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In relationships I always used to believe there are two types of people: the romantics and the pragmatists. One will spend hours writing a stanza about the soft creamy skin on the inside of their beloved’s elbow and the other will fix your fridge (thanks HWSNBN). And I’m shit at fixing fridges.

So I find it truly irksome that when it comes to romance, He Who Shall Not Be Named (HWSNBN), is so much better at it than me. Yes, he’s better than somebody who spent her teenage years in romantic training, wafting around in floaty white dresses, writing melancholy odes and constantly on the look out for her dark prince. The dark prince probably put off by the odes and the wafting never came. Admittedly my romantic expertise is more down the tragic ‘let me die on your grave’ end as opposed to ‘let me buy you a cappuccino’. But still HWSNBN likes science and Myers Briggs personality types, how can he be more romantic than me?

Lake Tepako after the rain

Allow me to present the evidence as well as my jaw-droppingly romantic proposal let’s go back to HWSNBN and my first Valentine’s day together. We were travelling around the south island of New Zealand and due to spend V day in Lake Tekapo. Google Lake Tekapo, go on I’ll wait. You back? Right, you’ll have seen that Lake Tekapo is teeny, remote and at the time played host to two restaurants of which one was open on Valentine’s night. We had been going out less than a year and I was still at that stage where everything mattered and after years of singleton life I wanted, no needed, a Big Romantic Gesture. And I may have not so subtly let him know that. Our lovely travel buddy knew this (hey Beth *waves*) and made HWSNBN buy me a card. The night before Valentine’s HWSNBN disappeared he wasn’t in the bedroom, he wasn’t in the common room, finally I located him in the toilet. He couldn’t come out he had tummy trouble. For three hours. Romantic right? However it was all a cunning ruse. On Valentine’s night when we were dining in the one and only restaurant and he handed me a card and a mystery package. Inside the package was a cloth envelope and a Valentine’s card he had sewn out of his trousers. Yep, when were backpacking he had cut up one of his only three pairs of trousers and spent three hours in the toilet sewing me a Valentine’s card. I bought him chocolates. FAIL.

At this point I can practically hear the cynics among you poising to tell me how Valentine’s day is a crass commercialised day and why limit your expressions of love to just one day. But you know what I like Valentine’s day. I liked it even when I was a singleton because it was an excuse to sit in my bedroom with my best friend, eat ice cream, watch crappy movies and bitch about the world.  And I like it when it means I get to show HWSNBN how much I love him. This was our 8th Valentine’s day together and I wanted it to be special.

Unfortunately on Valentine’s Day I had a head cold. And if you can be romantic or do anything when your world has narrowed to trying to stop your brains dripping out your nose, you’re a better person than me. So Valentine’s day was postponed until last night. When HWSNBN got home from work he found a trail of these.

Using a great template I found on the ever-useful Atypical Type A blog I’d laid a scavenger hunt of clues throughout the flat with prizes along the way such as sweeties, a funny handmade card and finally the grand prize: a gluten free plum and almond tart. He got me a flower. Then we went out for a gorgeous candle lit dinner. And I ended the night throughly satisfied (hur, hur) after finally, officially,  being more romantic that HWSNBN. Win!

PS. Big apologies for being a bad blogger recently. So far February has kinda sucked. HWSNBN sister has  been seriously ill although thankfully it seems like she is on the road to recovery now. Work has been crazy. And I got over the flu only to come down with a stinking head cold. Blogging has slipped to the bottom of my priority list along with brushing my hair and eating anything more nutritious than a monster bag of wotsits. Damn you Student’s Union shop. However, I’m finally getting back on top of things and I have lots of great posts in the pipe line including revealing our wedding theme, invites and updating you on how I’ve been doing with my life list. Clue: badly.

I am really enjoying the process of studying to be a counsellor. I love reading the different theories about why people are the way they are. The other people on my course inspire me with their generosity and willingness to share their experiences. And its indescribable how fulfilled I feel when I work as counsellor.

But, it’s hard too. Although I believe training to become a counsellor is one of the best things I have ever done, I am finding it incredibly tough. It’s not just the practical considerations of taking a massive pay-cut and fitting study and placement hours around work. What I find difficult to bear is the constant emotional upheaval. It’s not like studying engineering. As part of the course, we have to be self reflective, picking every thought and feeling apart. Some aspects of myself I was already so familiar with they seemed like old friends like my inability to say no and pathological need to make everything better. Others blindsided me, you mean everybody doesn’t spend their life in a constant battle to not feel so shit about themselves? Self analysis is uncomfortable at best, painful at worst and some days I just want to exist on the surface not down in the murky depths where darker memories lurk like sea creatures waiting to gobble me up.

Before I started this process I was comfortably numb, under rigid control. Now like opening a Pandoras box feelings are emerging I’ve buried for years. I don’t like feeling this vulnerable and shaken. As if the foundations on which I have built my life are cracking and now I’m wondering what, if anything, I can save from the rubble. A fortnight ago as I was preparing to go to personal counselling I was so over it. (As trainee counsellors we have to be personal counselling throughout the duration of the course. Thank God!) In the past I had always started counselling at my nadir and talking made me feel better. But this time I started counselling when I was in a great place emotionally and digging up the past had started to make me feel worse. I just did not want to talk anymore. Then a friend sent me a link to this Ted Talk by Brene Brown on vulnerability.

And I knew I had a choice to make. I could continue to try to shut out my pain and inhibit my ability to feel joy. I could continuing existing, never really living.

Or I could trust the process and keep going. Accepting that paradoxically my vulnerability was my greatest strength.

So I have. One foot after the other, and again and again. I keep going because I don’t want to feel comfortably numb anymore. I want to be present, inhabiting every inch of my body. But, when shutting certain feelings out has become habitual how do you start listening to yourself again?

Well, on the advice on my counsellor I have been ‘checking in’ with myself. Yes it sounds very hippy dippy but stick with me. (Plus, with a name like Rowan, what else would you expect?) We use check ins at the beginning of our practical workshops at University. The rules are simple we go round the circle and you may share in a short sentence or even a word where you are today. The idea is that you can quickly gauge the emotional weather of the group. And also it’s really helpful to be mindful of what you feel in each moment.

Albert Camus, graphic via Pinterest

So for the past week I’ve been checking-in with myself. Am I angry, sleepy, frustrated, cold, hot, happy, hungry, sad, tired, excited or overwhelmed? Mostly I’ve learnt I’m hungry and sleepy Ah January, thou art the cruelest month. Joking aside, I’ve noticed that there are certain emotions that feel more familiar and comfortable (sadness) than others (anger).

The challenge for me has been simply noting what I feel and not doing anything with that feeling. Burying myself in activity is much easier than sitting with my feelings. If I feel something I need to, no have to change it.  One of the paradoxes of change we learn about in counselling is only through acceptance does true change occur. But at the moment acceptance is a step too far. One day I hope I will be able to accept the things I don’t like about myself but for now naming and identifying those experiences is enough. Baby steps

I think it’s time for some wedding accessory porn, don’t you? (Bring it spammers.)

For me, it’s always been about the shiny. Most bridal jewellery tends to be subtle, tasteful and (whisper it) a bit boring. As my taste tends be a magpie crossed with Joan Collins on Dynasty I already knew I would have to think outside the pearls studs and matching bracelet box.

This might be how I ended up with three different pairs of earrings to wear. At the rate I’m buying earrings, I’m going to need to pierce some more holes.

Three pairs of earrings, a bracelet, and a brooch

I’m planning on wearing gorgeous marcasite leaf earrings (to the left of the image) with a matching bracelet, both from Accessorize, for the ceremony. I bought these in the sale using a gift vouchers my Aunty’s gave me. Gift vouchers FTW.

When my ear lobes start to ache, ‘cos these suckers are heavy, I’ll switch them out for some tiny Next faux teardrop diamond earrings (at the bottom left of the picture). I’ve had these for years and took them along to try on the dress.

Then in the evening I’ll up the bling with these beautiful art deco flower earrings, also Accessorize (top right). I LOVE these and trying so hard not to wear these before the big day.

The brooch I’m thinking of pinning to my bouquet, but still not sure. Too much shininess? This is a rhetorical question. In Rowan world there is never too much shininess.

When it comes to headgear as I mentioned in this post, I loved the Paloma headband, but could not afford it. So after scouring the internet I bought this Glitzy Secrets Vintage Sensation Side tiara off Ebay.

Glitzy Secrets Vintage Sensation Side Tiara

Even with grotty hair and post flu pallor I love it. It brightened up a rather dull work day so expect some shots of me wafting round Sainsburys with tiara.

No make-up, bad hair but look at the shiny

I’ve never really been a fan of white bridal shoes. It seems an awful lot of money to spend on something you’ll only wear once. So I wanted colourful fun, comfortable shoes. Look what my sister bought me for Christmas.

Bronze and red Melissa by Vivienne Westwood shoes

Yep, my very own Melissa Vivienne Westwood heels* in bronze with red hearts. Another Ebay bargainlicious purchase and I adore. Plus they smell of bubblegum.

*Yes, I know every other bride has these but frankly I just don’t care they are so pretty.

My precious

Only one problem, I cannot walk in high heels at all. I’m planning on putting in some practice time before the big day but unless I want to be wheeled from place to place on my wedding day I need some flats for dancing in the evening. I love these Lolly shoes by Carvela.

Lolly by Carvela shoes

Blue, sparkly and with a cute bow. But a) they’re 95 quid and I’m broke, and b) will anybody really see these under my dress. So a) I need to stop browsing the Kurt Geiger website, I blame my enabler in shoe pretty Beth. And b) I need to start the hunt for cheap sparkly blue, gold or silver flat shoes. Any tips send them my way

I’m currently debating whether to veil or not to veil. Everybody who has seen my dress has advised me not to as the fabric is so distinctive. I agree, also I definitely don’t want something covering my face during the ceremony I’m klutzy enough as it is. But… the little girl in me says it will probably be my only chance to wear a veil. So inspired by these photos I’m considering a birdcage veil.

Via Rock and Roll Bride

What do you think? To the polls!

Any thoughts that don’t fit in poll format, let me know in the comments

Check out this amazing video mash-up of Hello.

Yep a little video to distract people from noticing I haven’t blogged since the 1 January. Excuses, I have them. First I had to finish the essay from hell. The early part of this month I worked on the essay before work, after work and I started dreaming about this essay. Despite completing a first draft of the essay in December I couldn’t escape my procrastinating past and ended up finishing the essay at 11pm the night before submission.

After I submitted the essay I promptly got the flu. I haven’t had the flu in the years and I’d forgotten how completely it knocks you out. My body pounded, my throat closed to a pinhole, my nose was dripped like a faucet, and I felt so light headed getting out of bed was a struggle. I slept, I spluttered into tisssues, I stared aimlessly at the ceiling, in short I did nothing. HWSNBN was the best carer a girl could have, until I infected him. Sorry HWSNBN. But I’m finally feeling better, if better= still snotty, weak and knackered.

But I’m trying to focus on the positive. I was mentally and physically exhausted and flu forced me to take a break. Also I could have contracted the flu during essay week, so I’m thankful my body waited until hand in. After a week sequestered away from the world, I have lots of things in the pipeline to look forward to.

What’s making me happy this month…

♥ finally feeling a bit better ♥ celebrating my best friends 30th birthday. A potential highlight of 2012 and it’s only January!  ♥ when people ask me when I’m getting married, I can finally say this year!  ♥ wedding invites ♥ Australian Four Weddings: the perfect blend of bitchy and funny ♥ new silky soft pyjama bottoms, thanks mum ♥ Sherlock, TV at it’s finest ♥ a month off from uni= time with friends + family

Head to the comments to let me know what’s making you happy this month. Finally I leave you with this video of Shit Brides say. It’s achingly familiar…

I’m not sad to see the back of 2011. Although it’s been a great year for me personally, for the world in general what with the Japanese tsunami, earthquakes in NZ, London riots, the Arab Spring and the economic collapse, 2011 has kinda sucked.

I know a lot of people hate NYE’s: too crowded, too expensive, too much pressure. But I love NYE’s: the chance to dance like an idiot, hug the ones you love and make elaborate drunken resolutions that last until tea on January the first. For me NYE is the perfect blend of nostalgia and hope. So I’m here are my 2011 highlights, as well as what I’m looking forward to in 2012.

Getting in to University

More than starting Uni, which involved work and lots of it, getting into University has been one of my personal highlights. I knew the process would be competitive 250 applications for 20 places . So I was already in a such a state of nervous anticipation that I messed up the interview, stumbling through the ‘why do you want to be a counselling’ question like a blabber-mouthed fool. (Which I am, but they didn’t need to know that). Afterwards they shook me by the hand and said I’d know in a week. Three weeks passed and I starting ringing Admissions everyday. Finally the Admissions guy paused and said ‘I’m not supposed to tell you over the phone, but I can say it’s very good news.’ I walked round in an elated haze for days.  Since starting the course, I’ve felt enriched because I finally feel like I am doing what I was born to do. And come January I’ll start work with my very first client. Eek.

Planning our wedding

Technically we got engaged in the last days of 2010. But for me 2011 was the year this marriage shit got real. The year: we booked our venue, designed the engagement ring,  I overcame dress trauma and finally found my dress. If 2011 was the year we planned our wedding, 2012 is the year we’re getting married. Squee.

I started blogging again

After a two-year hiatus in which I did stuff (what is life if it is not documented on the interwebs I ask you?) I started blogging again, appropriately enough with a cat picture. And I soon become a little bit addicted. My most read post remains my birthday post. Awkward childhood shots for the win! As well as a chance to polish my writing skills, vent about everything and anything I’ve really enjoyed connecting with people I’ve never met before from the far reaches of this world as well as old friends. Thanks to everybody who read my blog, said they liked it, and left a comment. You guys are the best, group hug?

Going on holiday with my family

I went on holiday with my family and nobody killed anybody else! I think is a sign we are all maturing Also I went to Disneyland, spoiler it’s still as awesome as I remembered.

2011 wasn’t all sunshine and roses. I had some ongoing health troubles (damn you foot and hip), trouble balancing work and life, and one of my best friends has been fighting a major illness. But I’m still here and so is everybody I love so I’m going to count that as a win.

Looking forward I haven’t had much of chance to think about what 2012 will bring. The plan for NYE’s was to bond with my lovely new counselling friends. However I overindulged and spent the first couple of hours of 2012 vomiting in the gutter as fireworks exploded over Brighton. BEST.NEW.YEARS.EVER! I jest, but actually despite the puking I had a really good night. To quote the late Mr Wilde, yes I may have been {vomiting}in the gutter but I was looking up at the stars fireworks. HWSNBN was amazing he stood with me in the rain for hours until we could go home, missing the party and going to club later.  The today when I was curled up on the sofa feeling sorry for myself he made a massive mince meat pie. Nom, nom, nom. So here is what I want to accomplish this year:

1. Continuing to get healthier inside and out.

2. Only connect.

3. Celebrate some big (3.0) milestones and marrying the love of my life. (I don’t know whether or not I might have mentioned this?)

So bye, bye 2011 and bring it on 2012.

Christmas January style does not involve dressing up our cats in santa hats and naming them santa claws, promise

Ever family has their own unique Christmas traditions but to you they are as natural as everybody else’s are wrong, wrong, WRONG. After almost twenty years in the same house and twenty five years in our small town my parents are moving. Next year I’ll be married (officially a grown up, eek) and the family home will be somewhere else. Things will be different. So let me give you a flavour of Christmas, January style…

The one where I banned Father Christmas

I don’t remember this, but my Mum always delights in telling me the story of how when I was four and how, when the concept of Father Christmas was explained to me, I was incensed. ‘I don’t want that strange man coming in my room when I’m sleeping.’ The more Mum tried to explain the crosser I got. In the end, I wrote Father Christmas a note saying that much as I would like the presents, he was not allowed in the house and had to leave all presents outside.

The one where we learnt about the mystical adult affliction, the hangover

Christmas at my grandparents was made even more exciting by the presence of the caravan in the back garden. We begged and pleading to be allowed to sleep in there. And because Big Sis was notoriously unsteady, I was given the position of power and allowed to sleep in the top bunk. In the morning, we were had to wait until Uncle J (ten years younger than mum and only 24 which seemed really old to us at the time) was up before opening our presents. We asked at 6am, we asked at 7am, we asked at 8am. Why was he sleeping so late? But finally at 9am we were given permission to go into Uncle J’s room and wake him up. We piled in avoiding looking at the naked page 3 girls he had pinned on his wall and jumped on his bed until he raised his head blearily from the pillows.  ‘What’s wrong with him, is he sick?’ I asked my Mum. ‘Sort of,’ she said with an enigmatic smile. ‘He’s got a hangover.’ It took many years to find out what that meant.

The one where we videoed it.

Aah Family Xmas, a video immortalising the January family in time. My Lil Sis, the snotmonster, who kept trying to embrace my dad not realising there was a very fragile camera in the way. My dad, rarely seen but ever present in the ‘artistic’ camera shots (down the toilet, check) and giving directions to the main players. Mum, exhausted but radiant, my Big Sis all NHS specs and wonky fringe and me, a little madame even then. The backstory goes like this. Both me and my sister were obsessed with Jem, an alter-egoed singer with bright pink hair and magic flashing star earrings. All we wanted for Christmas was a Jem doll. My mum bought one for my sister and got my aunty to buy me the same doll. Only one problem, we weren’t seeing my aunty until Boxing day.

Close up on my Big sis opening a present, revealing a doll. ‘Look a pony’ she says brandishing it. My face crumples, I jump to my feet. ‘I wanted that.’ Big sis clutches the doll to her (non-existent) chest. ‘It’s mine.’ Me: screams, cries, has epic temper tantrum. Here the video thankfully cuts away. I showed HWSNBN the video and he still wants to marry me.

The one where I received my most memorable present

This could have been the dolls house given to me and my Big Sis from both sets of grandparents. Or the My Little Pony stable also shared with Big Sis (grrrr). But my most memorable present was… a toilet. Now Big Sis has many good qualities: she’s artistic, she’s kind, she’s the most generous person I know, but she cannot keep a secret to save her life. I was at home and my Big Sis came running into the room, flushed from shopping, my Dad behind her. ‘Rowan, I bought you…’ My Dad moves toward her trying to stop her but I know he’ll be too late. ‘a toilet’ she finishes truimphantly. In the run up to Christmas I felt each present suspiciously. There was nothing obviously toilet shaped, maybe it had been a elaborate bluff on on Big Sis’s part. But no, when I opened my presents, there was a toilet for a dolls house.

The one where the Grinch, moi, almost spoiled Christmas

Christmas at my cousins in Bexhill on sea. I, at six, am the second eldest and responsible for bossing my cousins around and making up games. My uncle A disappears for a suspiciously long time. Then Father Christmas emerges, big fluffy beard, sack slung over one shoulder. ‘HO HO HO, Merry Christmas children. I’m Father Christmas.’ Then a little voice pipes up: ‘No you’re not. It’s Uncle A. He’s just got a silly beard on.’ Cue adult shushing me and being taken aside and told not to spoil it for the rest of them.

The greatest Christmas movie ever!

Yanno the one with the monkey brains and the child sacrifices? A quick poll of my fb buddies revealed a long list of favourite Christmas films: It’s a Wonderful Life, Wallace and Gromit, Santa Clause the movie, Die Hard, Gremlins, Muppet Christmas Carol, Elf and The Sound of Music (?). I’m torn between the Snowman, which I adore but always make me sob and Home Alone which reduces me to peels of laughter at the pratfalls, also Kevin is so similar to Lil Sis. But the movie that is burnt into my brain and will always say Christmas to me is: Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Stick with me, faithful readers. It’s Boxing day, I’m at my grandparents, I’m six maybe seven and I’m literally hiding behind the sofa. Because a possessed Indiana Jones is trying to kill Shorty. I was freaked out by the eyeballs but by the time we got to the sacrifice scene, I was petrified. Because isn’t that what Christmas is about, blind terror?

The one where my Big Sis keeps a certain Christmas traditon, namely gluttony, alive

One Christmas, Mum told me Father Christmas had a bit too much sherry and put all the sweets in Big Sis’s stocking. Sadly by the time they woke up to right this injustice Big Sis, with a cunning that belied her years, had eaten all the sweets. But my favourite Big Sis story was when we went to Bluebeckers with my Aunty P, Uncle R and their kids. Now Bluebeckers were famous for their amazing sundaes. With many different ice creams, topped with cream, syrup and sprinkles kids came far and wide to guzzle the E numbers. When we got home, Big Sis had a massive tummy ache. My Mum was worried thinking she would have to take her to hospital. Until Aunty P revealed that Big Sis had eaten her sundae, and the remains of mine and Lil Sis’s sundaes too.

The one were we failed to prevent a boy invasion

Ever year we went to the M’s Christmas Eve party held at my friend Deb’s parents house. It gave the adults a chance to talk about boring things and get roaringly drunk. While we lurked in Deb’s bedroom upstairs and tried to prevent the boys from breaking in. We were at that stage when boys were a)gross and b)the enemy. I don’t know how it started but as Greg and the boys were our mortal enemies and we had to prevent them from breaking into Deb’s room at all cost. But one year they did and we stood there staring at each other. By the next year the impasse was broken and we were united with our common purpose, trying to get as far away from our families as possible. We went carolling. Sadly many people seemed immune to the delights of a group of spotty teenages squarking through carols. Until my friend Lianne came up with a cunning plan and muscled her way to the front of us clad in reindeer ears, coat strategically unbuttoned to reveal a low cut top. Unsurprisingly the very tipsy Surrey fathers gave us lots of donations in return for a chance to perve at Lianne. Result.

The drunken ones at the Lamb

I grew up. Christmas lost, some, but not all of its magic. But as I entered the stormy waters of adolescent me and my friends became obsessed with one thing: getting into pubs. But we lived in a small town with pubs that knew all it’s adolescents wanted was to get in pubs and was therefore very hot on IDs especially around Christmas. Hence the Christmas eve traditional carnage at the Lamb was born. The Lamb was not hot on IDs, so ever year we ended up there drinking until our heads span and stumbling home in the early hours. Because I’m embarassed myself enough, it’s time to humiliate some other people, two of my best friends Greggers and Ros.

There are many stories I could tell you about drunkGreg (is there any other kind) : the time he showed my Mum, who has known him since he was five, his underpants and insisted she touch them. ‘Go on, touch them. Calvin Klein.’ But my favourite DrunkGreg story involves midnight mass. In those early years we would drink, then go to Midnight Mass at my friends fathers church and stand swaying full of Christmas spirit. DrunkGreg, wanted to stand during the service and sit during the hymns despite me pulling him up or down. But when he started trying to light a cigarette, I grabbed him and took him outside. When everybody pilled out of the church ten minutes later they found DrunkGreg, sat jauntily on a headstone offering a bottle of value vodka to all the little old ladies. As my mum left the church, DrunkGreg waved the bottle of vodka at her so enthusiastically he fell off to headstone. Heh

My fave drunkRos story involves the time Debs gave a series of beautifully wrapped extremely thoughtful presents; including a hamper for her cats. DrunkRos got, well, drunk. So drunk that she put Britney Spears Toxic on the jukebox six times in a row. Good times. So drunk that when we were trying to persuade her to get a taxi she ran off like a weird drunken goblin. On her way home DrunkRos got hungry, so she sat by the side the A3 and open her presents. And lo and behold there was a some yummy maltesers. Except, these were in fact cat treats. Heh.

The one with the snow

In my first year at University we went away to this amazing house by a Loch in Scotland. Little Sis and my parents were fighting all the time. Which explains why I found myself down by the side of the Loch with wet hair at 9am in the morning. The early morning bit was unusual, the wet hair not so much. Much to my Mum’s displeasure, and cries of ‘you’ll catch your death’, I have always believed life is too short to dry ones hair. It was cold by the lock that my hair froze in tendrils around my head, like Medusa. This lasted until I got back to the house and my Mum saw me and vigorously attacked me with a towel. Even better on our last day it snowed, blanketing the hills in a carpet of white. Proper snow, perfect.

So there you are. A couple of my favourite Christmas memories. I’d love to hear yours, so leave them in the comments. I hope that wherever you are today, you are with the people you love. Merry Christmas lovelies xxx

The top 10 things I hate about weddings

1. Chair covers

I object to chair covers on principle. Why after years of seeing chairs in their natural form on my wedding day will my virgin brain (ha) scramble when confronted by the sight of an uncovered chair? Frankly, they are so many more attractive things to spend money on then tying a ribbon around a chair. Look I get it, venues often have unmatched chairs. But why is the onus on the couple to pay for chair covers and not the venue for having shitty chairs. Rise up brides and grooms, you don’t have to put up with this!

2. Wedding magazines and their buy everything mentality

If you read wedding magazines or in fact most magazines aimed at women, you will internalise a lot of tedious bullshit. Newly engaged me bought wedding magazines for three months before fleeing screaming into the blogosphere. I cracked after being driven into a panic because I did not have a signature perfume to wear on the day. Despite the fact, a) perfume makes me and b) HWSNBN sneeze. You see, magazines are primarily funded by advertising money and their not so secret mission is to entice you to buy all the things. And this will quickly drive you mad and broke. All you need is you, your true love, two witnesses and a place and person to marry you. That’s it. The rest, it’s just window dressing. Also see, this excellent post on

3. The bride being given away.

FUCK OFF with your outdated dark-age chauvinistic concepts. Whenever I tell people what we are/ are not doing and they don’t agree the standard retort is: ‘It’s traditional’.  So.Fucking.What. Yes, let’s keep living in caves, lynching black people and drinking Coca Cola laced with cocaine ‘cos it’s traditional. Translation traditional: happened once. Times changes, things move on. Traditions, darling, are made to be broken.

4. People who ask if they are invited

Why, why, why would you do that? If you are, you’ll get an invite. If not, all you are doing is sparking a squirm inducing moment, where the bride, (because they always ask the blooming bride, see below) has to explain that you’re not invited because of  a) money, b) venue limitations, or c) (yep, I’m going to be brutal here) we like other people more than we like you. Can’t you just hint like a normal person? (I’m joking, this is also grr inducing) Asking outright it’s just not very British.

5. The most important day of your life

Really? Reeeeeeeeeeeealllly? I call bullshit. More important than when I met HWSNBN? Or when, (far, far, far into the future) I have children. No, our wedding day will be a good day, a fun day (I hope) but the most important… nah.

6. ‘It’s your day’

7. Bridezilla backlash

I’m not talking about the people with personality disorders who appear on a popular TV programmes. I am talking about the label that is applied when a bride displays assertive behaviour. Yes, be polite but if you’re not getting what you want how are you being a Bridezilla by stating what you would like? As a very wise friend put it, navigating the choppy newly engaged waves can help you develop your assertiveness skills (hey Ros *waves*). The Bridezilla label has the undertone of ‘aaah women those hormones get to their tiny, tiny brains’ that fucks me right off.

8. Sudden religious conversion

We’ve all met them. The people who when engaged experience a sudden religious conversion and need, no, have to be married in the sight of god. Dudes: just be honest. You want to get married in a church because it looks good in the pictures, not because of worries about your immortal soul. On the converse, I’ve heard so many horror stories of churches getting very sniffy because of friends who have been married before. Church, really in this day and age can you afford to be picky? Let’s end the hypocrisy on both sides.

9. Throwing the bouquet

Ah, unmarried women let’s herd them into space and throw things at them (don’t get me started on brooch bouquets, ouch). Because being single isn’t hard enough? I’m kidding with this one, sort of. But I used to dread the bouquet toss before I was engaged. Once a bouquet landed in my arms and you have never seen me move faster away from something. My old gym teacher would have been proud and very stunned. And as a bride if I’m spending 100 quid on a bouquet, that baby is going to be in my hands til it’s a rotting mess of vegetation.

10. Bride you.

This makes me sad, more than angry. I’ve seen beautiful friends with short hair who start growing their hair for the wedding because it’s bridal. Or straight haired friends who curl their hair because that’s what you do. Or friends who decide they can/can’t do something because it’s not what brides do. Who says? I’m not saying don’t scrub up. But there’s a difference between polishing yourself and changing everything that makes you, well you. I want to walk down the aisle looking like a prettier version of me. So don’t change brides you’re perfect, just the way you are.

And one thing I used to hate about weddings but now don’t mind:

1. ‘What’s your theme?’

I was initially very scornful of themes when we first got engaged. ‘My theme is we’re getting married.’ I used to say. ‘Isn’t that enough?’ But: true confession time HWSNBN and I have a theme. All will be revealed shortly. But does having a theme mean I get thrown out of the bad brides club?

End rant/

Wow, I feel much better. OK, lovely folks, dish about all things about weddings you hate in the comments or all tell me how much you luurve chair covers. (Seriously: why?)

When I tell people what I am studying, a PGDip in Humanistic Therapeutic Counselling natch, often I get confused looks. Only the truly foolhardy or desperately curious will ask what does that actually  mean? The PGDip bit is easy enough, it’s a postgraduate diploma that once (if!) I graduate will qualify me to practice as a counsellor. But humanistic counselling is more difficult to explain unless you have experienced it. As over Christmas I have to write a whole 5,000 word essay explaining humanistic counselling (pray for me dear reader), I’m going to use this post as a way of organising my thoughts on the theory of humanistic counselling.

There are three main branches of counselling: psychodynamic, behaviourism and humanism. At a simplest level all counselling theories strive to answer three questions: how do human beings develop, what causes humans distress, and how can that distress be alleviated. The vastly different answers each theory provides, tells us a lot about the cultural and historical climate as well as the people developed them.

Psychodynamic counselling

Let me start by defining what humanistic counselling isn’t. It isn’t lying on a soft leather couch, “Tell me about your mother”, and truth derived from dream interpretation. This stereotypical image of therapy lodged in our collective consciousness is of psychodynamic therapy, and the founder of modern-day therapy as we know it: Freud. Psychodynamic theorists argue that many of our thoughts and desires are buried in our unconscious, often inaccessible. Think of the mind as iceberg, only the  tip, our conscious thoughts and feelings, emerges into the icy air. The vast majority is submerged in the watery depths, our unconscious inaccessible to us except through dreams and freudian slips. Psychodynamic theory paints human beings as conflicted, torn apart by warring drives, the id, ego and superego all in constant battle. Using the therapist as expert interpreter the therapist and client dig into the past to discover the root of trauma.

Behavioural counselling

Behaviourism is the attempt to create a scientific, empirical model of human behaviour. Behaviourism argues that human behaviour is learnt and can be reconditioned. If you think of human beings as like a computer, by rewriting the programme and combating negative thoughts and beliefs you can change your behaviour. Like Pavlov’s dog behaviourism works by reinforcing helpful behaviour, becoming conditioned or used to certain phenomena and is generally very good when combating the habitual behaviours associated with conditions such as OCD and eating disorders. Behaviourism is very firmly located in the here and now and not interested in the past. Because of this I feel that behaviourism treats the symptoms, but not the problem itself.

Humanistic counselling

Humanism, the counselling theory I study and practise, is about recognising an individual’s autonomy, subjective reality and capacity for growth. The term humanism covers a broad number of different therapeutic philosophies (person-centred counselling, existentialism, gestalt and transactional analysis to name but a few). Broadly speaking all these different strands have certain core ideas in common:

The relationship as vehicle for therapeutic change.

As human beings, we exist in relation to those around us. Using the model of the relationship we can see how the client acts in the world outside the therapeutic room and model change using the relationship as catalyst.

Individual as expert on their inner world.

Humanists believe that it is the client subjective experience which guides therapy, not the therapist’s expertise. Only the client knows what hurts and how that pain can be alleviated.

Non directive.

Following on from this, the therapist attempts to bracket off assumptions and instead of leading or pushing the client, follows the client wherever they wish to go as a companion rather than a guide.

Focus on the here and now.

Instead of exacavating the past, the therapist stays with the current lived-in experience of the client. As people are constantly changing the focus is on what the client brings into the room and where to go next giving a forward direction to therapy.

Treat the whole.

Instead of emphasising parts of the person (id or thoughts over feelings) humanistic counsellor try to work with the person as a whole. This means avoiding diagnosis but accepting the person and their lived-in experiences

Choice.

It our greatest gift and simultaneously our greatest tragedy that we are free within certain finite constraints (time, ageing and death) to choose. This is often the concept, that most newbie counsellors struggle. Yes, sometimes tragedy falls from the sky, uncontrolled or motivated by ourselves but it is how we react to the hand we are dealt, how we frame that experience that we can control.

In practise

I’ve tried to give a brief overview of humanistic counselling theory, but it’s only when you see the theory in action that you can understand how it works. In practise as as a humanistic therapist: you are warm and accepting, you are present, you go where the client leads constantly checking your understanding, you are genuine not hiding behind the role of expert. If you are interested in humanism then let me leave you with the late, great Carl Roger’s in action. Filmed in the 1960′s the concerns Gloria talks about to Rogers are still relevant today:

Via Jonas Peterson

Sometimes life moves so fast that only when you look back can you see how much things have changed. But on rare occasions it feels like you pass through a boundary, where afterwards nothing is as it once was. 27 March 2004 was one of mine. I’ve told you about how HWSNBN and I first met at University, and when I realised I fancied him. Now let me finish by talking about when we, finally, got together.

27 March 2004. I am stumbling through the North Laines in Brighton, surrounded by a gaggle of friends, when I hear my name called. I turn and see HWSNBN standing there, as if my drunken mind conjured him from the ether.  My world narrows and I don’t even hear when L, drunk as always, says to him ‘Oh you’re the one who’s here for Rowan… Oops.’ When he tells me, months afterwards, I bury my head in a pillow with embarrassment.

He falls into step next to me and we almost walk past something white on the wet ground. I pick up a stuffed lamb toy which I christen ‘Lamby’. HWSNBN disagrees and says he’s more a ’Lumpy’. Our bickering continues until we reach the pub. When it comes to toys normally I am remarkably unsentimental and I loathe stuffed toys with their frozen eyes and stiff plastic fur. But I keep this one, dirty from the pavement, not even mine, through move after move, because it’s a reminder of that evening.

We sit next to each other in the pub and it’s going well too well. I am even talking to HWSNBN, despite the fact I fancy him. This my lovelies is progress. Then my flatmate’s boyfriend insists on taking a photo of the just the two of us. As he’s taking the photo, he art directs as I vibrate with anxiety. ‘Get closer. HWSNBN put your arm around her. Awh don’t you two make a lovely couple.’ I narrow my eyes at him across the table across the table at him and thankfully he gets the message and shut’s up. It’s the last photo I have of HWSNBN and me before we became an us.

Fast forward to the Funky Fish and now it’s just the four of us: Greggers, L, HWSNBN and me. HWSNBN goes to the bar for drinks, I ask for water. All I want to drink is water, as if by sobering up I will be able to deal with what will come. L and Greggers have been in the club for half an hour before they decide to go. Traitors. I go to the toilet and stare into my reflection as if it will have the answers. The mirrors fails me. Back upstairs I dance and he joins me. I don’t know then that he doesn’t dance but he will for me. Finally sick of shouting over the music we retreat to a leopard printed corner.

It’s just me and HWSNBN and a club full of strangers. Panicked I text a friend, miles away in Brummieville, and she responds with helpful advice, that I cannot read for HWSNBN is sitting next to me. So there’s nothing to do but lean close to each other, in this crowded noisy club and talk. About writing, about our shared past at university, about our hopes and dreams. As he’s telling me about his Dr Who fan fiction (!), we start holding hands. My heart is pounding. Kiss me, I think. Please kiss me. And finally, after what feels like hours but is only minutes, he does. 

The world shrinks until it’s just the two of us. There will be time afterwards for endless declarations of love, for hours on trains subsumed with longing as the wheels brings me closer to him, for travelling the world side by side, for fights about everything and nothing, for moving in together, for waking each morning and falling asleep with him in my arms until I am bereft when he is not there. All these possibilities and more are laid out in front of us in a glittering array. But in this moment all I am aware of is that I am changing and nothing will ever be the same again. 

Via the Knock Knock studio

The lovely Miss Crow reminded me that I had never finished the story of how He Who Shall Not Be Named (HWSNBN) and I, finally, got together. Yep, it’s time for another self-indulgent look back at the past.

After graduation I had moved away from Brighton and was living and working back home. HWSNBN had stayed in Brighton and was studying for his Masters. After graduation we did not see each other until four months later at a friends Halloween party.

I was standing in the hallway when I saw HWSNBN climb the stairs in his oversized leather jacket, a friend in tow. My stomach flipped as I saw him. Really saw him for the first time. Had HWSNBN always been this handsome? This tall? As we chatted I realised a) I really fancied HWSNBN and b) I had no idea what to do about it.

I had talked to HWSNBN without any problems for years but now I fancied him it was a different story entirely. I dragged a friend aside and in the epic queue for the toilets we held a council of war as my previous strategy with men I liked (stammer, avoid eye contact, hide) was surprisingly unsuccessful.

‘Talk to him!’
‘I can’t, I really, really fancy him.’
‘So then talk to him!’
‘I can’t. If I talk to HWSNBN, he’ll know I fancy him’

At which point HWSNBN’s friend walked out of the toilet having heard everything. AWKWARD. My friend turned to me with a gleeful ‘problem solved!’ look on her face. Except what we did not know was that although the friend  told HWSNBN, whohad crushed on me since the moment we first met, he was convinced the friend was just winding him up.

As the party began to wind down I found myself sitting on the wall next to HWSNBN. I may have had a couple of shandies. OK, a lot. For those of you not acquainted with drunkRowan instead of being the life and soul of the party she doesn’t speak and falls asleep. HOT! As he invited to me to a party my drunken brain frantically whirled trying to figure out what the invitation meant. In my head I smiled at him seductively while saying ‘I would love to go to a party with you’. In reality I said nothing while smiling at him in a dazed way and nodding slowly. My flatmate’s then boyfriend stepped in and insisted on taking me home with them (grrr). And being very drunk I was not articulate enough to protest or, yanno, talk at all.

We did not get together then. Instead I talked about HWSNBN for months, annoying/boring everybody around me. Roll forward until February, one long grey Sunday and my flatmate and I were bored. We texted everybody we knew to see if anybody wanted to come over for drinks. HWSNBN was the only person who turned up. As he rang the doorbell, I lay on my bed (my bedroom was also our living room. Aah student life) reading a magazine, trying to look alluring but disinterested. But because there were only four of us I had to talk to him and when we started I couldn’t stop. We talked into the wee hours, past my flatmate and her boyfriend going to bed. Until I started to sober up and remembered I get up to go to work in minus five hours. (I really, really liked him to cut into my precious sleep time) As we said goodbye I panicked was he going to kiss me? Was I ready?  As he hugged me, I turned sideways and we engaged in an awkward sideways hug.

We did not get together then. Roll forward to the end of March 2004 and my last week as a single girl.

The week before we finally got together: three different men asked me out and I didn’t fancy any of them. I had been happily single for almost two years but that Wednesday I clearly remember sitting next to my mum on the sofa in tears. Why did I never like the men who liked me? Why did the men I like never like me? Should I just ‘settle’ and see if romance grew? (Answers: a) cos I’m picky. b) because of my aforementioned ‘seduction technique’ c) Hell no. Never settle.) For the first time I admitted to myself I wanted a boyfriend. My mum gave me a big hug and told me that somebody I would meet someone who loved the way I deserved to be loved. Mum’s rule.

What I didn’t know was that week HWSNBN was dreaming of me. My flatmate was good friends with a close friend of his. Our real life cupids put their heads together and came up with a plan. And at a party male cupid told HWSNBN that I really liked him. According to HWSNBN he swore because now he was going to have to do something about it. That week, he had a series of vivid dreams in which I was dating another man and it made him sad. So he confided in his mum. And she told him point-blank that if he liked me so much, he should snap me up before another man did. Mum’s rule.

He texted my flatmate asking for my number saying he wanted to ask me out. Knowing how socially awkward I was she replied with ‘If you like her, you’ll have to get it yourself she’s down that weekend.’

And he did.

Next time: on kisses, stuffed toys and happy ever afters?