I'm getting married this week. I am as surprised as anyone. As a ginger teenager with a penchant for spoken word, 'the shift’ was that elusive thing reserved for girls with straight-hair and blue eyes and natural tans.

Weddings I have always viewed as dramatic, tortured things. Growing up, my auntie invariably chose the sanctioned video list and the result was generally anything with Hugh Grant or Julia Roberts (sometimes both - I still view Notting Hill as my ‘how-to’ guide when it comes to bagging American movie stars).

Instead, the wedding has been pretty traditional in Irish terms - we got pregnant and Fred, terrified my father would murder him, proposed before the ink was even dry on the three month scan picture.

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What has not been traditional, of course, has been having to postpone the day quite a few times - a combination of COVID and our desire to keep our options open. Yet here we are, the 11th December beckons, and we will be tied together, for better or worse, for richer or poorer (given the fact we are self-employed comics, definitely poorer).

I have been very much a Bridechilla rather than a Bridezilla which has floored everyone who knows me well - not least of all myself. Any anxiety in the run-up has purely been COVID-related, and even at that I think we have all come to accept that all of these things are totally out of our control.

As a former múinteoir I like sandwich bags, and plans, and one-voice rules, and controlled environments, and marrying Fred I have learned to embrace the beautiful chaos of him, and go with the flow.

Even in trying to keep the festivities reasonably muted, I have been stunned at the cost of everything. I now understand why so many friends who have been down this aisle before have contacted me asking if they can help, can they do anything, is everything in hand.

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Flowers, make-up, hair, photography, marriage courses, registrations, green books, baby outfits, baby shoes, my shoes, Fred’s shoes, who owns these shoes? Shirts and cakes and canapés. Drinks receptions and flower processions and prosecco (pro-psycho, as my best friend calls it, given that it usually ends with one of us sending something we will later regret to the work Whatsapp group).

In the last month I have asked myself questions I have never considered before: who will read my obituary at the dinner? If I don’t get a chocolate fountain is the wedding still legally-binding? Should we pay extra and have our guests eat off plates or will troughs suffice?

Even with my best efforts the wedding has mushroomed, and it will be wonderful, I am sure, but I often think about a woman I worked with back in 2006 who got married at her lunch break. We were working in a Dublin call centre at the time, and she returned from our allocated 40 minute dejeuner with a chicken fillet roll and a ring on her finger. What a civilised way to lock it down, I thought, eying the chicken fillet roll with as much envy as the new fáinne (this was the golden hour before we all discovered we had IBS).

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I never truly believed, in my twenties and most of my thirties, that I would find anybody to love me. Somebody who would always text back, and remember my birthday, and be proud to be my man. But with Fred I have found just that: he is so excited at being my husband, and I his wife.

It feels safe here, with him, even when he is asking me things like: ‘remind me again can I put metal in the toaster?’ and brandishing a garden pike in a bid ‘to give the windows a good clean’.

Garden pikes aside, when we started positioning the wheels in motion for the big day Fred wanted the works: Organs! Choirs! Doves! To invite his former French papalist pen-pal he made at World Youth Day back in Toronto 2002!

Reigning in his excitement has made me feel a bit of a Philistine, but having happened upon Fred googling horses and carriages I felt my hand was forced, not because I don’t want it to be the best day, I do, but because if COVID has taught me anything it is to keep things simple. After all, all you need is love - and maybe mortgage approval, if any financial institution is reading this?

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To quote Frank Sinatra, ‘Cancellations? We’ve had a few’, but this week we will get married, and anyone who has passed an antigen test and is not symptomatic will be there to celebrate with us. What joy. It will not be the day we had initially planned, but we are so grateful for what we will get to have.

This day next week I will be a wife, and Fred will be a husband. There will be no Hugh Grant in sight, and having not done cardio since 2018 the odds of me doing a runaway Julia Roberts are slim to none.

WH Auden once said ‘If equal affection cannot be, let the more loving one be me’, and it is safe to say only someone who has not felt the pain of two blue ticks and no response could spout such nonsense. To be loved is to be seen, and heard, and what I love about Fred is that we see each other, and we like what we see. In fact, we love it - enough to say ‘yes’ to a chocolate fountain, marshmallows and all.