Ar Ócáid Ár bPósadh

Andrew and I were married in the registry office on Love Lane yesterday afternoon, at 3.45pm. "You have to be there at 3.30, Kitty, or they'll cancel our wedding!" I said. "I will, Pussycat" he said "I promise" and we repeated the same two sentences ad nauseum until he dropped my over to my nana's, where she fed me rice pudding ("your sister said you'd like egg and chips, but I didn't think it would suit today") and I pretended not to be nervous.

My parents picked me and nana up and we drove to Grand Canal St. "Ring me when you're ready for us" I said to mam, and I clambered into the front of the car to wait with dad. Andrew saw me get out and then in again, and decided that I mustn't want to marry him after all. And he'd been so careful crossing roads on his walk there, anxious not to get run over on the way to his wedding. I did still want to marry him. I always have.

My dad walked me in to the tune of Married Life. Well, he walked me in and they'd forgotten to press play, so he walked me out and in again. We sat and stood and sat again and signed on dotted lines, my head so close to the page as I scrawled that I look like I'm blind in the photographs. Andrew read a poem that he'd written for me the night before, and I read something as Gaeilge, because I never miss an opportunity to show off.

Bí Ann agus Leanfaidh Mé

Bí ann, bí liom
Be there, be with me
Bí gasta, bí cróga
Be quick, be brave
Bí cliste, bí cinnte
Be clever, be sure
Bí casta, bí glic
Be complicated, be sharp
Bí grámhar, gealgáireach
Be loving, light-hearted
Bí socair laistigh
Be steady inside
Bí doimhin ach bí éadrom
And be deep but be light
Gan teannas ar bith
With no tension inside
I do chorp, i do chroí
In your body, in your heart
I do cheann,
In your head,
Ins a tslí ina chuireann tú tú fhéin i láthair
In the way which you present yourself
I pé chomhluadar ina bhfuil tú
In whatever company you happen to be
Bí ann liom
Be there with me
Bí láidir il-dána
Be strong and be able
Nuair a chasann an domhan
When the world takes a turn
Bí ann dom
Be there for me
Agus buailfimid le chéile
And we will meet together
Nuair a thagann an t-am
When the time comes
Fiú má chothaítear fadhb
Even if there is a problem
Leanfaidh mé ar aghaidh
I'll keep going
Tá saol agam, tá súil agam
I have a life, I hope
Tá rogha agam, tá rún agam
I have a choice, I am determined
Tá bád agam, tá cuan agam
I have a boat, I have a bay
Tá tonn ar an trá
There is a wave on the shore
Tá scéal agam, tá siúl agam
I have a story, I can walk
Tá deis agam, tá duais agam
I have a chance, I have a gift
Tá cás agam, tá cúis agam
I have a case, I have a cause
Tá fonn ar mo ghrá
My love desires

I didn't have words of my own for the occasion (ain't that a rare thing! Rosie struck dumb!) so I borrowed some of Rónán Ó Snodaigh's. Mo bheannacht ort, Rónán, beidh mé buíoch díot go deo as d'fhilíocht. Agus mo bhuíochas duitse, Andrew, as an ngrá a bhronn tú orm.

Doesn't "Nuptials" Sound Like A Dirty Word?

In a post-engagement flush and a flurry of wedding-inspired hyperactivity, I decided back in November that I would book EVERYTHING. Because then he'd have to marry me, right? There's nothing says commitment like a non-refundable deposit. It's kinda like how I gently encouraged him to call his brother at 2am after he'd proposed to me. Because if he told him, he'd have to marry me, right?

Not that it's ever been in doubt. He still asks me to marry him most days. I always say yes.

Anyway, I didn't actually book anything. I started spreadsheets and sprawling spidery plans, with columns detailing what was to be done and who was to do it. My name was in all of the right-hand columns. I emailed 13 different marquee suppliers for quotes and opened a league table for the figures, which ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous. I thanked each of them politely for entertaining me; their quotes were nothing if not a fucking hoot. "I'll get back to you once we're ready to make a booking" I said to them all. I didn't, though, and now they're getting back to me. A fella rang about about a marquee just this morning. "Well" I told him "we, eh, we..." and I snotted, my hayfever getting the better of me. I heard a sharp intake of breath as he assumed the absolute worst. "I'm sorry" he said "I hope it all works out for the best". Not hiring a big bloody tent is working out well for us anyway, I wanted to say but didn't. I just mumbled what I hope was a convincingly sorrowful "thanks" and cut the line.

We've decided instead to have the wedding in Áras Chrónáin, an Irish cultural centre in old Clondalkin village, where I went to school. I've still a heap of lists and charts and bits and scraps and post-its to get through, but most if it involves asking other people do do things for me, so that's fine. My mam's making my dress. His dad's doing the service. Patrick Kelleher's doing some doo-wop. My aunties are baking cakes and mixing lemonade, our friends are mixing music, my 5th class teacher is managing the venue and his missus is doing the flowers. Some Cork fella's going to roast us a hog. Annie made us some beautiful invitations with pictures of our oldest and bestest friends, Bright Eyes and Beaver on them (they're up there in my header, you can guess which is which and whose is whose). It's going to be quite the party.

I'm reminding myself of all of this in advance of tomorrow morning's pre-marriage counselling session, which I've stupidly started to think of as a hurdle that needs to be hopped. The questionnaires we had to fill out independently of one another in preparation for the course have me worried that it will be like Mr. & Mrs. without cash prizes. Sing it with me now...

Mr & Mrs! Be nice to each other!
Mr & Mrs! We've gotta love one another!
Think of the future, and all you're hoping for.
Be nice to each other!
Mr & Mrs! Friends and lovers!
Mr & Mrs! Sharing each day for ever more!

If only I'd made it to Kate Kerrigan's Good Room at the Flat Lake Festival in time for Bring Your Girlfriend to Meet My Mother: Good Marriage Material certificates and medals for all successful candidates.

Do You Like My Tight Sweater?

In addition to my Walter Mittyesque image of myself as a linguist, famed wit, social flutterby and writer of no little renown, I also fancy myself to be wonderfully creative and crafty. I have a box full of scrap paper, scissors, string and sweet wrappers that I refer to as "my treasure trove" (though I don't call it that out loud, lest Andrew confuse it with his "treasure box", which is full of sweets). But; bar the occasional pressed flower pritt-sticked to a crookedly cut card and presented to a forgiving grandparent, there is little actual evidence that I have any talent for twee.

I come from a long line of crafty women. My mother is a seamstress (currently making a dress for me to get married in) and her own mother is an accomplished knitter. Mam has tried over the years to teach me how to sew, but her efforts have all been in vain (I lack natural aptitude and any inclination to apply myself). I still go behind her back to have my dad sew on my loose buttons.

Being able to sew would be great, I think, and I imagine that if I really wanted to I could be Vivienne Westwood, only cuddly and with less makeup. But I'm lazy, and too chubby for haute couture.

So instead of persevering, losing weight and learning to cut cloth, I decided I'd learn how to knit. I think it might be a manifestation of my "oh fuck I'm getting married and I need to start doing grown-up stuff" crisis (November 2009-Present). If I am someday to become a mother, I want to be able to punish my children by dressing them in ill-fitting striped tea-cosies.

A new wool shop has opened in Rathmines called Knit 'nd Make (the 'nd breaks my heart) and I'd heard they were running classes on Saturday mornings for beginners so off I marched one weekend, fresh-faced and full of resolve.

A little bell tinkled when I entered the shop. The proprietor was serving another customer. I stood like a gom in the middle of the floor, afraid to touch anything in case I broke it (in a wool shop) and waited for them to notice me. They seemed to be wearing matching hairbands. "I'm looking for something a little stronger" her customer said, "a Margaret Thatcher blue, if you know what I mean". She said it like she was laying down a gauntlet. Yer woman had her measure though, and handed her some balls that put a little moué on her mush and made her flounce for her purse. "And for you?" she asked as she closed the till. I was still standing there afraid to touch anything without permission. I froze, cowed by her conversation with the Thatcherite and feeling hopelessly out of my depth (again, in a wool shop). "I'm going to get my nana to teach me to knit!" I announced, with all the pride and exclamation of a five-year-old child. I'm 29. "What do I need?" I added, somewhat redundantly, as she pointed out some balls of thick thick wool and handed me two chunky-ass needles. "Try a scarf".

I bought three balls and trotted on over to Harold's Cross, feeling positively bohemian with my bagful of wool. I convinced myself as I walked that Nana would be only fucking delighted to impart her knowledge to me and have me take up where she left off when the arthritis began to gnarl her fingers. Not literally, though. She was probably working on something really complicated.

Her face was a picture when I announced after lunch that she was to teach me to knit. She looked gutted. "Would you not get your mammy to teach you?" No, Nana, you're far more indulgent. Ten minutes in I had mastered a plain stitch. She offered to teach me purl too, but that would have been too much all at once. So she sat and watched me knit up about half a ball, fidgeting at the awkward way I held the needles. After about half an hour she grudgingly congratulated me (with a little prompting) on being a wonderful student. "We'll all be getting nice thick scarves for Christmas, from a nice thick!" She chuckled to herself, delighted with her joke. And then "What made you pick the colour?"

It's a custardy, mustardy yellow. Rolled around the needle, it looks like corn on the cob.

"Will Andrew mind you knitting?" she asked. "Some men do". She didn't expand on this so I have no idea what she was getting at. I said I didn't think so, but that I'd ask. He just laughed and said "only if we end up staying in to watch the Late Late on a Friday". And then "What made you pick the colour?"

"Does Andrew knit himself?" she asked later, perhaps thinking that like cricket, it's just something that Protestants do. "Some of the best knitters are men, you know." I took her word for it and told her that no, he doesn't but that I was sure he'd wear the things I'll knit for him. "That must be love" she giggled, eyeing up my handiwork.

Meet Me At The Wrecking Ball

The receptionist smiled blandly at me when we arrived, and there was a moment of awkward silence. I had expected Andrew to speak. "We have an appointment with the Registrar" I said, making sure to pronounce the capital R. "Rosie and Andrew". I don't know why I didn't give our surnames. I'm still trying to decide if I'll take his when we marry, and it somehow seemed important to introduce ourselves as a couple. She asked for them anyway, and I saw her finger trace the syllables in mine as she memorised the pronunciation, ticking us off in her appointments diary. She directed us through the hall, to an office down at the back.

I marveled at the seats. Fixed to the floor and bus station blue, there seemed to be so many of them. I wondered if our thirteen guests will fill the front row. I wasn't quick enough to count them. The Registrar's chair was down front, behind a desk and flanked by four more leatherette office chairs. We'll sit there, I thought, with our mammies. Behind them on the wall hung a reproduction of a romantic painting. I asked Andrew about it in the car on the way home. I wondered if it was Aoife and Strongbow. I was never very good at art history. Neither was he; he thought they had married for love. By chance, I saw later that the National Gallery have chosen the same image for the cover of their 2010 diary. There's a photo of it in one of the small advertisements hidden amongst the Irish Times' telly listings. So I look it up. The Meeting on the Turret Stairs depicts Hellelil and Hildebrand, who were indeed lovers. They died for it, though. There is no mention of them getting married. The painting seems an odd choice.

In the back room, we met Síle. She was pleasant. I was anxious. I kept making little jokes, though I couldn't say for sure now how many of them I made out loud. She talked us through the paperwork and had us read over the his n' hers laminated sheets that outlined legal impediments to a marriage before signing a declaration to state that we were neither related to one another nor bigamists. I'm a quick reader. She gave us plenty of time, so I spent a few minutes of it working out who'd be what on the list of persons given. A woman may not marry her...Husband’s father’s brother. Father’s sister’s husband. Daughter’s daughter’s husband. The list is 28 persons long.

There was some confusion over the jumble of names on Andrew's birth cert. Síle compromised by putting two of them in brackets, though what difference that made neither he nor I was sure of. She then gave us a quick run-through of what to expect on the day; an a-la-carte menu for our ceremony. I got a lump in my throat when she mentioned vows. She gave us a slip with a reference number to give to the receptionist, and wished us well.

We kissed on the street before climbing back into the car. "She didn't ask me if I love Pussycat!" Andrew said, sounding surprised. He calls me Pussycat, from Edward Lear's The Owl and the Pussycat. I call him Kitty, because even before he bought the purple and turquoise jumper he reminded me of James P. Sullivan. I know, I know. People like us make me sick. Turns out he was expecting Green Card. A civil service quickfire round of Mr. & Mrs. An Interrogation. I laughed, thrilled that I am marrying this silly, sweet man who's dismayed at not being put through his paces to earn the right to marry me. He never misses an opportunity to declare his intentions. Nor, it would seem, do I.

Reader's Choice #7

Cock Shaped Zogabongs

For John, who doesn't blog any more, but wrote this and made me cry into my cornflakes. Damn him.

Over glasses of wine in Toast, we compare non vital statistics. Seven this year! one announces, and five hens. The SWF seems a little put out that she's had two hens and no weddings. I am appalled. I've been to two weddings... ever (chronicled here for your convenience - #1 and #2 - and I make the same awful "without a hitch" pun in both posts). I have never been to a hen. I am, I think, the champions.

Hen parties are great fun, I'm told. A bit tacky, sure, but after a few drinks you get into it. There are all kinds of things I get "into" after a few drinks; I would be well advised not to add hen parties to the already embarrassing list. I'm not sure just what it is I find so abhorrent about the idea. The costumes? I am no fashionista but I am allergic to Claire's Accessories; they bring me out in a rash. Cock-shaped zogabongs flatter no-one, least of all those with a head of curly hair that looks for all the world like a crown of badly trimmed pubes. A look I happen to be totally rocking at the moment. "Humorous" matching t-shirts are no better - distended photos of the bride-to-be stretched across her best mates' diddies don't flatter anyone either, and there's always one lumpy bumpy budgie who does not look glowing in lycra. Me.

I lie, though. I was once at a hen, of sorts. A quiet dinner affair with my mother, sister, aunts and I playing the part of the the in-laws. In an effort to imbue the occasion with a little zany bachelorette fun, the bride-to-be's sister had had some table mats printed with photos of the hen as a chick. But oh my. This leggy, beautiful blonde had not always been the belle, it seemed. She was once quite the proverbial duckling. My sister and I exchanged horrified sideways glances, a silent and secret pact never to betray one another's egos so. The bride-to-be thought the photos were hilarious. I admired her strength of character and sense of humour. And died a little inside.

As for the nuptials themselves, the "afters" of a wedding, I am assured, don't count. It's just as well. I was invited to an afters once, in a castle. I turned up midway through the speeches, awkward and inappropriately dressed. I had been invited as the bride's cousin's date (having previously dated another of her cousins) and so the groom introduced me to his family as Jezebel the Harlot. Not big on the Old Testament, they amiably called me Jess for the night. I, of course, lived up to my moniker and ended up crashing in the priest's room with the cameraman. One hates to disappoint.

And yet my reasons for hating hen parties are nothing if not disappointing. As with most of the things in life I profess to dislike, my disdain for hen parties is borne of nothing more than unattractive insecurity. I worry that I lack the requisite oestrogen to pull a hen night of my own out of the bag. I worry that I don't have enough female friends. Then I realise that I do, and begin to worry that they're all prettier than me. Which is nonsense, because as you all know, I'm a total fucking ride. I must be, if the company I keep is anything to go by.

In fact, I'm amazed that someone hasn't tried to marry me already.

I have warned my mother that should I ever dupe some dope into tying my knot, it will be done on the sly. There will be no pomp or circumstance, no photographer or cake. She pronounced herself disappointed, unconvincingly so. She knows I'm full of shit. I bluff and bluster about caring not a jot for marriage, but my raging insecurity will no doubt some day be won over by the idea of a sworn statement.

And I may relent on the cake bit.

Scéal Eile Ón Sráidbhaile

I mentioned last week that my usual teddybears were abandoning me to fate for this year's picnic, most citing poverty and one or two slow Joes missing the point entirely and declaring lack of interest upon seeing the lineup. But there were others... who didn't come this year because they had weddings to go to. Weddings. I was fucking disgusted, I don't mind telling you. Weddings! At our age! Because in my head I am 23 and always will be (don't ask me why, 23 was a shite year) and although my mother was married with 3 kids at my age (she was so delighted with me that she just kept at it) I can't imagine why anyone would want to settle down at the tender age of 27ish (well, I am 27, not all of the settlefaces are so blessed with youth).

So I mocked the fuck out of them. Laughed at them for spending ticket-and-beer squids on ganky wear-it-once threads and expensive, cash-filled cards. For sitting down to cutlery, stilted conversation and beef-or-salmon when they could have been feasting on nubile strangers and questionable burgers. For booking into country B&Bs instead of pitching tents in mucky fields and having muffled sex in their chintzy bedrooms instead of behind 3mm of canvas, backlit by curious and catastrophically mashed Nordies. Oh, another year or two and it'll be all your friends that are getting married, they grin, like they know something I don't. It's all ahead of you! I don't fucking think so. My friends have more sense.

I didn't fucking think so, until the call came yesterday. My beautiful friend the Jock and her Ginger Nut are to wed; he proposed to her at banjoed o' clock, with his nana's ring, in a tracksuit, at the Picnic.

That, folks, was the sound of my jaw dropping with awe, utter delight and yes, jealousy. It is one of the most romantic proposals I can imagine, perfect in its sincerity and spontaneity. If music be the food of love... {some clever picnic based pun}

It's hard to be sincere, sentimental and funny.

I Didn't Catch The Bouquet, But

Saturday morning saw me running around town in the pouring rain and a massive tantrum, trying in vain to find something to wear to the wedding. I'd bought a dress the week before only to try it on on Friday and discover that I'd need to magically grow breasts overnight to fit it - I ended up wearing it anyway with a vest, a high-waisted belt, a lot of safety pins, tall stiletto heels and my cherry earrings to distract from my dog's dinner of an outfit. I'm told it worked.

I was anxious about the day already. The friend who was to marry is the same friend who lost his brother a couple of months back, and the last time I had seen his family was the weekend that they brought Conor home to bury him. That Sunday afternoon I spent with them broke my heart, I have never seen such appalling, consuming grief. I spent most of the afternoon on their couch with my sister and their four grandkids, delighted with their easy affection, wide-eyed honesty and sticky fingered dexterity on the Nintendo DS. I was worried about seeing the family again, selfishly uncomfortable with their grief and feeling bizarrely guilty about my own. I had mourned Conor in my own small way here and I had lost my Crash Grandadicoot that same week - weddings make me cry anyway so how the fuck was I going to manage this one?

I managed it just dandy, taking my cue from everyone around me. The day went without a hitch (save for the obvious pun) and it was as a wedding should be - happy, celebratory, lán beocht agus croí. The bride looked beautiful and her husband (eek! he's married now!) spent the day looking like he couldn't believe his luck. His brother Conor was remembered as he will always be remembered in everything his family do and I learned that grief (whether your own or someone else's) is not something to be uncomfortable with or feel embarrassed about. That his family can still take the time to make me and everyone else who was there on Saturday feel special amazes me in a quiet, ordinary way. They're good people for me to take my cues from.

Beswankled once again, but feeling the better for it

I've just returned from 5 days in Italy to a miserable rain sodden Dublin. What the fuck is up with the weather at the moment? Granted it makes for a wonderful conversation opener with the city's taxi drivers, but it's putting everyone in awful bad humour. My good self in particular, as I had to pay one of the city's finest to ferry me home from work today. I'm not usually a lazy shite, preferring to stroll the leafy-with-love banks of the Grand Canal (even in the rain!) or to dice with death and pedestrians on my bicycle, but I had to fork out a tenner today to listen to some bollix's patter all through the traffic home. My trip to Italy was wonderful in all respects but one; I got another mosquito bite. Just the one, but yet again the cunt went for my ankle and almost immediately it ballooned into a discoloured and horribly unattractive swankle. I haven't been able to get into a pair of shoes since last Thursday, and though the flip-flops served me well in Italy, they're not so suited to Dublin's monsoon rains.

Of course, a four mile round trip isn't the best idea on a swankle anyway. Neither my finances nor my patience will stretch to daily taxi rides though, so I've my foot on ice and a face full of antihistamines (they're smashing right before bedtime!) in the hope that I'll have ankles again by the morning. A nice brisk pace in and out to the office will go some way towards counteracting all the eleventy course meals I ate while away. So will not eating for the next week.

The trip had a purpose other than gluttony for pasta and veal; a treasured friend was biting the bullet and marrying his seven year sweetheart. I just had to go to see it for myself, as did the other 109 guests. The wedding was in Italy as they wanted to keep it small and minimise the pomp and ceremony, so one can only imagine what it might have been like were it in Mullingar as per the original plan. I wasn't expecting to enjoy it to be honest, feeling a little under pressure to look lovely and charm strangers (only the latter would be a forté of mine...) not to mention behave myself in the company of both my parents and copious amounts of free booze, but I had an absolute ball.

And behaved myself to boot. I even met a nice boy (a teacher! how horribly respectable!) and didn't kiss him; a sure sign that I've a genuine interest. Judging by the sly winks and unsubtle nudges I was getting from the assembled company on my last night there, he may have been exhibiting some signs of interest himself. He's still there (being of a respectable profession with a ridiculous amount of holidays) but I've made some preliminary enquiries, so let's sit back and hope like fuck that he takes the bait when he gets home.

Someone has to.

Anyway, back to the wedding. At the risk of sounding like a big girl's blouse, it was a genuinely moving occasion. There was a series of misfortunes and a comedy of errors in the run up to it; the groom's sister took ill and didn't make it over, the groom left his suit in the airport, the choirboy got wankered and smashed his head off a pool table (needing 8 stitches and a good slagging), one of the groomsmen had his clothes and cash delivered by the cops having woken up in his knickers in the piazza in the wee small hours, one of the pretty ladies stood on a sea urchin, that kind of thing. But the day itself went without a hitch. (Or it didn't... pardon the disgustingly obvious pun). She looked beautiful, he looked proud, they both looked happy and grateful for their good fortune. I got to wear my big sunglasses and a bigger hat, and someone told me I looked like Buffy in that dirty teen chick flick adaptation of Les Liasons Dangereuses (untrue, but very flattering). There was no Come on Eileen, no Birdy Song, no Cliff Richard, just some ancient local boys who looked like they'd been embalmed and then reanimated for the occasion, belting out the tunes in the corner as we ate our way into the early hours of Saturday morning. My brother -the best man- gave a speech that was both sweet and utterly mortifying, and carried it off with eloquence he didn't know he had. My parents reminisced about their own wedding (at 22 years of age, it seems unimaginable now) and my faith in romance felt magically restored.

So here's to optimism. I hope a few more of my mates decide to tie the knot soon, because in spite of the rain and the swankles, it's put me in a good mood.

Bright eyed and bushy tailed

I love the day after a hangover. It feels like the world's been put to rights again, anything's possible and fun's inevitable. I was in the horrors yesterday. Had a meeting with my soon-to-be-fellow cyclists on Wednesday afternoon, then bonded over a pint. And then another. And then some wine, and so on and so forth til it was time to go home because the tattooed lady behind the bar told me so. As I tripped the light fantastic all the way back to the flat I thought, "hey, these people, they're nice. This cycling lark could be fun!" When I woke at 5am with a hangover so scaldy I thought I was having a stroke, I wasn't so convinced.

I had a disastrous day in work, bumbling retardedly through the day. Things worsened at 5pm though when I decided to meet my mam, as arranged, for a spot of shopping. We're off to a wedding in Italy soon and need to look presentable for it. And not only for the ceremony, but for the entire 4 days. Horror. There's only so long I can feign respectability for, and 4 days far exceeds any of my previous attempts. Anyway, never go shopping with a hangover. Or with your mam. I got home at 9pm, with a horrible dress and a lump in my throat so glad was I to see the couch.