I want to get married. I do! I do! I do! I want a ring I can spend the rest of my life with, and a dress that I can call The One. I’m ready to commit to spending £10,000 on a party. I’m ready to have and to hold (let’s not talk about God).
I have been a bridezilla-in-waiting for as long as I can remember. Zsa Zsa Gabor and Elizabeth Taylor have nothing on me. My ambitions are made out of meringue dresses and honeymoon safaris. My daydreams are filled to the brim with snow-globe, horse-drawn carriages and big fat wedding cakes.
I have a fantasy of tying the knot in which no bling is left unturned, where there are bagpipes and fireworks, and I have a dip-dyed pink dress like that one Gwen Stefani wore (but still classy, like Kate’s). I want a tea-lit ceremony in a blow-up castle on a beach in Thailand at sunset, with a full moon in a star-filled sky. I want Eminem presiding and drag-queen bridesmaids. I’ll walk up the aisle with Slash from Guns N’ Roses on guitar as Beyoncé sings Halo a cappella and Leonard Cohen will give me away.
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