A week to go to our wedding. Iwan has just jetted in and was whisked straight from Coffs International Airport to Stuart and Glen's digital telly where we could watch the Wales-Ireland game. It would be unseemly to gloat here, so I'll do it elsewhere instead.
Yesterday, Sara went off to a rehearsal at the hairdresser's. The idea of a rehearsal for a haircut was new to me, I must admit. I've been banned from visiting my barber between now and the ceremony on the grounds that I might end up looking like a convict, as usual. I went surfing instead (nasty southerlies whipped up a viscous sweep. Very tricky). However, I did check the tides for next Saturday. As we're getting married on the beach, this seemed like a good move, though possibly I've left it a bit late. Nearly everyone can swim, or at least float, and we'll have a surf board on hand for signing the register, so I think we'll be fine. Could give new meaning to the phrase "the sea of matrimony." On the other hand, as they say here, "she'll be right, mate."
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