The ceremony itself felt intimate and special, spoiled only slightly by the tourists who were stood in the west door talking all the way through although I guess that’s proof that Peters & Newman really are a rock star couple, gate crashers at your wedding! Sadly these wedding crashers were more Berghaus coats and flasks of tea than Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughan but I live in hope for one of the other weddings this summer. Leaving the cathedral the heavens opened and unfortunately yours truly had parked the car miles away leaving us to wend our way down some steep slippery slopes in heels. We had almost made it to the car when E suggested ducking into the fudge shop on Tarrant Street for some sustenance. Cue jokes from the boys about where E packs his fudge… I decided to buy some for the bride & groom and was very pleased to get a message this morning to say that they were lying in bed eating it very contentedly.

The reception was at Amberley Chalk Pits Heritage Museum and after having got lost on the way (oops) we made it there in time for Pimms and canapés and the chance to talk at a normal volume after the hushed reverence of the cathedral. The weather was dire however it meant that the photographs were taken under a beautiful wrought iron verandah which was not only in keeping with the heritage of the place but also fit in well with the black and white colour scheme. The bridesmaids were wearing black cocktail dresses with huge black bows on one shoulder and the ushers looked very dapper in their black and white polka dot braces (yes, I did try a pair on!) however it was P & N who just looked utterly wonderful. Peters’ dress was a stunning off the shoulder affair with a lace underskirt and she just looked radiant, Newman is a very lucky man!

After a delicious hog roast supper the tables were cleared away for the dancing, and the jaeger bombs. I think that’s pretty much all the bar sold once dinner was finished and lucky Mr Newman was subjected to eight of the things, IN A ROW! It’s lucky they have the rest of their lives together to consummate the marriage because I very much doubt there was any chance of any coitus last night. Having been at school with Newman, many moons ago, it was lovely to have the chance to catch up with some old schools friends. Including “Mr Honourable Intentions” (as he shall forever be known), my friend Ferg.

Back in the junior school days, Ferg had a bit of a soft spot for me and expressed it once by turning up at my house with a box of chocolates and a declaration of his affection but he went a bit further than that when he as an eight year old boy, said to my older cousin who was visiting from Canada… “When it comes to Alice, I can assure you my intentions are entirely honourable” Of course nobody’s ever let him forget it and I couldn’t resist asking whether they were still as honourable as they had once been. He’s turned into a total pro-smoothie now so dropped a line about how I was “hot” then and how I’m still hot now. Ooh you flatterer, stop it! No, carry on!

After throwing some shapes on the dance floor, getting a declaration of love from the groom’s father, going to stage 4 of wedding tie wearing AND wearing a pair of spotty braces (thanks LK) plus having my bottom pinched it was time to hitch up the wagon, pour E, K and P into my car and head home. With E on pain of death that if he pooed himself in my car he was going to have to buy me a new one. Sadly he remained in complete control of his bowels… And here was me hoping for an Audi!

Thanks to Peters & Newman now Peters – Newman for allowing me to share in your special day and sending you lots of love for a long and happy life together.

Ps) Sorry for not stopping E & P from pumping young Connor full of sweets… Have you peeled him off the ceiling yet? Seriously, that boy was positively vibrating with sugar! Oops.

Lovely friend decided to take the plunge and switch to a site where your have to part with cold hard cash to sign up in the hopes it would attract men who were classier than sending filthy messages to help them in wanking over their keyboards. I wrote a recommendation for her and after a bit of back and forth where she was worried I had over egged e pudding (I haven’t, shes a catch!) we were ready for her to compose a reply and get her profile live. But that brings with it a whole new set of challenges and before long we (collective, not royal) were in a little bit of a twizzy about how she should conduct herself on this new site. Should she add men to her “favourites” list in the hopes they would take the hint and contact her? Or is that a bit too passive and time wastey? Should she grab the bull by the horns and start sending out messages to men who take her fancy? Or does that go against the rules of “He’s Just Not That Into You”? Should she (we) just stop over thinking it and get on with finding a nice man? Probably. No scratch that, definitely.

I suggested she be assertive and send out messages to men who take her fancy but then there is the dilemma of what to say without sounding like Cheesy McCheesatron from Planet Cheeseball. I sent a message to a gentleman over on the freak site and was honest, said that the initial message was always the hardest, I never knew what to say but we both clearly knew that the subtext was “ooh you’re potentially a bit nice”. He didn’t reply… more fool him.

I have no qualms about talking about Internet dating, it’s surely acceptable now that I’m thirty, that most of my friends are married and running out of single eligible men friends for me to ogle and because I’ve never been a fan of approaching or being approached in bars (I always think people are taking the piss). There are plenty of profiles out there though where the potential date says they’re “happy to lie about how we met” as if it’s some sordid back alley affair or they rescued you from a knife wielding maniac back in the days when you were a crack smoking hooker. It’s not sordid (if you discard the freaks), there are some genuinely nice people online and I think more and more it’s going to move into mainstream.

It’s hard to know what timeline to follow with internet relationships though because inevitably until you meet the man or woman of your dreams and have “the chat” the other person is highly likely to still be casting their net and having a look around to see who else is out there. It can feel a bit “you snooze you lose” which runs the risk of adding unnecessary pressure to the already fairly fraught world of trying to find someone who wants to touch your lady parts on a hopefully regular and long term basis. I’m hilarious and witty in e-mails to potential partners and then I fret that I won’t live up to it in real life or I’ll go completely OTT and humour them into hating me. Lovely friend worries that she gives the impression that she’s very confident and outgoing in her messages but in real life she feels a bit shy until she opens up and then there’s no stopping her (not in a filthy way). Internet dating, whilst being like one massive man supermarket (Manisson’s? Manbury’s? Mansco’s?) which sounds like great fun, can actually be much more of a head fuck than just going out, getting drunk and face raping some unsuspecting gentleman.

Pass me the vodka.

Like fax machines. I remember the first time I had to use a fax I was 24 and yet still felt it necessary to photocopy the document because I genuinely thought the fax machine was going to shred the paper into tiny pieces before firing it through the air to my recipient like some kind of high powered confetti cannon. Or wireless Internet – that shizz just makes my brain boggle. I can’t help but imagine little pieces of Internet flying through the air and having to play dodgeball with all the human beings going about their business. I wonder if different bits of Internet give people different moods? You know when you suddenly get a strop on and you don’t know why, perhaps you’ve bumped into an angry email whizzing its way through the ether. Or when you’re overcome by the horn, maybe it’s that guy at number 23 looking at big breasted lovelies whilst having some alone time? Just a thought.

Where do names come from? Who devised them originally? Particularly old fashioned names, who suddenly decided that they would be good things to call children? Who was the first Edward, or the first Mary? (oh yeah…. Jesus’s Mum)

Who was the first daredevil that decided flinging yourself off a bridge with a bit of elastic tied to your feet was a thrill? More to the point, who was the guinea pig that went first?!

I’d like to start using my brain more to fathom the science behind things rather than not even trying and chalking it all up to some sort of hocus pocus. Someone at work today was talking about a piece of equipment called a “diverter” and rather than use my brain, or indeed my common sense, I instantly said I didn’t know what that was… Oh come on Ally the clue is in the name! I think I’ve become a bit slack mentally, it’s all too easy to just accept that things work and then pay someone else to fix it when they stop working but that’s a defeatist lazy girl attitude and one I’m quite keen to change. I’m not about to go out and get a degree in physics or engineering, nor am I going to learn how to strip and rebuild a car engine whilst blindfolded and standing on one leg but I would like to be able to contribute a little bit more to technical conversations than just sitting there providing beautiful distraction.

What about you guys? What silly questions can you not fathom the answers to? Maybe we can set up some kind of knowledge exchange or pen a book such as “It’s Not Magic For Dummies”?

For those of you who didn’t see it, last night there was a programme on Channel 4 called “Sex, Lies and Rinsing Guys” about women who use their ‘feminine wiles’ to bag rich men who splash cash on them without getting any nookie in return. In some ways it’s fair play to them if there are men out there daft enough to part with their hard earned cash on some bint who isn’t even going to hop in the sack with them but at the same time, have some self respect! Why on earth do you think you should be entitled to being ‘looked after’ and not have to earn things by working hard and putting in the hours? It’ll carry on ad infinitum whilst there are men dumb enough to put up with it and you could claim that the women are clever to exploit the situation but I’m not going to.

This is all part and parcel of why little girls grow up wanting to be wags and glamour models, these dozy women shouting about how empowering it is to be lavished with expensive gifts. Actually ladies it’s far more empowering to be independent and do things for yourself. Who wants to be a concubine when you could be a career woman instead? I’d love to fast forward twenty years into the future when these women have plasticised themselves beyond all belief and the money and gifts dry up, what will you do then ladies? Fall back on the career you’ve spent years building up? Oh…

Watching the programme it became apparent quite quickly that these so called “rinsers” are materialistic, shallow and absolutely fake. I’d feel sorry for them but actually I found them so abhorrent I could barely bring myself to do that. What a shame that they’re more concerned with their appearances and what baubles the latest idiot is going to buy them, there are far better things to enjoy in life than Jimmy Choo’s or Cartier watches. Maybe it’s just me but I would feel utterly beholden to someone who was showering me with gifts, and I like being my own woman far too much to get involved with all that. They admit to preying on the weak members of the man herd, picking the ones who they think will fall for their shtick before oh so subtly “dropping hints” about needing a holiday or a new trinket.

They set themselves rules for rinsing as if that somehow makes it okay. They seem to fail to realise that they’re potentially putting themselves in dangerous situations. Imagine you’re the guy who is spending the money, sure she’s saying that it’s not going to be sexual but you’re the exception to the rule, right? You’ve splashed so much on her that she’s bound to relax her rules for you, right? So what happens when she doesn’t? Are you going to roll over and accept it or is there a possibility that you’ll get angry and force the situation? I’m not suggesting that all the men are rapists or abusive but you honestly don’t know what you’re playing with. You’ve got to admire their brass neck for thinking that there’s something so special about them that men should feel honoured to splash the cash, I firmly believe that all women should have a positive sense of self esteem but in my opinion there’s a limit and this madonna whore gold digger princess act crosses it. Especially when one says she’s doing what she needs to get money and compares it to being a nurse, you’re living on another planet love!

(I know, it’s Wednesday…. Wednesday Whinge anyone?)

This is about holding my head up high (and taking a deep breath and clenching my fists) and being honest when someone spies the tattoo and utters the question, “What’s 443?” I have a standard response that I trot out but I’m yet to have two people react in the same way and understandably there are always more questions. When asked I say “It’s the weight I was when the Doctor told me I wouldn’t make it to thirty unless something changed. I had it tattooed on my thirtieth birthday.” I then usually try and change the subject because although I’m not ashamed of where I’ve been and how far I’ve come I don’t like the attention being centred on me for too long. Some people take it totally in their stride before saying something congratulatory and moving on, some want to know all the gory details of the op, some want to know how it ever got that bad (that’s a very difficult one to be faced with), and quite a few demand to see a picture of me at my heaviest, the friend on Saturday night fell into the latter category and told me I am unrecognisable as that girl.

On the outside I know I’m still fat and it’s only recently that I’ve started to feel that my body has changed, I’m mentally shedding the weight now as well as physically. That doesn’t make it any easier to deal with the tiny percentage of people who look at me now and make it patently clear that they’re thinking “fuck me you’re massive” because it makes me want to scream and shout and rage, “if only you fucking knew” I’d shout, “I couldn’t get out of bed, I couldn’t walk upstairs without getting seriously out of breath, I ALMOST ATE MYSELF TO DEATH” I’d screech, “so yes I might not be a Polly Pocket teeny girl with a bottom like two boiled eggs in a hankie but I’m pretty fucking special sunshine and don’t you forget it”.

Except I don’t, I let them get to me. Their judgementally wanky “if you’re not thin you’re not in” schtick stressing me out. It chips away at my confidence and makes me feel shit. The tattoo is as much a reminder of how far I have come and how much I have been through as it is a testament to quite how shit it was back then and it’s permanent, I’m permanently stuck with it. It turns out though that I didn’t need anything inked on me as a reminder, the mental scars of the way I was treated and the way I thought and felt about myself (and still do most of the time) will be with me long after the ink fades.

I like wine but it became very apparent this afternoon when I stayed in bed until half past one convinced the world was out to get me and that I should just hide under the duvet until the meteor* hits, that wine doesn’t like me. I’ve recently taken to drinking a white wine spritzer in a tall glass which seems to lessen the effect but last night with my wine aficionado friend I decided it was a really good idea to switch to drinking it straight. Turned out to be a bad idea for a variety of reasons because it tasted like Ribena with an after taste of warm vinegar, although that may have been more of an indication of the quality of pub we were in, and it meant I woke up with a very fuzzy head this morning.

I think I’ve gone through the change, where wine becomes something to be savoured slowly and not overindulged in so that I don’t wake up the following morning wondering where the nearest tall building is.

That or I just need a new drink of choice…

* Exchange meteor for whatever world ending event the crackpot crazies think is heading our way.

1. How are you feeling?
2. What is your sleep pattern like?
3. How are you finding your relationship with food?
4. What obsessive thoughts are you having and how are you dealing with them?
5. Relationships?

He always finishes with that one and always just says that one word because he knows I will snort and say “Nada. Zip. Bupkiss” because although relationships could cover a whole spectrum, we both know he’s talking about man on woman, bumping uglies, holding hands in the park type loved up shenanigans which I am lacking. My relationship with him is solid because I know that I can go in there, close the door and just let it all come tumbling out. My thoughts tend to splatter across his desk and like all the King’s horses and all the King’s men, he gets to put this Humpty Numpty back together again.

But not any more. For I have been officially discharged from the care of the Wigwam. He who makes me giggle by saying “one-ly” instead of “firstly” and who likes to talk to me about his love of gadgets. He has cast me aside into the world of the “normal” to keep taking the meds and keep on keeping on. I strutted out out of there like a Bee Gee (they strutted right?) with a grin on my face about closing the door on a certain chapter of my life. I’m not flying totally solo because although I’m officially no longer “on the books”, if things get tough or I want a medication review then all I have to do is give him a call.

Today I feel in a reflective mood, thinking back over the endless round of new psychiatrists and therapists and medications, all the way back to my time in the Priory a decade ago. I’ve always been open about my mental health however I think there comes a time when it starts to take a back seat, I’m not saying that it’s not still a huge part of who I am and how I see things, more that it’s time to stop chalking some of my behaviours and personality traits up to “being mental” and accept that good or bad they’re part of Ally as a whole.

Scrolling through my phone where I keep all sorts of inspirational quotes and shizz I stumbled across the below image which seemed fitting. My world without art would be ‘eh’, so I pinged it across to her in case I did in fact cark it.

I thought no more of it until TFL grabbed me by the hand last night and took me to her room to give me my birthday present from her and Chappers. She had been holding on to it since February as she wanted to be there when I opened it. Not only had they bought me a beautiful new Rob Ryan notebook but she had painted me her own interpretation of the picture above.

Isn’t it beautiful?

It brought tears to my eyes as she explained that to her, the earth without me would be ‘eh’ and that she was so glad to be my friend.

Colour me touched……

I’m wearing a dress and hell hasn’t frozen over!

In the heart of Surrey, tucked away in a beautiful churchyard was St Mary’s Worplesdon the bride’s local church, so local in fact that her wedding car was parked there killing time before picking her up. The boys arrived looking very dapper and a little bit nervous, particularly Cornflake who went round the assembled guests hand shaking and hand wringing in equal measure. After mingling and settling into our seats it was time for the arrival of the bride who looked absolutely radiant, beyond beautiful. The service itself was heartfelt and personal and by the time it came to them saying their vows there were quite a few people dabbing at their eyes with tissues. Now having been a groom himself not so long ago, the best man Gav knew that he should have a tissue on hand just in case Cornflake got a little overwhelmed on the day. However it true banter fashion,  he couldn’t resist the chance to get a dig in and so this is the tissue he handed over:

Man The F*ck Up

They made it through their vows and the church exploded into rapturous applause as the Vicar invited them to give each other a big fat kiss. The weather held long enough for some photographs outside the church before champagne inside to celebrate the service.

The beautiful bride

The dashing groom, describing his heart palpitations during the service.

Something we can all live by…

At the reception Mg and I made a graceful entrance, having traipsed across the beautifully manicured lawn we ended up being rescued by the Toastmaster who let us in via the fire escape behind the jazz band. Classy. As an homage to the bride’s love of baking the tables were named after different cakes and there was much amusement that the two proper lads from uni were on the ‘Fairy’ table and the two gingers were on ‘Jaffa’. The meal was delicious however my pouch had other ideas and so I had to excuse myself to be sick after the starters which also brought on a nosebleed and scared the wits out of a lady in the toilets who clearly thought I’d been snorting coke off the back of the toilet. Clearly we had been designated the noisy table and so we wanted to live up to our name, running a book on the length of the best man’s speech and setting up a speeches drinking game involving buzz words. Everyone came up with a word they thought would feature in the speeches which went into a glass for selection. I drew my card and came up with ‘Cornflake’ (the groom’s name) and knew it was going to be game over…………. for someone else because I was driving and so had to designate someone to drink my fines for me. That’s a shame isn’t it! I had contemplated drinking and crashing on someone’s floor but having been sick I knew it would be a really bad idea to add booze into the mix. As it was, the main course arrived and I had a go at a few mouthfuls, still feeling ropey. The speeches started with the bride’s Father who must have mentioned Cornflake about a hundred times (sorry Chappers!) however I was finding it really difficult to concentrate as I knew that I was going to be sick again, and with everyone back in their seats I had no escape route. 

The best man Gav got up to do his speech and I knew I was in trouble. Last time Gav gave a speech at his own wedding I was already a few glasses down and so thought nothing of heckling him, I’ve never been allowed to forget it and so had been told I wasn’t to heckle on pain of death. He needn’t have worried because, whilst Gav was making the room roar with laughter I was busily being sick into a fruit bowl with Chappers stroking my back and trying to keep the attention away from me horfing my dinner up.

Thankfully my pouch relented and after missing the cutting of the cake to chuck up a few more times I bounced back and was on top form ready to dominate the dance floor with the rest of my urban family. Have you ever had so much fun that even though you’ve been sipping iced water all night in an effort not to spew again you feel like you’re drunk? That was me. I had one of the absolute best nights of my life, I felt confident, I felt happy and I felt like I didn’t care that people were taking pictures of me which were bound to be less than flattering. At one point I felt I had a proper sashay on and a twinkle in my eye.

This happened:

Having reached ‘Stage 4 of wedding tie’, Baywatch came on and Eugene started taking his clothes off…

Followed by this:

Stage 4 Ninja!

And then we all went out onto the lawns for what can only be described as Chinese Lantern carnage. What happens when you mix together drunk people, a windy night and fire? Well, someone’s hair gets set on fire, you narrowly avoid setting fire to the bride’s dress and you watch as several lanterns get stuck in the trees. The ones that did make it up into the night sky took wishes and dreams with them for the future.

Wish, wish, wish.

It was a beautiful day from start to finish and I felt honoured to be a part of it, a great start to my 2012 wedding season and an even better start to a long and happy married life together for Mr and Mrs!

I’ve been getting used to having feelings again and realising that they’re not going to kill me. I’ve been spottier than I’ve ever been which is bloody depressing and I’ve also been so unbelievably randy to the point of distraction. All day. Every day.

Yes ladies and gents, I’m like a dog with two dicks. You know that cute puppy dog that you see shagging the life out of a stuffed toy on the rug? That’s me (inside my head at least). I came over all unnecessary talking to a heavy breathing man on the phone the other day (he had a cold) and I almost had to excuse myself from a work function yesterday to go and take some deep breaths, entirely brought on by the handsome man at the front of the room.

What do I do about it? I can’t imagine going to the Doc and telling him that I’m too randy for my own good and can I please be put down but on the flip side I need to snap out of it and focus on the matters at hand. Those being a potential promotion and a HUGE project that has been entrusted to me. Neither of which involve getting down and dirty!

Help?