This is entirely fiction. Completely. Utterly. Except for any true bits
April 30th: First Of Her Name announces three line whip for this evening. When I query the timing (Champions League semi, etc) the words I’ve been dreading but I knew were coming are uttered. ‘Wedding Planning’.
7 pm convene in reconstituted dining room, now to be known as Centre of Operations (Wedding). When the Fiancé points out the acronym, he is belaboured about head. Then it is my turn. ‘What have I done wrong?’ ‘You were about to laugh.’
This is both unfair (how could she know?) and true (I was). Take punishment like a Quisling husband should.
9 pm. Brain awash with facts and statistics and flow charts and mind maps and lists but one specific item holds front and centre. The Wedding Estimate. Apparently this is ‘reasonable’ but ‘subject to known and unknown variables’. Male Heir says ‘So were London Olympics’ and I lose consciousness at thought of spending £9.35 billion on a wedding. When I come to, the room is empty and the table cleared. Everyone has gone to bed. My eyes finally resume their ability to focus. On the flip-chart someone has written: ‘Pillock’.
Stay up and spend next three hours googling ‘how can I hide my assets off shore’. We can all do some planning.