The one about the wedding

It’s 7am and the house is silent, waiting.

I’m the first one to wake. Butterflies are dancing in my stomach. I haven’t felt this way since Christmas Day when I was nine.

It’s my wedding day.

Next to me, still fast asleep, is one of my best friends and bridesmaids, Ruth. We had an early night after a glass of wine and some pizza with my sister and other best friend, Ellen. The baby is still asleep in her bedroom next door.

I pad downstairs and put the kettle on, to try and still the dancing butterflies. I open the back door to check the weather and smile as the sun touches my face.

Only girls are allowed past the threshold this morning. Well, only girls and my dad…

For breakfast we have bagels with smoked salmon and cream cheese, washed down with ice cold Bucks Fizz. I blame the fizz for the fact I’m an emotional wreck as I read the card left for me by my future husband, the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine…

Upstairs, the hairdresser is busy laying out her wares as she pulls out the big guns in an attempt to tame my wild hair.

And then the flowers arrive. They’ve been delivered by the wonderful Lindsay at The White Horse Flower Company. They’re so beautiful they make me cry. Which is handy really, because it distracts me from the fact I look like I’ve escaped out of a 1980s horror show…

It’s now the fun begins. My sister and Ellen, the other two bridesmaids, arrive after a night at a hotel nearby. They’ve come to slap on the make-up and beat the frizz into submission. And then my future mother-in-law, sister-in-law, flower girl (Frog’s cousin), lovely friend and mum and dad beat down the door. It’s a full house.

After beautification I finally get to slip my feet into these beauties…

But not before bathing Frog and getting her into her outfit for the day…

Now it’s time for the dress. The one my mum has spent the last six weeks making. The one we designed together after finding some beautiful 1940s inspiration. The one we went into London’s Shepherds Bush to find the material for. It’s made from silk crepe and lace. I want to wear it every day.

The house is quiet now. I’m done up to the nines, with a huge pair of pants hidden under my beautiful dress. I’m too scared to move in case I tread on my veil (also made lovingly by my mum, complete with the diamond strap from my great aunt’s 1940s ballroom dress).

After ferrying a car load of pretty girls to the wedding venue, my mum and dad return, ready to drive me to meet my future husband, who’s currently putting the finishing touches to his own outfit…

Once he’s safely tucked away at the front of the barn, I can arrive to meet my bridesmaids and help persuade the Registrar this definitely isn’t a sham marriage…

And now for the wedding. My face aches from the smile plastered across my face. I just can’t help it. It’s either smile or give in to the emotion bubbling away in my throat. And as soon as I see the NLM, the smile just gets wider…

And so, we’re married. Mr and Mrs. Although I reserve the right not to be referred to as Mrs (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine.

While we frolic (this is probably the only time in my life I’ll be able to use this word to describe something I’ve actually done) in the grounds of Ufton Court, our friends and family munch on cream tea, drink Proscecco, bounce on castles, watch a magician and play with giant games…

And you know I said the bridesmaids are pretty? Well they really are…

Before the meal, I get a chance to catch up with my mum and my grandma, who shares her 87th birthday with our wedding day. (As well as my wedding dress, my mum made my grandma’s dress, her own dress and the two flower girl dresses. I’m considering hiring her out and making some money from her talents.)

The cream tea’s taken an edge off the hunger, so we move into the beautiful Elizabethan barn for speeches before more food. It’s now that my dad makes me cry (again), and the NLM’s two brothers (and best men) pull off a brilliant speech, as does the NLM himself.

It’s also now I realise that a week of making and decorating mini jars of chutney as place names was worth it…

And the decision to go with jam jars and bird cages for the flowers was a winner…

As was the idea to ditch a traditional table plan and guest book.

And although my grandfather may not be there this time, he sort of is. As are the NLM’s grandparents. They get to watch from their own wedding photographs…

After the speeches…

…there’s a barbecue and bottles and bottles of wine, followed by cake and dancing…

That first dance? We choose Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now. And yes, there’s  a touch of choreography. Which makes the NLM’s mum very happy…

And then more dancing. And drinking. And dancing. And drinking.

With a spot of apple picking thrown in for good measure…

So this is us. Our new family. The Weavers:

And that’s it. I promise you. No more wedding posts.

Unless a certain video of a certain first dance happens to turn up. And then I can’t promise anything…

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Special mention

I have a friend. She’s a very special friend. She’s also very talented.

This friend took these photos of my wedding day. I couldn’t blog about the best day of my life without these pictures, so this post is written with the help of  Caroline Gue, who is an incredible photographer and who you should definitely hire if you’re thinking of getting married any time soon.