artistic flourish is in place, I can’t help but think “Ooh, that’s a good one!”. I even take a moment to admire my work, and silently congratulate my sub conscience on doing such a fine job of staying awake and engaged long enough to see this task through. And Mr Tesco Delivery Man is none the wiser that he has been given a masterpiece of my signature that is very rarely as detailed as that. But no, the double-barrel is nigh so we are back to square one. I'm rather like a teenager rehearsing my future married name in my notebook, only this is for real...
The thing that’s annoying is that I still haven’t really mastered the signature I’ve already got, let alone now start practising a new one. Usually when I sign anything, unless I really take my time and concentrate, my writing hand gives up on my signature after the third or fourth letter and just opt for a stylistic scribble. Because Mr Tesco Delivery Man doesn’t know that’s not what my signature looks like and I’m sure if he did he wouldn’t care. So when I sign something and manage to get it all right without even trying, every letter is there and even the artistic flourish is in place, I can’t help but think “Ooh, that’s a good one!”. I even take a moment to admire my work, and silently congratulate my sub conscience on doing such a fine job of staying awake and engaged long enough to see this task through. And Mr Tesco Delivery Man is none the wiser that he has been given a masterpiece of my signature that is very rarely as detailed as that. But no, the double-barrel is nigh so we are back to square one. I'm rather like a teenager rehearsing my future married name in my notebook, only this is for real...
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