Going to the CamdenTownHallRegistryOffice, gonna get Ma-ah-ahried.

As I am currently waiting for my Decree Nisi to come through the mail, I thought it might be a good time to write about how the whole thing came about in the first place.

I moved to the UK on a Working Holiday Visa in 2003 and promptly fell in love. For as long as we could, we ignored my immigration status, we then had the terrible tug of war about getting married in order to not split up.

Marriage won.

12 weeks before my visa was due to expire, my now soon to be ex-husband proposed.

We cried, we kissed, we panicked.

10 weeks to plan a wedding and lose three stone. Each. Ha.

I planned everything from my office, ate little else but raw spinach and started going to dress fittings. I had designed the dress myself but was frequently told by the woman who I was paying that in-fact, I did not want any of the things I was asking for from this dress. Slowly she created a dress that I loathed.

It was very suddenly the night before the wedding. I spent it down the road from my fiance in a travel lodge, eating minstrels and watching Stephen King’s Misery with Kathy Bates in. Then I got up in the morning, smoked about 60 fags and waltzed into the registry office at Camden Town Hall.

I’d burned a CD to play during the ceremony which would not work in their stereo. I’d planned to walk down the aisle to “I want a little Sugar in my Bowl”. We ended up with some mild classical music that I didn’t recognise, which by the time we were signing the registry, had begun a crescendo, which sounded remarkably like the soundtrack to The Omen.

As newlyweds, all that was left was to get horrendously drunk, which we did with gusto. We held the reception in a moderately classy room above a pub in St. John’s Wood. I’d abandoned my shoes, the stairs were carpeted. I fell down them twice.

I have very little recollection of the rest of the evening, there is charming photo of me floating around somewhere, fag in one hand, fizzy wine in the other, make up smeared, clearly lecturing someone. I cannot recall it but have been reliably informed that Highway to Hell was playing when we cut the cake.

We were then bundled into a taxi and passed out in our wedding clothes.

It was quite a day.

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