We won some champagne in a raffle.

So, after not posting our engagement photos on Facebook and realising that this had no negative effect on my life whatsoever, I’ve been enjoying sharing less on t’internet. After all, you don’t need to know if I’m enjoying an impromptu pint on the picturesque idyll of the common, handling birds of prey in the Cotswolds or salivating over a succulent hunk of slow roast beef in a sunny, al fresco barbeque at the cricket club. Who cares if I’m chewing on a piece of meat? You’re probably not that fussed that the wheels of Project Wedding are in motion, that I’m on sparknotes in preparation for a trip to see Hamlet or that the fourth finger of my left hand is about to become photogenic with a touch of bling. I dunno, maybe you might have been a tad interested but I don't like to assume you would have been. Any which way, you were in no way worse off for not knowing that these things happened. My life would have been no better had you known I was doing these things.

Hang on – I’ve barely started and this already sounds a bit self-righteous. It’s not meant to be. I’m not for a second suggesting that you hold back from posting whatever takes your fancy. Go ahead and tell the world what you had for dinner, or whatevs. I’m also not turning all hippy and removing every trace of myself from the social media bubble - far from it. I love Facey-B; I’m staying put! How did anyone organise anything without it? Life pre-FB would have been a logistical nightmare. And, most importantly, I’m definitely not declaring that I will never upload a non-essential photo to FB again. Some things, such as afternoon tea (especially if vintage china’s involved), rarely escape the lens of my camera. Nothing wrong with taking a purdy pic and sharing the odd one here or there. On a similar note, neither am I promising to refrain from posting anything inane about my day ever again (sometimes you’ve just got to let the world know how much you want to be Kirstie Allsopp). All I’m saying is that the refreshing feeling of not needing to document everything has lasted. I like it. I feel kinda free.

BUT – I’m not sure how much longer this lessened activity is going to last. You see, last weekend, I signed my life away to Facebook’s privacy sapping sister…

I got Instagram. 

Hypocrite! I hear you cry! You can't proclaim the joy of freeing yourself from the internet and get Instagram! Instagram is for people who overshare! People who make sure you’re aware of their every purchase and apply filters to make said purchases look more expensive! People who document their every meal and expect you to 'like' their food! People who dress up their pets and give them a retro vibe through a slightly blurred Nashville filter! Instagram is merely bait for opinion and is not for people like you if you really are who you claim to be!

Well, I hear you and am very aware of the danger involved in this move. The trouble is, there is one significant problemo: Instagram makes stuff look real nice. Like, real nice. Thus, rightly or wrongly, it turns out that there is an apparent increased desire to click share. Sadly, my current profile picture suggests that I’m already on the slippery slope to being in your face – i'm holding an owl and a Brannan filter has been applied. And I blurred it a bit. And felt the insta-magic.

Crap.

Well, while we’re on the subject, here’s a pic of the champagne we won in a raffle last Sunday. For charity, obvs. Just sayin’.

The Proposal Story: The Final Chapter

It was meant to be

 

 

I reckon everything happens for a reason. You know, even general life guff. Sometimes, there are sure-fire signs which prove that it was meant to be.

For example, when we moved into our flat, I knew that it was definitely The One because there is a picture hook, centred above the hatch in the living room, which is perfectly placed to hold our cardboard trophy deer head. Not only that, but there is a little shelf in the bathroom which is the perfect size for my wicker toiletries basket. To say these are signs that we are in the right flat might sound farfetched, but the picture hook couldn’t have been better placed and the shelf is the exact same size as the basket. Similarly, I knew I’d ended up in the right school because it turned out that I’d got the exact same car (model, colour, registration year and everything) AND the same middle name as the teacher I was paired with. And there have already been wedding related signs too.  Only last weekend, as we were setting off to investigate a couple of reception venues, Radio 2 played Here Comes the Bride. I had been unsure whether it was the right day to do wedding research, but that told me it most definitely was.

Losing the camera on holiday falls into the same category of events. When we first realised it was gone, I was gutted. However, I now know that it was definitely meant to be because it taught me a number of things... 

You know how it is – you go on holiday, get snap happy, return home, sort out the pics (delete any which make you look fat or ugly) and whack the best on Facebook for the viewing pleasure of everybody else. Up the mountain, I thought the photo of us sitting next to each other on the snow just after he’d proposed was destined to be my profile pic, fo sho. However, this obviously wasn't to be. Without a camera, I couldn’t get home and get on the upload. I felt sad about this at first; it really had been perfect and I wanted the world to know how perfect it was dammit! I really do love my camera and my photos are my prized possessions. They’re always in my top three things I’d save from my house if it was on fire (every time just narrowly pipped to the top spot by the cat).

Surprisingly though, after the initial shocker of realising the camera was gone, it wasn’t long before I realised I wasn’t actually that sad about losing it, which was weird. So I thought about why this was and had a moment of revelation when I worked it out. I realised that it didn’t matter that we couldn’t share the photos because the moment itself was what mattered – you know the actual life bit – not the pretty representation on paper.  Nothing could take away from the magic of that moment on the mountain. Photos are lovely but what actually happens is better. It seems obvious now but definitely didn’t before. Important lesson learnt.

Not only that, but we didn’t actually need the photos to share the joy either because we’ve both been blessed with a brain and a mouth so we could talk to people!  Who’d have thunk it? I do like trying to paint a picture with words, which is why I decided to write about it too, as a kind of replacement for the photos. And now that The Proposal Story seems to have morphed into something equivalent in length to a short book, as it turns out, I quite like that we have kept something to ourselves. It feels a bit more like our special moment, which nobody else will see. Bit less in your face innit? Wouldn’t want to be accused of oversharing or anything…

Oh and another lesson I learnt from it: don’t lose the camera on holiday.

The End.

Disclaimer: If we become the subjects of one of those miracle stories where a missing camera turns up a decade after being lost (maybe the snow will melt away to reveal it?), I can't guarantee that you won't see the photos. Of course, if it turns up, it was totally meant to be.

 

The Proposal Story: Chapter Two

Lost

After I’d said yes and managed to regain some composure, we started to make our way down the mountain. All of a loved up dither, I seemed to lose all capacity to ski. As well as feeling hugely distracted by the brilliance of the surprise, I was also challenged by the hazy visibility so I regressed to going at snail’s pace and resorted to my snow plough. Whenever The Husband To Be turned around to check I’d not broken myself, I’d switch to parallel turns, pick up the pace and try to look cool so that he didn’t think he’d just proposed to a complete idiot. 

We gently made our way down to Arc 1950, a picturesque little village which you can ski through en route down the mountain. It was from here that we made our first excited phone calls to share the news with the family. The potential for cheese overload here is too much to risk, so suffice to say that it was completely perfect and I hope I never forget it. We took a few lush photos, sent a few texts and then got the piste map out to decide on our route back to Arc 1800 (the resort we were staying in).

On the way back, I continued to neglect my ski technique and let my mind fill with all the wedding ideas I’d tried to supress since we’d been together for about six months. All of a sudden it was legit to peruse wedding blogs – no more would I have to minimise the internet browser window if in danger of getting caught in the act! Not only that, but now the bookmarked page I had of a ring I quite liked didn’t have to be secret, I’d been granted permission to practise the signature I’d use as a mrs AND I’d have an actual excuse for ripping pictures out of friends’ wedding magazines! Hold on – I could buy my own! I could make a scrapbook! I nearly crashed a number of times.

Fortunately, we managed to make it back without any injuries from lack of concentration. On our return to the apartment, we flung open the front door and asked our friends if they fancied coming to a wedding. After a few confused glances, the penny dropped and the waterworks started.  We flashed the plastic (he proposed with a temporary fashion ring) and told the story and it was really exciting. After a bit, The Husband To Be got in the shower. I remembered that we could show the guys our photos from the morning and was looking forward to sharing the picture of us sitting on the snow just after he’d proposed in particular. So I fished around in my salopette pockets to locate the camera. But it wasn't there.

I immediately assumed we’d put it in the backpack instead so I didn’t panic. After a quick rummage through, I still couldn’t find it. No matter, it’d be in The Husband To Be’s ski jacket. Except that it wasn’t. Or maybe his ski pants? Nope. Merde. A wave of dread came upon me and a few frantic minutes of double checking each of these places ensued. It soon became apparent that in the excitement of the moment, we’d only gone and left the friggin camera, which had on it the most amazing photo of the most amazing day of the most amazing holiday ever, up the friggin mountain. There was only one thing to be done: someone was going to have to go back up to search for it.

The Husband To Be emerged from the shower smelling fresh and fragrant and completely oblivious to the bombshell I was about to drop. This was going to be the first test of our engagement. He knows I love my photos. 

“I can’t find the camera anywhere.”

“Anywhere?”

“No. I need it.” 

The Husband To Be, who had already surpassed every expectation I had, pulled his sweaty snowboarding gear straight back on over his clean body. This was true love. He made his way back out into the snow where the visibility was getting worse by the minute. Like a hero, he ascended the mountain and boarded back down, retracing the route we’d taken and searched for the camera. He asked at the tourist information office in Arc 1950, he asked at the chair lift we’d taken after leaving Arc 1950 and stayed out looking for as long as he could whilst I kept my fingers crossed back at the apartment. No luck. It was gone.

I couldn’t help but feel completely gutted at first. But strangely, although I do absolutely LOVE my photos, in this case, for some reason, I wasn’t as distraught as I expected I might be. It was wrong to feel gutted about anything when the best ever thing had just happened. In fact, on reflection, I’ve decided that losing the camera was meant to be…

The Proposal Story: Chapter One

And the award goes to...

One night in Les Arcs, we went to a quiz. Over dinner, before we walked to the bar, we tested each other on classic quiz question fodder: capital cities, geographical landmarks, celebrity baby names, current affairs, the Olympics etc. and we felt confident that as a collective (there were eight of us) we weren’t too shoddy in the brains department. We’d booked the holiday through a snowsports tour operator which specialises in student trips, so actually this was going to be a walk in the park – we’d be pitted against a bunch of inebriated undergrads! There was no way we wouldn't reign victorious!

However, the quiz organisers obviously had students in mind when they prepared the evening’s entertainment. But this was no University Challenge, oh no. Brains didn’t matter so much – you needed brawn. Marks aplenty were on offer for various challenges other than answering questions correctly. Had we thought of a highly inappropriate and distasteful team name, been prepared to perform a human pyramid in the middle of the packed out bar, braved a long arm pint, stripped naked on the square or transferred a gobful of beer from mouth to mouth around the table we would definitely have come away with the win. Had certain friends been there we would have TRIUMPHED.

Anyway, we may not have won, but the quiz gave me inspiration. Best idea ever - I decided I’d write a blog about our ski trip in the style of a student tour awards! It was gonna be hilarious. All I had to do was think up some awards. On a chair lift up the mountain one morning, I mentioned this to the girls just in case they had any ideas as it was a few days since the quiz and I hadn’t gathered together a vast amount of material. All I had was this:

Ideas

Biggest dick: Dick (coach driver), awarded for spouting a constant stream of utter crap from the moment we departed Clacket Lane Services until we reached Les Arcs, and subjecting us to the same sexist, foul mouthed and ill informed tripe for the entirety of the journey home too. 

Best at reading a bus timetable: Christian, awarded for his ability to navigate home via bus after getting lost on the mountain. Twice.

Most likely to faff: everyone apart from Rich, who sat in the corridor outside our rooms for twenty minutes one morning, ready to ski, waiting for everybody else who was late because they were faffing around with their goggles/snacks/gloves/boots/hair/face/socks/camera/money/ski pass/bindings etc. 

A few days later and I hadn’t got much further in my thinking than this but it didn’t faze me. As The Boyfriend and I ascended the mountain on our final morning of skiing, I still had a few ideas running round my head and was confident some more would come.  Looking back, I wonder if he had been able to mind read what I was thinking in the gondola that morning, or whether he'd overheard my conversation with the girls on the chairlift. I think he wanted to win an award himself, because at the top of that mountain, he blew everything else out of the water in a moment of fabulousness when he asked me to be his wife. And then the awards were written.

Les Arcs 2013 Awards

Being The Best Ever: The Husband To Be.

The Proposal Story: Prologue

Prithee, lend me thine ears for I'm about to rip off Shakespeare...

The offspring of two households, both alike in dignity,

In the fair French Alps, where we lay our scene,

From forth the music society break to Aiguille Grive,

Where four words make for the most friggin amazeballs surprise in the whole entire world ever.

The son of one family and the daughter of another, seven years fond,

Cross off step one to becoming a housewife - 'get engaged' - from her bucket list.

The enamoured pair, whose adventures ere took them hither and thither,

Doth, with a ring, in the lush and lusty snow, commend to be wed.

She will wed him in another key,

With loved ones, and with much revelry (and the wine will be flowing most definitely).
The events from whence lead to this engagement,
Are now the words thou shall read for thy contentment.
The which, if you with patience attend,
What here shall miss, my hopefully not too cheesy writing shall strive to mend...

Progress

I’ve returned to the motherland this weekend but this evening I’ve been abandoned. Chris has temporarily flown the nest and is testing the parents’ nerves by jaunting off to Thailand for a month (with ambitions of being photographed alongside elephants, dog meat, ladyboys and all sorts). The parents are combatting the post-traumatic stress of his departure by having a jovial evening at the annual tennis club dinner. Anyway, in their absence, I've taken the opportunity to declutter my hard drive (OH YEH). In my clean up, I’ve realised that I have nearly as many un-posted blog entries as I do ones which were passed for public consumption.

This one was very interesting to read back…

 

23/04/12

I should be revelling in the fact that it’s Friday night. The night I have looked forward to all week. The distant night on the horizon, so close but so far away. However, instead of basking in it now that it's finally arrived, I have not long recovered from what could be called a mild panic attack (face tingling and everything). See, I am occasionally inclined (or not so occasionally, depending on who you ask) to feel sorry for myself when it comes to workload. I have mentioned said workload previously, so I probs don’t really need to spell it out. (But in case you’re not sure what I’m alluding to – I work like a friggin machine. Constant.)

Looking forward to the sanctum of Friday night, I left school at 6pm and headed to Sainsbury’s for a quick sweep.  Exhaustion crept upon me and I made my way home with only some Innocent smoothie, a packet of prawns and some leaves. Got back, and tiredness, plus a messy flat, plus hunger, plus carrying in bags and heavy boxes of work like an overladen donkey, plus an unrealistic expectation that on the stroke of 6pm I'd be washed in some sort of ethereal elation for the coming of the weekend, plus over heating (must banish the ski jacket to the cupboard) equalled despair. Much despair. Thankfully, post panic comfort came in the form of cuddles, a long soak in the bath and a sizeable glass of plonk.

Now, this probably didn’t make the cut originally because I didn’t want to come across as negative, which might make you wonder why I’m posting it now. Well, I’m posting it now because, reading this a year on, I’m feeling rather pleased about the realisation that my workload related resilience has obviously improved. Last week was mammoth (two parents’ evenings plus assessments galore served to challenge my capacity to cope) but, somehow, it was ok. I won’t lie, I suffered a few, intermittent bouts of minor malaise but I got over them. Any discontent seemed to be outweighed by positive stuff. It was a week of epic proportions but it was ok. This is progress. Progress has been made! This calls for a sizeable glass of plonk.