here comes the bride..

..all short and wide, here comes the groom - and however it goes. I am writing this wearing my be-yoo-tiful wedding clothes (as odd as this may seem). In fact, I did have the intention of not actually taking them off again until after the wedding, but common sense, in the form of concerns about prayer, study and dodging Mr C for three months, prevailed. Does anyone actually know if it is an Old Bengali Custom to not let one's intended see one's garments for the big day? He claims not to be interested, stating (like Provincial Lady's morose spouse Robert) I'm sure you'll look Nice Anyway. I still have battle scars from the last time I wore one of these things, the dupattas are not kind to the skin. Perhaps they should try cashmere, or faux fur, though the effect may be a little eccentric.

Interesting goings-on in the last few weeks, including an extended visit to London, incorporating several trips away from the marital home, to Green Street and Topshop most significantly. As can be read elsewhere in Bikey's warblings, my dear old bosom chums (as Anne would say) paid me a visit, admiring the Famous Five railway (not train) station and the picturesqueness -if that's a word- of Kent. Despite being in reality SE20, and not falling within Kent at all, Mr C likes to keep up the great pretence that we live in the Garden of England. I have yet to pay a visit to Tunbridge Wells, which always sounded like exactly the sort of place I should have been born, 200 years ago. Also, Kent is plentifully supplied with a form of cottage called Oasts with round miniature Hobbit towers called Roundels, and you can actually rent them to stay in! Oh to holiday in a Roundel, what pleasure. Mr C, I know you are reading this.

Lots and lots more to say, but will leave until a time when i am not swathed in yards and yards of heavy silk.