First the bad news, I am no longer a bride-to-be on a budget. Before you ask, other half and I haven’t eloped, nor have we split up.
We decided that, with his new job, my new ventures, an imminent family move and (more to the point) – the fact that we can afford a slightly bigger wedding now – we wanted to re-think our whole budget wedding thing.
So we are planning a different wedding in a few months time and have already set another date with our priest.
I have to say trying to plan a wedding in five months, a wedding that seemed to get bigger by the day, ended up being just a little too much. And the family politics, which I may write about another time, have been one eyeopener too many for me.
So I’m now a very calm, chilled, caffeine drinking (detox be gone), working mummy with a very chilled wedding to plan; most of which is in place.
Coming to the decision was the hardest part and followed a really tough couple of weeks for me.
In fact during the last few weeks there have been moments when I felt I was either going to have a heart attack or spontaneously throw up.
Take the week before last. I’d agreed to write an exclusive story for one of the national newspapers I occasionally work for.
I’d found out a certain lender was doing something a bit different, and although not earth shattering was certainly worthy of a report.
That was on the Monday, then mid afternoon on the Tuesday the editor asked me if I’d mind writing another longer story to accompany my exclusive. Of course I would, so I said yes and spent the rest of that afternoon teeing up contacts and trying to source a case study.
But then on Wednesday disaster struck. Not only was Imogen not feeling well, a stinky cold as she put it, but my mum (who was going to look after her while I worked) was also not well. My standby childminder was on holiday and there were no places at the pre-school which Immy attends the other four days of the week.
Cue first wave of nausea.
What was I to do? Well I managed to persuade my unwell mother to cover me for an hour on the Wednesday morning during which time I managed to interview experts and write up most of the copy.
Thing is, despite my best efforts I was having no luck finding a case study. “This never happens, why today of all days” I asked Andrew – who was training away from home.
I couldn’t possibly admit to the editor that this had happened, he’ll never let me work for him again. As one freelancer friend said: “Never mention the C word (i.e childcare) editors just don’t want to know.”
So I soldiered on, only for my attempts to come and bite me on the back.
The following week I had some guides to write, along with a short feature. On Monday I was all smiles and positivity: “Okay I can manage this,” I said as I sat down with a pack of Belvita at 9am..
Could I hell?
At first everything was calm and my tummy was returning to normal.
Then on Tuesday all the butterflies broke loose when I discovered a voicemail (mobile reception is bad where we live) the editor telling me there had been a problem with my story. I spend Tuesday night tossing and tuning, with all kinds of scenarios ranging from a class action law suit through to being banned from working by the NUJ (my union)
On Wednesday morning, already feeling green I had to deal with an inaccuracy in my story. Luckily it was corrected online, but still I felt sick and still do to be honest.
Was my inaccuracy down to stress? I make mistakes, I’m human but not like this one, while not terrible it wasn’t me at all.
Was it the strain of having made the decision to cancel the wedding ? Was I just a crap journalist? Or was I right, you can’t have it all and I’d simply done too much?
I’m now popping antacids and hoping that this week will be more work, more play and less worry.
And thankfully a beautiful wedding, which is just about far enough in the distance to get excited about, to plan.
