Barren Mare

Temporary surfacing

I had this somewhat wacky notion that once the wedding over, I would find myself with more spare time. The reality is that in the months leading up to the event, and during all the planning, I was simply burning the candle at both ends even more than usual- stretching myself to 11.30pm or midnight (or even later) bedtimes, instead of the more sensible 10pm needed to maintain the health and sanity of someone needing to get up again at 6am with a lively toddler. Now that the normal routine has resumed, I have discovered that there is still the same endless amount of stuff to do in the short space of evening once Botany finally goes to sleep, bar fretting over place settings and menu choices and play lists of music. To my disappointment, I also realised that a backlog had accumulated in other places- long overdue emails still needing to be sent. A winter wardrobe woefully in need of freshening up. The festive season wriggling like chorus girl in her underwear, one foot in her stockings and half made up, but about to burst forth into as a full blown Christmas diva, demanding cards and presents and lovingly hand crafted decorations.   

For the moment, though, my foot has had to come off the gas a little. Part of it is Knox's influence- he is much better at chilling out than I am. I am trying to give myself permission to get to bed at a reasonable hour, even though everyday it means I leave a list of items undone. When I get a minute for some down time, I am forcing myself to take the opportunity to relax a little. And I am becoming aware that my body- and perhaps my mind- really needs it. When E. came to take Botany for the day over the weekend, I went back to bed, thinking I would have a short nap, and I woke up five hours later. Tonight, instead of sitting writing the gazillion thank you cards that are now a month overdue, I sat melded to the sofa, watching some mindless pap on television for an hour. 

It feels more surfacing for a short time, before taking a long breath before the next deep, deep dive, than a permanent change of pace. That's particularly true, in that it looks like we're going to solve the Knox employment/two city conundrum by buying a business to run. The location is perfect in that it's just up the street from our flat. The downside is that he's never run a business of this type before and it's a little risky and at least initially, it's likely to be incredibly stressful and consume all of his waking moments. Which means that I'll probably continue to shoulder much of the burden of running our home- I'm in a happy position in that I feel confident about managing it, given that I've basically done so for this long, but I also feel a bit weary about the whole prospect. I was ready for things to get a little easier; however, I'm becoming resigned to the idea that there is no perfect solutions and there are a hell of a lot more pros to at least having Knox and I living in the same place seven days a week. And if nothing else, it's going to be fun and challenging and exciting, though possibly in the same way that paddling a canoe through a crocodile invested swamp gets the heart rate going.  

Oh, and Knox really wants to start trying for us to have a baby together, as soon as possible. It's of course far from being the optimum time but the old saying is true in that there never really is a perfect time, is there?  I turned 39 a few weeks ago and it's difficult to have a conversation about our future without being drowned out by the sound of the ticking toward the deadline of the expiration of any remaining fertility. And other than a panicked sense of being about to run out of time, the thoughts I have about the whole idea of a second child are so complicated and confused I am not even sure how to begin talking about it except to say Oh. My. God. 

Seaholly and peacock feathers

My computer, always more of a tortoise than a hare, has been running even slower of late. Ever time I switch it on, the system embarks on a seemingly endless cycle of updating or carrying out virus scan or possibly doing invisible internal tai chi. I should try to strip out some of the unnecessary guff but I am scared than in doing so, I will accidentally lobotomise it. So I leave it to dawdle and churn as it wills; consequently, it is sloooow and takes approximately three hours to download, copy, paste, edit and post pictures- or so it feels like. At this rate, by the time I get around to offering any proper visual representation of my wedding, I will be ready to celebrate my first anniversary.

Still!  I bring you a photo of the flower arrangements.  I was completely in love with how the flowers turned out; so much so that just about the only thing I managed to take pictures of on the day were my bouquet and the table arrangements . I spent months and months gawping at various websites trying to decide on what sort of floral design I wanted and how these would fit into the various centrepieces. Normally, this is not the sort of thing that would interest me in the slightest but for reasons I can’t quite understand, I became slightly obsessed with the issue. And then Knox’s mother picked up on an idea I had suggested quite casually, and the next thing I knew we were having custom made vases for the table. I wasn’t able to see the finished product for quite a long time, at which point my eyes began to roll back into my head with delirium of trying to figure out what to do.

 

In the end, we simply walked into the local florist with one of the vases.  I plunked it down and said, “My budget is ££. Put some flowers in these! Seaholly would be nice. And, er, ooh- peacock feathers!”

 

Peacock feathers are not something I would have ordinarily considered pairing with thistles of any type, to be honest. But it just so happened that I had earlier gone ahead with a somewhat whimsical purchase of peacock feather buttonholes for the wedding party- for no reason other than I thought they looked quite nice. As we were leaning against the counter discussing an arrangement of seaholly and cream roses, I looked up to spy a huge jar of peacock feathers on the shelf. What the hell, I  thought, let’s chuck some of those in too- on the proviso that it didn’t look totally weird. I decided to just leave it all up to the florist’s capable hands and she promised me to send me some photos of a mocked arrangement for my approval.

 

I continued to search for the bouquet of my dreams- I had it in my head that I wanted something artificial- but I kept coming back to the themes of seaholly and peacocks, and let me tell you, it proved nigh on impossible to source either one. So I eventually phoned the florist and gibbered “Bouquet! For the bride! Me! The bride! Make one!”   

 

When the bouquet was delivered on the morning of the wedding, I opened the box and I squealed with joy. Perfection! The very thing that I had been trying to put together in my own mind’s eye, without quite knowing what I wanted, until I saw it there in front of me. I proceeded to pick it up and twirl around the room, singing a little “I am the bride” song under my breath. It was a very happy moment.  When I arrived at the venue later and saw all the tables, I was even more delighted. Seaholly and peacock feathers may not be to everyone’s taste, but it certainly was mine. The cost ended up being entirely reasonable, too and that always pleases me.

Afterwards, there was a veritable bidding war for the vases. My bouquet is currently withering quietly in mine. I just can’t quite bring myself to throw it away.

 

Not the best picture of the bouquet, but it includes a hip flask, a key accessory for any Scottish bride.

 

Worth the wait

Paris. Oh, Paris. Having become slightly jaded in my old age, I decided as we drove to the airport that I should really keep my expectations low. Easier that way when the inevitable disappointment of the reality set in. Sure, I thought, I bet it's a nice city and all- but really, there are lots of nice cities and I doubted very much that it could possibly live up to the hype. It was cold and gloomy at home, and as I handed my darling Botany off to my parents, I felt as though I would miss her intensely while we were away (notwithstanding that she treated me to a 5.30 wake up call on the morning of our departure and the prospect of a lie-in at least one morning was decidedly appealing.) 

Approximately four hours after boarding the plane, I found myself walking with a sugar crepe in one hand and Knox's hand in the other, past Pont Neuf bridge, with the late summer sun glistening off the river Seine. Everywhere I looked, there was something to delight me- the vastness and comfort of the apartment we rented in Montmarte, the Art Nouveau metro signs, the incredible grandeur of the Louvre, the charming little brasseries and bistros on every street, the mouthwatering pastries beckoning me from behind the glass counters. It was luminous beyond anything I could have hoped for, and once I picked my jaw up off the pavement, I started kicking myself in the backside for never having managed to visit before now. At least it was worth the wait.  

We spent most of our short stay there just walking around soaking up the atmosphere. We did make one concession to the traditional tourist route- happily, we discovered that museums such as the Louvre are free on the first Sunday of the month, and so there was simply no good reason not to at least pop in for a quick squint at, you know, the Mona Lisa. Everyone told me that it was much smaller than you would otherwise think, and so I was expecting this postcard sized little smile.

Huh. Actually, I said to Knox, it's much bigger than I had been led to believe, and the swarm of flash bulbs eminating from the visiting throng in front of the bullet proof glass wasn't as bad either. A few minutes jostling and we were able to stand comfortably looking on that enigmatic face.  I'm probably a bit of a philistine when it comes to art, knowing very little and as a general rule of thumb appreciating  much less than I probably should- but I found myself surprisingly moved and dare I say awed by seeing that particular portrait. I think it was the jolt of reality of confronting something significant that you have heard about or read about or seen pictures of in a book for your whole life- and then it's there, right there. There, when a year ago you thought your life was in complete tatters and now you find yourself in the Louvre on your honeymoon with your new husband, and the Mona Lisa is smiling at you.

I'm still working on editing the wedding pictures, but meantime, here is one I hope you will like-Botany strategically placed in an obscuring position in her pretty dress, helping us to take our vows. I had to chop it quite a bit to move Knox out of publication's way, but it gives you the flavour, I think.  

(And I've finally fixed it to remove any reference to anyone's actual name. M is for Mare, B is for Botany. Ahem.)

Mr and Mrs

And so we are married...

It all went fantastically well- the weather was great (apart from the 15 minutes of the actual ceremony, when it rained), the food was wonderful, the company was sublime. Botany was, as I expected, a bit confused by it all but she did wonderfully well, her only demand being that I lift her up and hold her in my arms while we said our vows, which I was happy enough to do. It was slightly strange having a two year old running an orange toy car over my chest while I became a lawfully wedded wife, but rather delightful. 

More pictures to follow soon- I have some tinkering and editing to do as I compile suitable photos to share with you- but first! Paris awaits. I am giddy with anticipation.