The Proposal

December 3rd, snowy Paris, a room at the Crillon, cornflakes, champagne then a ring accompanied by the most important question of my life...

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December 3rd, snowy Paris, a room at the Crillon, cornflakes, champagne then a ring accompanied by the most important question of my life. After two years and 3 months together, Ben and I are to marry. And after a month of uninterupted celebratory drinking, January is time to knuckle down and find an answer to the constant questions about when, what and where.

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On hearing of the engagement friends immediately ask a stream of questions; "do you have a date?", "where are you getting married?", "what dresses do you like?". I'm certain I asked the same to them when their call came through - and most even had answers - but it seems absurd that you should know any of it at this stage. I don't have a lever arch file under the bed that I've been filling with tear sheets since I was young and I've never allowed myself to mentally plan for such an occasion. Plenty do of course, one friend even optioned the venue months before he had proposed.

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But when my first bridal mag landed on my desk (a gift from the ELLEuk team who are about ten steps ahead of me in terms of my wedding planning - on day two they asked what flowers I'll have!), it was a bloody good read. Features were utter rot, "why not emblazon your fiance's shirt with his initials as a surprise on the big day" urgghh!, and dresses were horrid - if I see another "crystal" scattered ruched shiny number again it'll be too soon. But I was in a club. Armed with a ring and a wedding mag under my arm, people actually smiled at me on the tube. Thank you William and Kate, Lily and Sam, Zara and Mike. Everyone seems to be talking weddings this year, if only I had more to say...

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