I love weddings, and read Love My Dress (gloriously luxury-pie-with-a-cherry-on-top), Whimsical Wonderland Weddings and Boho Bride religiously even though I am now an old wifey. Overindulgence on these three, watching My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding, combined with spicy stuffed peppers, cheese and a chocolate pudding (courtersy of Lord Florizel of Tweed) resulted in a dream in which all of the ladies at said wedding were attending in eccentric wedding dresses. Note the word eccentric; this was no photoshoot dream or debutante ball. More this:
|When I was little, I wanted this wedding. Except for the rain, death, and marrying Axl Rose bits.|
|They didn't HAVE proms when I was young...overcompensation anyone?|
|I considered this one for mine, but it wasn't church-appropriate.|
|Part bride, part superhero...courtesy of weddinator.com|
And then I woke up, and it was Thursday. I checked my office when I got in at 7.30 (A.M, bleuagh) and there wasn't even any secret doors or nuffink. Just an office that was converted- not very well- from an old cleaning depository that, even before that, used to be a staff loo (or so the legend goes). I wuz robbed.
So now I can't stop thinking of the weekend and how to be all luxury-pie, without resorting to wearing my wedding dress round the house like Miss Havisham. At least I have some glamorous plans. I'm going to the Vintage Fashion Fair in Camden with husband and lovely chums - I even snagged free tickets (I don't know if all the free tickets have run out, but I doesn't hurt to drop them an email and chance it!). Anyway, thats three whole pounds for me (a little less than the price of a pint in that neck of the woods, unless you find a Sam Smiths pub). They have a nice cafe; that's the cake side of things sorted, anyhoo.
And yet now, I have become like Hedonism-bot from Futurama, and this little treat is nothing. I keep daydreaming of all the heady delights I could be getting up to of the weekend, whilst spending lunchtime in this ex-lav-office eating what is allegedly a 'wrap' but in actual fact is a scrumpled-up excuse of a tortilla intent on spilling its greasy load all over the place (sorry, that sounds a bit rude).
The trouble is I'm not in my usual yomping-off-to-a-museum mood. It's more of an eating jam out of the jar with a gold spoon, wearing rhinestone slippers and a feather boa type mood. And wouldn'tcha just know, apparently The Ritz and Palm Court won't deliver on my budget. Drat. So it's time for some DIY on Saturday - DIY luxury pie.
First assemble the ingredients: chaise-long, cake (must be pastel or coated in cream and chocolate. Sensible Madeira cake will not do), liquers (not likker, this is luxuriation) and the makings of cocktails, my nail art kit and hair styling stuff (not for use at the same time or it could all get messy) and some kind of eveningwear. And some DVDs, preferably something chic, trgaic and witty about how clever and sophisticated it is to lie about and drink in shabby splendour (OK. Black Books and Father Ted. But they do hang our in shabby places and get drunk so yah boo sucks I'm watching them).
Ye-es I know it is sounding a teensy bit Havisham, but I do have a husband and he ate our wedding cake (all 3 tiers/120 portions) over Christmas so it isn't dominating the living room anymore. Also, I hardly ever wander round in my wedding dress nowadays. And I'm going out on Sunday. With my cool friends...err what do you mean you've never seen no cool friends? I have cool mates. No one's seen them because they go to another school, it's a posh school where they all have cars and talk American, innit. No, seriously, I am going out on Sunday. It's just Saturday I've decided to Havisham out a bit.
But for now, I am at work, and my lunchbreak is almost over (sigh). Back to the grindstone; at least my office hasn't got mice. At the moment.