Yes, we do want to know whether it's a Frog or Frogette but we'll have to wait another few weeks for that.
Let the bullet points begin:
- 17DEC: I have to stop smoking. I decide to try Champix (varenicline). First tab today. Smokes already getting annoying.
- 18DEC: At a "party" in the Hofbräuhaus with mostly cool cow-orkers, I spill the beans: getting married, having a kid. CoolGuy (a.k.a. Shrek) insists on a stag night which includes a 5-hr train to Hamburg (each way) and no hotel a day before we leave to Ingerland to be there a week before the festivities. We'll end up in strip clubs (which I loathe) and they'll buy me a bunch of "lap dances" (which I loathe even more). What's the fucking point?
- No, sweetiehoneybabyloveofmylife, no passport yet. No idea when it's coming and no way to find out the progress. I miss you. Are you OK? Oh, fuck. No worries. Look, by hook or by crook I'll be there. We are getting married. Honest. I love you too, more than you can imagine.
- Passport returned by courier on the 20th, only a week late. No accompanying papers, just the passport in a courier envelope with nothing else. 34 hours to xmas shop and find a catsitter. Have a smoke as postie leaves. Tastes like shit and no buzz.
- Got a 15-day rental from 1car1. Made girl laugh on a shitty day; total cost incl. xmas & NYE: £233.
- Flight to UK and customs uneventful, a first.
- Long drive with RIG's favourite uncle who picked me up at Stansted. Longer because he's not so hot with a map or me yelling, "RIGHT! The M1 is a RIGHT TURN!" I got to see far too much of Leicester which we should've only gone past.
- Text en route from RIG: More bleeding. Bed rest again. She's not meeting me with Dad and Bro.
- Meet Dad and Bro, we have dinner. Favourite Uncle leaves as do we. I have my 4th useless smoke of the day.
- Champix side-effects I experience: very vivid dreams, nightmares, broken sleep, some nervousness/jitteriness.
- Surprise! I have a fever. Fever dreams, fear, sweats, you name it, I got it. Bed's soaked when I get up but fever broke.
- I have RIG's presents but since I also permanently have her presence it's hard to wrap them in secret. Hospital rings back: AOK.
- I have to cook xmas dinner -- my gift to fambly and also my trial-by-fire. Did you know I've never cooked a fucking goose before? Neither did RIG until she read this entry. Menu is 4-course and slightly ambitious but do-able.
- Tueday: Tesco! Fucktons of shopping and more people than wares on the shelves. People waiting everywhere for stock boys to refill shelves in order to empty them. We remember to get ginger beer to calm RIG's stomach.
- Wednesday: drive to Bolton with Dad and his not-terribly-world-culture-friendly Geordie friend to a large market. No raspberries, chestnuts or cranberries but damned near everything else. RIG texted me to tell me there were no hearts of palm to be found anywhere. I come up with a different salad idea and go back to buy more stuff. Dad & I snag around 5lb. of cod for £18. Sweet. I buy more veg to make Friday dinner with that.
- Wednesday afternoon: prep for five fucking hours. Mum & Dad want to help and watch and ask lots of questions. RIG runs to clinic again due to spotting. I explain that I could just as easily feed 50 as the 5 expected; the amount of work is about the same.
- Wednesday night: Dad leaves the house for a fambly emergency. There is much I do not yet know or understand. I'm asked if I can feed a sixth. No prob.
- I go out for a smoke (second of the day). Tastes like shit, leaves me stinky, have to stay away from RIG for half an hour as the stench dissipates.
- Thursday morning: Kitchen. Eggs Benedict in the morning which RIG makes becaue... oddly enough, there's no fucking whisk to be found so that I can make the Hollandaise. She does her Packet Magic.
- Breakfast done, I cook. RIG and Mum leave to visit her gran; Dad wants to help. I give him tasks like peeling spud and mixing some cake filling for half an hour to make it airy.
- Where The Fuck are the Brussels Sprouts? We lost them either to the Geordie or in the bar we three hit before leaving the Bolton Market (probably the former). No one is terribly upset but I've put a lot of effort into making them taste "not shite".
- Dinner is a rousing success except for the damned roast potatoes (with real goose fat). Mum's spuds the night before were, with my suggestions, perfect. Mine were ass.
- Went out for a victory cigarette. Meh. No rush. No relaxation.
- We eat too much. RIG and I go upstairs and crash. She bleeds again. We are not worried; we've been through this.
- Champix side-effects not abating. Sleep is sporadic and interrupted, dreams are vivid, half are nightmares. Also, attempts to smoke end in annoyance.
- Friday morning: Santa visited. RIG's fambly goes more for quantity than quality. I shall learn. Massive present overload. RIG's tests are fine.
- Friday night: I cook the bloody cod which has marinated for 2 days with some spud and princess beans. Well-received. Prep wasn't 30 minutes (with Dad asking questions and begging to help) and cooking not 15.
- RIG comes up early absolutely livid. Dad. I should go and give her some alone time but somehow I sensed I should stay. I do. She slowly unlivified herself and we enjoyed each other. My back paid the price but there is calm.
- Saturday (today): appointment with National Trust site for wedding which can hold 60 people. Looks good. Costs a bloody fortune: £1100 for a Friday! Saturday -- much better for all attending -- is impossible.
- Visit NHS clinic because I got my passport with visa back around 11:40a.m. on Friday and all docs close office around noon. I need 2-4 more weeks' worth of Champix to cover me until I'm back. They don't do prescriptions. RIG texts a doc friend who might be able to write a 'scrip.
- Woolworth's is oing out of business. We're already close and we go in. We buy baby stuff: socks, bibs, nipple protectors (hers, not the baby's), and other sundry stuff.
- Not-overcooked lamb, mash, frozen-but-seasoned(!) carrots and undercooked broccoli for dinner courtesy of mum who's trying hard to implement the lessons imparted.
- RIG is continually annoyed. Hormones and body stretching. Belly-Frog is relentless. I do my best to be supportive and not annoy her further.
- We have lists to make and complete a few of them, including finalisation of the guest list and which bits each shall attend, a To Do list which begins Sunday (today/tomorrow), and a list of transport/hotel knowledge/options/needs. This shit has to be done in the next few weeks
This is supposed to be a small, toned-down, easy-going shindig. Lessee now, £1100 for the hall, £350 for the registrars to attend, £220 for post-ceremony champagne, £400-700 for a bus to carry those without vehicles (including a city tour for non-dinner guests), £3000 for dinner, £800 for my best friend's flight and hotel, £400 for the same for sis should she grace us with her presence, £600-1000 for brunch the next morning... and don't forget the £700 for the bridal suite on Friday night because we'll be damned if we're sleeping in the separate 2'6" wide beds in her parents' 10°C guest room after we wear each others' rings and go through all of this.
Crib. Baby clothes. Nipple protectors. Baby socks. Lists. Invitations. Hotel room blocs. Bureaucracies. In less than nine weeks we'll be married and she'll be clearly showing. There'll be a ring on my left paw.
At least she should be over the vomitaceous stage.
P.S.: Any HuSian we don't dislike who fancies a drive to the Mersey area at the end of February is welcome to stop by after the ceremony (only 60 people or so fit inside) to meet, greet, and grab some champers and buffet food. PM your RSVP for confirmation; we have doormen. Or you could try your luck at the Saturday brunch which may be less populous. Again, PM and confirmation necessary.
P.P.S.: ti_whateveritisthisyear: Congratulations on not smoking all year, don't give me shit. I'm trying hard, motherfucker.
P.P.P.S.: I just looked over at a sleeping RIG. Goddamn I'm in love which, under the circumstances, is probably a good thing.
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