It's the day before my wedding, and my sister emerges from a rather palatial looking house on a cliff-top, clutching 100 A4 wedding invites, which she's laminated. I'm not sure whether it's the fact they are A4 (so won't fit in the envelopes) or laminated (who wants laminated invites?) or perhaps the fact that it's the day before my wedding and we're only just doing the invites, but something wakes me up.
It's official. The wedding dreams (nightmares) have started. For the moment, I'm going to blame it on the jet-lag (I flew into New Orleans yesterday for a work conference), because the thought of four more months of random nightmares like that is not appealing. (Although, it should be noted, I'm extremely impressed my dreamself has such high standards when it comes to wedding-planning venues. The reality – more often than not, my parents' kitchen – isn't half so fancy.)