Fluffier than I look
So it is that not only have I surrendered my cynical self to the pink and fluffy prospect of wedlock, nay, I have also agreed to submit myself to the none-too-gentle process of immigration. Surely this is too harsh a punishment for a moment of sentiment. All the same, such is my fate. Wish me luck because I will need it. Patience too. Ye gods, what have I done?
But I am being a naughty cynical sausage am I not. In truth, I am undergoing a frightening transformation into the kind of creature you see at bridal showers. Well almost anyway, because I will not have a bridal shower, and we will have only that small civil ceremony in Belgium, followed at some point in the future by a religious affair in Florida. I would have been happy to forego the formal bit but well, Slag didn't fancy getting married in Graceland so I compromised. I may have to insist on dressing whoever performs the wedding as Elvis. Why else am I marrying an American?
No, really, we're as happy as Elvis and Priscilla, only I am not so underage and Slag is not as fond of white knickers. Even my father, who spent a lifetime warning us about the dangers of marriage, is cautiously pleased. I think they like him more than they like me - everyone keeps telling me that I should be nice to Slag when really I am like a cute cuddly little lamb whenever he is around. Very cuddly. No seriously, we are nauseatingly cute together, just so you're forewarned.