How hard can it be?
One day, one single day, that's all I wanted. One day when all my hopes and dreams would come together in a perfect celebration of love and happiness. Just one week into organising the Big Day and already I'm beginning to have nagging doubts about whether this wedding will ever happen. Indeed, I'm seriously concerned that the thought of Gretna Green has sprung to mind so early in the proceedings. So, what happened?

Since Alan's proposal, each day has consisted of mounting excitement and frantic list making. I've laid awake at nights, sat dreaming over the keyboard at work, spent pounds in WHSmith on every bridal magazine on the shelves. My thoughts are full of swirling silk and softly scented roses, of tiny bridesmaid shoes and ancient pews filled with adoring guests.

Even my parents have received the news of the wedding in a delighted and strangely relieved manner. Apparently, my father confided, it had become increasingly difficult (even in these enlightened times) for my mother to explain away my unmarried state to her soft-perm and purple-rinse cronies.

My older sister Helen (named after the face that classically launched a whole armada and therefore comfortably 'not plain') informed me that she had had no doubts whatsoever that I would make it down the aisle - eventually. And by the way Jodie, age 5, likes pink and would love to be flower girl. Dominic, she didn't think would be old enough at 18 months for a starring role.

Right, fine! It's started already. I was warned about this. Gill, my bosom friend since St. John's Infants, is a self-declared fount of all knowledge (most of it not much use). Anyway, she's read all the horror stories, you know the ones - the wedding car breaking down, the church flooding, the groom ending up in casualty with concussion. Well, that's bad enough, but then there are also the interfering busybodies who want to tell you how to run YOUR wedding.

Well thanks, but no thanks. Mental note - no pink! No-one, absolutely no-one is going to interfere with my Big Day.

Not so my intended. Alan, having obviously completed his part in the whole affair with his two-minute proposal, has sat back with a bemused detachment to watch the ongoing entertainment. After all he says, in that superior male way, the wedding day is over 13 months away. How much time do I really need?

I (or rather I mean, we) had decided on the first Saturday in September as the poignant day to say our vows. So, I made a shortlist of places I fancied for the romantic wedding reception and today started phoning around in my lunch hour. If I heard one more polite but final "I'm sorry, but that's a very popular day" I was going to scream.

Nothing else for it, I went immediately online to check the train times for Scotland.

Saturday 26 June 2004
Today I threw all the wedding magazines into the bottom of the cupboard. They are keeping good company with the already noted box of football literature. And, comforted by a king size bar of Cadbury Fruit and Nut, I watched Dirty Dancing for the hundredth time.

It worked its magic - true love will triumph even in the face of all adversity. I wiped away the self-indulgent tears and filled with renewed hope, rescued the pile of bridal mags from the cupboard.

Sunday 27 June 2004
Alan's parents came to visit to add support to the flagging wedding plans. After the first two glasses of red, Fran (Alan's mother) was happy to fill me in about men (well, her man). She was able to fully recount the night when Bill proposed to her. Night? Do I really want to know this? I poured her another glass.

There she was, apparently dressed to kill in old anorak and wellies, in a cold, smelly barn and surrounded by heaving sweating sheep. Ok, got the picture. Lambing time. Should have guessed. I went to make the coffee. It was at this point, however, that the conversation took a drastic turn - barns, Young Farmers, parties and dancing. I'm not sure who first suggested having the reception old MacDonald style, since I was only half listening, but I froze with horror. My wedding - in a farmyard? I had visions of steaming cow pats, bales of straw, and mud spattered green wellies. The milk jug slipped and I burst into tears. Again.

Fran and Bill tactfully left without their coffee. I went back to sitting miserably on the sofa. Something in my face must have triggered a spark of sympathy from my intended (it could have been the bloated eyes, the red blotches or the runny nose) because he joined me with a resigned sigh.

What sort of wedding do you want? He asked.
Romantic, beautiful and memorable, I cried.
What about happy, fun and enjoyable? He said.
I sniffed dolefully. Maybe he had a point.

He then went on to explain that Fran had actually suggested contacting a neighbouring farmer for the use of his meadow (not his farmyard then). Apparently this patch of grass is set beside a small pond and wooded copse and is reasonably flat - flat enough for a marquee. Whilst Alan extolled the virtues of good access, ample parking and no neighbours within 3 miles, I was dreaming of my white silk gown rustling over the meadow flowers, glasses of amber champagne and the romantic strains of violins over still waters. Perfect!

We've decided then? Oh yes, please! Thank heaven for interfering busybodies, that's all I can say!

I lay awake in the quiet darkness full of happy thoughts, warm dreams - and only one remaining question. I had meant to ask Alan how he feels about Gretna Green - well, you know, just in case.