I'll be yours if you'll be mine...

Wedding days are special and beautiful. They make people love each other, and there are so many flowers and friends there. They are heart felt and real because of all the love happening. I know this to be true because I had a wedding two weeks ago. The Boy married me all lovely and romantic like. And I'ma tell you about it right now.

So sit your sweet peach down on the sofa or the ground and listen with your peepers, because here's the deet's.

The Boy and I had been planning this party for so long we forgot it was a real thing that would actually happen one day, and so when the day arrived it didn't feel quite real. I woke up and my sister, Jessicatty, said "Happy Wedding Day!" and I said "Thank you" and had a shower. I then had some tasty coco pops. Because on your wedding day you can eat anything for breakfast.

I got all ready, a hairdresser did my hair and when I returned, my 'maids were there (bridesmaids, not servants) to help me get excited and ready. It was a lovely sunny day and we had some photos in the garden. Then it was time to get into the VW campervan we had ready for us, me and me ol' Dad, and drive to the church. Our chauffeur was Henry, The Boy's brother and he did a good job (he also got all emotional which made me feel like a bride in the films, where people stop and cry in the streets because she's so beautiful).

I'd planned this whole dramatic entrance of the bride which achieved the desired effect, people were crying left, right and centre! So was The Boy. He had begun to well up as my maids traipsed in all dainty, and then at the grand moment, I walked through the doors, sparkling like a summer snowflake in my dress, all beauty and peace, he really went for it. Lots of tears and that.

It made me feel special though. Anyway, the wedding itself went well, my almost sister in law, Vicki, read a bit of my favourite book (the Bible, not Harry Potter, although it was a toss-up between that reading and the bit in Harrry P where Harry tells Voldemort he'll never know love)

Our friends Gareth and Tara prayed for us which was super special and meant a lot. Super Knomes led the worship with a great band, and our friend Tom read a reading about love. Ahhhhh.

It was quite weird with everyone looking at us all day. I'd be sipping a brew, or talking about having a wedgie, or something else equally private and someone would take a photo from across the way. The hard thing was when you glance around the garden and see someone taking a photo, do you ignore them because they obviously wanted a 'natural' shot, or do you smile at them!? Tricky tricky.

Also, when you're a bride, everyone has to do things for you. Jessicatty had everything I could ever need in her handbag. Perfume, hairspray, hairpins, sellotape, etc. When we got food, I casually mentioned how much I love the crispy bits of dauphinois potatoes and so the waitress scraped the top layer off and gave it to me!

Anyway, the day was incredible. There was a cake (my Mum had made, it was so good), bagpipes (Handle insisted on contributing by playing, despite us and him having zero links to Scotland), a barn dance (do-si-do, strip the willow, swiiiiing your partner), herbs (who doesn't want a free herb!?) and two shiny sparkly rings.

So now I'm a Mrs. I've learnt a new autograph and learnt how to share the bed every single night. I'm learning how to not get cross when the toilet seat is left up and how to take it in turns to watch my programmes. (It goes Gardener's World, Made in Chelsea, Gardener's World, Made in Chelsea...)

Come round for a brew and I'll introduce you to my husband, The Boy.
Love Mrs Hannan The Boy
xxx

3 more sleeps until I'm Mrs The Boy...

In 3 more sleeps I get to have the best party ever and become married to the love of my life, The Boy. I feel quite excited, like someone is tickling my tummy with a feather, or like a group of tiny vandals are climbing down into my tummy and graffiti-ing on the lining of my stomach. Planning this party has been a long and arduous mission. Fun at times, scary at times, sometimes stressful but all very exciting. It got me thinking about all the things that will change when I become Mrs The Boy.
Here are my thoughts written down...

1. I will have a different last name.

I have had a name for 27 years and I know how to spell it, pronounce it, know what others will change it to when they write it down or call it out wrong at the Doctor's surgery. Know how much room to leave when writing it on a line. I can sign it in a signature (although every time I do, I get to the start of my last name and begin to panic thinking "I can't remember hOW TO SIGN MY NAME!!!" but by the time I've thought this thought I look down to see I have signed it perfectly. Every time, I panic and every time it is just right). So after my wedding I will have a sparkly new golden name to learn. Its an unusual one and it has a 'z' in it so I feel ever so exotic. I will have to learn what to say when people say "Ooh, where's that from?", learn which names to listen for at the dentist for when they mispronounce it, and get used to actually responding to that name instead of looking casually around when I hear it, thinking "I wish Mrs Jezeph would hurry up and go in, I'm waiting for my appointment!!"

2. I'll have to share my house with a boy

I moved out of my flat away from Crazy Meg in April (*sob*) and missed having a living companion a lot. I quickly got used to living on my own though, and quite liked the idea that, if I put something away, or in a specific place, I know it will still be there when I get back from work! I know that there won't be any pants or socks on my bedroom floor, or any beard hairs in the sink. The towels will be hanging on the rail, dry rather than on the floor or bed, wet. However, after W-day, all these things could change. Pants and socks may appear on my lovely floor, beard hairs could appear in the sink like a tiny party of ants sunbathing on a ceramic beach....
Nah, I'm sure it will be fine and actually I'm super excited to come home to The Boy, cooking dinner, handing me a glass of wine and saying "I cleaned the house today darling Hannan"...

3. I should probably buy a beige nightie...

I feel as though getting married means I'm super old and boring now. I was looking at buying some pj's for my honeymoon and happened upon the nightie section of Marks and Spencer (which was the first clue that I'm getting old and boring by the way... Goodbye Topshop, Hello Marks...) I glancd at a flowery, shapeless, floor length nightie and for one fraction of a second, 1% of my brain told me that I should buy it. The rest of my brain however, quickly kicked in and reminded me I am still a young woman. They bustled this 1% of my brain away as if to say "Oh we're er... terribly sorry about him, he's er... not well you see..." as they cover him with a blanket, red faced, and bundle him out of my ear. From that moment on, with the remaining 99% of my brain, I vowed to maintain my youth as long as possible. My mantra is "Getting married doesn't mean you hang up your converse and sparkly tops! Keep those batman girl boxers and don't stop crimping your hair!!!"

4. The Boy may need rebranding...
Since the dawn of this blog, hardcore Hannan Fannans (big up yaselves) will know that I refer to George as The Boy. This was because I originally intended this blog to be sort of annonymous. I thought it would be a fun little secret that people on the interent and I could share. But word got out (from my gob really) that I'd written a little thing called a blog and so people I knew started following it. Calling my boy The Boy however, stuck. BUT...Now we are becoming man and wife, is his name really appropriate? Should he be called The Man... or The Husband!? I don't know. I shall have a think. If you have any thoughts do let me know. Ahhhh life's big problems eh?

This is my last blog as Hannan B. The next one will be written by Hannan J.
How exciting. If you are coming to the wedding (and everyone is invited to the church bit, so do pop along! Ask for details if you want to come), but if you are coming, pray that I don't do anything silly like fall onto the cake, or trip coming down the aisle, or be sick in The Boy's lovely hair...

See you at the church!

Love Hannan xxxxx

P.S. I had an AMAZING hen do, organised by my sister, sisters-in-law to be and bridesmaids and I had such an amazing time. There was crimped hair, tutus, tequila and a Michael Jackson impersonater. What more could a Hannan want? Thanks girls xxx

Flat packed dreams and Swedish meatballs

If you just need to organize

Clutter and mess

There’s only one place

And it’s really the best

 

 It sells lovely boxes

And pictures for walls

Flat packed bookcases

And spicy meatballs

 

It’s big and it’s brilliant

With arrows on the floor

And showrooms, a warehouse

A big spinny door…

 

…You know the answer,

Let’s hear you all cheer,

Hip Hip and Hooray!

We’re off to IKEA!

 So here’s the deal. I’ve moved house into our marital home (as of 25^th May anyway). But all my clothes are in a bin bag in my room because I don’t have a wardrobe. And so we went to IKEA. The Boy borrowed his Mum’s big car to fit all the lovely furniture in and we set off at 4pm on a Friday afternoon. Once we got there The Boy had to have a little play on the trolley, obviously. He scooted around smiling like a dog with his head out of the window. Then it was time to get down to business. Off we went, following the arrows, as is the IKEA rule, looking at all the beautiful pretend rooms. The Boy thought it was hilarious to wheel the trolley through the pretend kitchens and bedrooms saying, “Hi, yes, sorry, just looking….you have a nice kitchen” etc.

 
The real drama started when, 30 minutes before closing time, we were only just out of the show room and into the ‘market’. It started to be a bit like supermarket sweep at this point, frantically grabbing things off the shelves. We got to the warehouse (10 minutes to closing) and began running up and down the aisles with our fully loaded trolley, looking for the right wardrobe. Now, I love IKEA, but the cheap prices and sleek designs come at a price. Nothing is called its real name. If the labels read “Delicious oak coffee table”, or “tall strong wardrobe”, or “that white wall clock everyone owns”, we would all know where we stand. When Crazy Meg and I moved into our old flat we rung up an IKEA receipt about a foot long. We highlighted everything that was mine so when we moved out we would know who had bought what. Except by then we had forgotten what SKUBB was. And LACK. And even GRUNDTAL… SO we had to google every single name, find its picture and identify it like they were accused criminals in a furniture line-up parade.
 

Anyway, all the wardrobe frames, doors and shelves are called PAX apparently at IKEA, so we had a right nightmare trying to find the one we had spied in the showroom. Halfway through dragging a door onto our trolley I remembered I’d forgotten the ONE thing I actually wanted from this once-wonderous now-hellish place; magnetic spice tins. SO I legged it into the lift, 5 minutes til lights out, back up to the showroom to get them. When I came back, The Boy informed me that we had the doors, frames, shelves and hinges for the wardrobe but the handles were….

    ...in

           the

              showroom…

For goodness sake.

 He ran once more up to the dreaded showroom while I tried to drag a flattened chest of drawers onto the trolley. The lights flashed and a voice on the tannoy asked us to leave because it was almost tomorrow and no-one should be shopping at IKEA past 10pm. It was like the end of a night out when a club flashes its lights and sweeps the stragglers into a pile in the corner.

Eventually, The Boy came back and we wheeled everything through the checkout. Obviously we had put all the heavy flat packs the wrong way up on the trolley so they couldn’t be scanned. And obviously the cupboard doors were too long for the car. We had to drive home with them between our heads in the front seats like a partition. It did mean we got to play a fun game of ‘Blind Date’, where we took it in turns to be Cilla, the creepy guy after anything he can get, and the ditzy blonde (George’s favourite role).
 
Despite all the drama, I still love IKEA. I’m sitting here at my sturdy yet affordable coffee table, watching the cheap yet beautifully scented candle flicker in the evening atmosphere and I feel happy. There are boxes with labels in cupboards and clothes colour co-ordinated in my wardrobe.

 

Everything has a place in my house.

Now if only I could organize my thoughts in the same way…

 

Love Hannan xx