I admire it from the window.

"Look, Big, just look at it!"

With the sun beating down and a gentle breeze, it really is in its element. I smile a slightly smug smile, proud of my handiwork.

It had taken me a while to get around to it, I admit. I am not keen on drilling holes in masonry – the noise is unbearable and having had mishaps in the past, I tend to procrastinate when I know that future drilling is required. But that weekend, I had finally climbed the ladder, drill in hand, hammer action engaged, and finished the job.

At our last house, we’d had a free-standing model – no drilling required, but the results are not so satisfactory. The clustering makes the process take longer, and both of us being tall, there is always the risk of inadvertently clubbing oneself with the contraption which, like many domestic items of its kind, is built for those of a more average height. Such dangers with the new one are rare and, with its easily-stowed-away-when-not-in-use design, not of major concern.

Once, whilst enjoying a pub lunch with friends, a man whom we’d assumed to be the resident nutter approached us somewhat angrily, claiming with some conviction: "The evil is in the complexity!" and throwing what looked like a tarot card onto our table. Whilst at the time we’d laughed it off, I still remember that phrase and can’t help thinking he might have been onto something.

Simplicity. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Simplicity is what I strive for.

Which is why, when I look out of the back door at my freshly washed clothes and bed linen, pegged to our new, retractable washing line which I'd just affixed to the exterior wall, propped up with the clothes prop, blowing in the wind, basking in the sun, I feel a little glow.

The glow of simplicity.

The envelope was hand-delivered over the weekend. As I came downstairs, Big was reading it and he handed it over wordlessly.

Damn. We thought we'd got away with it...

Not having been in Southampton at the appropriate time, and not being particularly close to them, we hadn't been included originally and neither had we expected to be. Everyone else had assumed, however, that we had - being part of the same social circle. Kept mentioning it and we kept having to tell them that no, were weren't part of it. But we were okay with it - secretly, rather pleased because it all seemed like a bit of a chore.

Maybe someone thought they were doing us a favour, and mentioned it to them. Or maybe, through seeing us out and about, they themselves suddenly felt guilty about it. Took "pity" on us when there was no need.

Either way, there we were with the envelope and we weren't sure what to do.

"Why don't we go to Manchester that weekend instead? That would give us an excuse"

I screwed up my nose. "K is coming down on Friday night - I said I'd go out for dinner with her, haven't seen her for ages. I'd rather go to Manchester over a long weekend - it's too far to go on Saturday and come back on Sunday...". He rolled his eyes.

And so we have been invited (at the last minute - as an afterthought? After someone else dropped out?) to yet another wedding. It's that time in our life when everyone around us is planning the flowers, booking the venue and choosing the dress. Or moaning about planning the flowers, booking the venue or choosing the dress. Or wittering endlessly about planning the flowers, booking the venue or choosing the dress. Or becoming stressed about planning the flowers, booking the venue or choosing the dress. Or failing to believe the cost of the flowers, the venue or the dress.

I must admit that marriage was "considered" very early on in my relationship with Big. When I say "considered", I mean that he proposed and I accepted. True. And apart from Big and me, no-one else knows this. You are indeed privileged, gentle reader.

However, the more weddings we went to (and being in our mid-thirties, there are plenty going on), the more we realised that we just didn't want it for ourselves. Certainly not in the form we'd experienced and perhaps not in any form at all. The idea of being the centre of attention for a day fills me with horror. The idea of having friends and family spend a fortune on travel, outfits and accommodation just for the "pleasure" of watching me prance around in a pretty frock for a few hours is just bizarre. And as for the idea of expecting a gift, vouchers or whatever alternative schemes people come up with, just because we've decided to sign a piece of paper, is weird beyond belief.

And so we carry on, me being me, him being him, fine on our own, but better together.

For all these reasons and more, we were perfectly okay with not going to this wedding.

And then we got invited.

There's probably still time to hastily arrange a "prior" engagement...

(Am I evil?)

It's hard to know where to start with this one.

Suffice it to say, if you're going to give your sandwich shop a foreign name, do check the spelling, grammar and capitalisation with someone who knows the language before you go to the signwriters.

Confusion reigns, as is often the case in my dreams. Anxiety too. The details vary, but the sense of malaise is always the same. I could be missing a bus, a train, a plane. I might have lost my purse, my bag, my marbles. My legs, arms or hands don't seem to work, or work so sluggishly as to be at best frustrating, at worst, useless. Whatever I'm trying to do in my dreams - and it's usually vitally important - is being hampered by bad luck, physical shortcomings or bizarre logistical problems. I call these my anxiety dreams.

It is during one such mind muddle that I am suddenly aware of the duvet being ripped off me, my real (not dream) body exposed to the cool morning air in a most unexpected fashion. I manage a whimper, the pathetic-ness of which surprises even me. I furrow my brow and whine at the culprit beside me:

"You pulled the duvet off me!"

His look is one of utter bewilderment. As usual, when waking, he has little idea of what he's doing.

"S-sorry, I thought I was... I thought I was pulling it off myself..." he tails off, aware of how absurd his explanation is. He bundles me up again in the duvet and gathers my embundled self into his arms.

"I'm sorry, love" and he makes his exit. It must be time to get up.

I settle back down for a snooze, but before I have a chance to rest my head on the pillow, I am aware of the bedroom door creaking open, the padding of soft feet on the wooden floorboards and a tiny squeak. The cat, released from her downstairs incarceration, is ready for her morning cuddle.

Any plans I may have had for a snooze are now obliterated, as she jumps lightly and nimbly onto the bed and starts frantically kneading my chest (which I have taken care to cover with the duvet) and tickling my already pollen-ridden nose with her fluffy face. After a few minutes of sitting down, lying down, gazing adoringly, standing up, kneading and turning round (repeat, ad nauseam), she leaps over to the opposite corner of the bed, where she looks expectantly from me to the closed window blind.

Her work is done. I am now truly, indisputably awake. I drag my reluctant self from my horizontal position, grab my dressing gown and raise the blind just high enough for her to sit on the windowsill and survey her domain.

I shuffle sulkily downstairs and make a cup of tea. My day, like it or not, has begun.

I walk to the bus stop.

At the end of my road, the man with clippity-cloppity shoes and the close-fitting, slightly shiny suit approaches from the left, just as he did the day before. I am just ahead of him as I turn right towards the station, but am aware of his noisy footfalls just behind me - too close for comfort. Inevitably, I will cross the road to allow him to walk at his, slightly faster, pace.

As I turn left, up the hill, I note that he has now forged ahead. He has an air of confidence about him as he strides along, head held high. I suspect he is a lawyer.

At the top of the hill, I cross the busy junction and enter the park, near the modern statue. From this point on, I can see the road ahead running perpendicular to my trajectory. I have several minutes to contemplate the potential buses I could miss as they come from right to left in my field of vision - still a little too far away to run for. I curse my perfect eyesight, which allows me to notice such distant occurrences.

I approach the war memorial and the gaggle of schoolgirls who loiter there, smoking, chatting, flirting with the boys. The other day, as I walked past, I heard one saying: "I like your top." I'd assumed she was talking to her friend, but turned around to find that she was looking at me. "I like your top," she says again. Her tone of voice has the natural surliness of a teenager, and I'm not sure whether to take her comment at face value. I give her the benefit of the doubt. "Thanks," I smile, and continue on my way.

The long-haired guy is there, at the bus stop, as usual, with his lanky ponytail and laptop bag. Bound to work in IT. Bound to be a heavy metal fan. (I feel qualified to judge on both counts, since I am in the former category and I live with the latter). His attempt at business casual extends to substituting shabby, black trousers for his no-doubt habitual jeans.

The tall guy loiters anxiously, never stopping to sit on the insubstantial and rather uncomfortable looking bench within the shelter. Sometimes, I join him in the shade - the bus shelter being in direct sunlight, uncomfortable on warm mornings.

On the bus now, I notice the short, smiling, balding man, whose trousers are too short. An underwriter, perhaps. Or an actuary. He gets on half-way up the road, by the common. I hear him speaking to a friend - his car is out of action, which is why he's taking the bus. He grins happily for the entire journey. The novelty of taking the bus has not yet worn off.

Already on the bus is the young guy with red-dyed hair and quirky dress sense, who works at the same place as me. Customer services call centre. And he is there again, at the bus stop for the journey home. Another bus stop you can see for several tantalising minutes as you approach it via the large expanse of the supermarket car park. The long-haired, ponytail man is also there, as is the Louis Theroux lookalike whom I sometimes see.

The short, smiling, balding man just makes it onto the bus in time and soon we are heading back into town again. The huge, muscular, unlikely looking jogger is in his usual place, his black skin glistening with sweat, clutching two water bottles which look frosted, as if they'd been put in the freezer beforehand.

As we arrive back in the City Centre, I consider getting another bus home, but my ticket only allows me to take the blue buses. Countless white buses are going in my direction, but the blues are fewer and further between and yes, I can just see the other bus stop - a blue one has just pulled away.

I walk. I need the exercise.

I arrive home to Big, and the cat who now belongs to us. The cat inevitably does something amusing, and I smile and have a cup of tea.

Stuff.

Like working (impressing), running (progressing), swimming (buoying), socialising (enjoying), sleeping (snoring), Facebooking (boring), laughing (guffawing) and living, for heaven's sake, living.

And NOT blogging.

Ah well.

You were beautiful.

"Don't look at me!" you muttered to the staff outside the main room. But how could they not?

I heard the "ahhh" as the assembled guests in the room saw first the two little nieces, holding hands, dressed in pink, then you, luminous, arm in arm with our brother, in loco parentis. Then me, following behind, barely able to look up, only once to find Big with my eyes and return his smiling, gentle wink, but trembling, clutching the bouquet.

I remember only fragments of the ceremony, mostly being occupied with the effort it took to remain composed as poignant words were spoken with shaking voices. We in the front row independently and silently resolved not to look at each other, though we could sense the struggle in the others as we gulped back the tears. I heard your name - your full name, your middle name, our mother's name. A reminder of the gaping hole. I remember our brother-in-law delivering his reading with less gusto than is normal for him. His voice faltered, his eyes glistened - we sympathised.

The ceremony over with, we relaxed a little, but we knew there was more to come. Later, the heartfelt speech from your new husband and his toast to "absent friends" was another catalyst for our eyes to fill and our lips to tremble.

Because we'd been saying for some time that your wedding would be a "blub-fest". The first wedding in our family without mum. Yet another wedding without dad - the dad that you and I can barely remember. The three grandchildren they would never know, though perhaps they see them, perhaps they watch over them.

I wonder how many of your guests knew that just five days before your wedding, you had gone back to the clinic for the results of the biopsy. I wonder how many of them knew that a few weeks before that, you'd found that lump. I wonder how many of them knew that, although the biopsy had suggested that the lump was benign, the doctor was still concerned and booked you in to have it removed, a few days after you return from your honeymoon.

I suppose our bad genes were not content with giving you a rare, congenital heart condition, necessitating bypass surgery at the age of 21 and lifelong medication. I suppose they didn't think that the loss of both parents to cancer by the time you were 28 was sufficient. I guess they reckoned that a younger sister diagnosed with a rare, lifelong, auto-immune disease at the age of 34 and treated with chemotherapy wasn't quite enough for them.

Sometimes, I want to scream: "FOR FUCK'S SAKE, JUST LEAVE US ALONE!"

To whom, to what? I don't know. Whoever or whatever it is that has cursed the health of our family, please, just leave us alone.

Through it all, though, you smiled, you laughed, you danced.

You shone like a star, my sister.

You were beautiful.

She is a loudmouth. Her voice carries more than you'd think it would. She hiccoughs, sneezes, belches without stifling it, like a man. She cackles like a witch - deep and throaty. Dirty.

She swears. On a Gordon Ramsay scale, she's small fry, but she cusses and curses more than you'd think, from what little you know of her.

She is tall. She undoubtedly has a physical presence. She looks confident - almost intimidating - but there is an inner awkwardness perceptible to the more observant. She is incredibly clumsy - always flailing her arms as she walks and bashing them on walls, radiators, door handles, grazing her knuckles as she goes.

She is incredibly opinionated. In the privacy of her own home, she rants and raves and argues the toss about education, politics, the environment, society, claiming to have an answer to all the wrongs. Outside of her home, she is rarely drawn into any serious debate, doubting her ability to express her view articulately, stifling her thoughts, silently simmering.

She is an appalling gossip. Incredibly observant and intuitive, she can spot the seed of gossip almost before it happens. She can bitch for England (or for any other country that may require her services).

She is an inverted snob at times. A snob at others.

She is "a million different people from one day to the next".

Do you think you know her?

She is me. The me (most of) you don't see. The me who writes, presses publish, gets up, walks away from the screen and becomes a real, three-dimensional, multi-faceted, multi-talented and multi-flawed human being.

Not just anxious. Much, much more.

---

inspired by this

I've had a few double-takes. A few lingering looks that say "hold on there, missus!". A few "amusing" comments. A few awkward silences, where you can feel the weight of the stares. But mostly raised eyebrows and surprised smiles.

I'd been waiting for this moment for months, putting up with things in that stoic way that I'd learned from my mother. Irritatingly, it was only when the situation became significantly more bearable that I was able to go ahead with the "cure" - or at least, the partial remedy. When I was most desperate for the change, it simply wasn't possible to effect it.

But last Friday, my time came.

It was rather more painful than I'd expected, not only during, but just after. At first, I found it hard to sleep at night and woke up sullen. The tearfulness would continue all day.

Tearfulness, because it wasn't everything I'd hoped for. My expectations were, I fear, a little too high. I'd wanted them to give me back everything I'd lost, but they could only work with what they had. And what they had was not a lot.

Tearfulness, too, because I wondered if this was all just too ungrateful, too vain. Shouldn't I be pleased that everything seems to be okay on the inside?

I suppose that partly, I did it for my sister. Had I not been asked to be her bridesmaid, I wonder whether I would have gone through with it. But with the assurance of photos that will be looked at for years to come, I just wanted to look a bit more like me.

Just a bit.

You see, I paid someone to painstakingly braid the lower sections of my hair into tight cornrows. I paid someone to sew, with an alarmingly large needle, woven sections of real, human hair onto the braids. Human hair so well matched to my own, that it even contains the same odds flecks of grey.

I got some new hair. And though it's so clearly a mullet, I am growing to like it.