When Danny got down on one knee, almost six months ago in Carmel, California, I said yes instantly and then collapsed in hysterics.

I didn’t see it coming. Sounds weird as we had been together almost three years (or over three years, depending on when you take the dates from), we lived together, we had two cats, were happy. But I didn’t.

The day after he proposed we drove to Santa Barbara, met my friend Jess and I started to think about the wedding.

I got up early, stole downstairs and sat at Jess’s mum’s breakfast table, cluttered with the debris from Jess’s wedding to Steve, which took place a few days beforehand. (nb: that* was an amazing amazing wedding). I sat there with my Donald Duck notepad and tried to write down all the things I needed to do. The list seemed endless and overwhelming. I then sat and wrote down everyone I wanted to
come to the wedding. This list, too, seemed endless.

Since then I have written around eight different lists. I have put them on excel sheets, on google spreadsheets, back to my Donald Duck pad, on my iPad, on my iPhone, on my work PC.

Am I any closer to having anything organised? Am I hell.

The wedding is in six months. I have a dress, he has a suit. We have a menu, we have a website. We have flights, a venue. We have some decorations. We have about a million candle holders.

We have a stressed bride to be.