I get some wise advice

Oddly, we are still to be married. Luckily, the French-Canadian veterinary research histopathologist to whom I am to be married has cheap taste*, and his wedding ring is costing under $15. Mine is just over $23, but only because I went for the intermingled Lord of the Rings rune/Harry Potter symbol, whereas he's just gone for a sort of Celtic knot/Fleur de Lys type affair.

And so it rumbles on: If the chairs in the place you are getting married look like old academics have been weeing on them every day since 1973, do you get chair covers when it will cost $500 plus tax? Conclusion: Jimmy the Greek, $2, I put them on for you. Pumpkins (non-orange), cake stands (no, but really, are you kidding me?). What the cock is a "wedding programme"? No, I am not paying someone to draw a table plan. No, my guests do not want a biscuit I made 3 days ago in a greaseproof paper bag with a 'custom sticker' on it to take home. Yes, I made my own cakes and no, you do not like fondant icing, and do not pretend you do.

And so it goes on.

But all this is as nothing, for last weekend I was given a fridge magnet that was, like the chair-wetting professors, from 1973 and it, my friends, gives us the only advice any of us will ever need.



(And no, don't bother to comment about the extra apostrophe - everyone else will have noticed as well.)

* Obviously.

I am also disgusted by this

I find this completely unacceptable

We have been here before, and yet it continues! I will not put up with it for a second longer.

I attempt to choose my wedding cake topper

Yes. The wedding day approaches (in 6 weeks). The Marguerite PotLuck project has had to be "put on ice" (as they say in management circles when they are not suggesting that people "reach out" to one another) in favour of a far more exciting endeavour: the 'bake your own wedding cake' project.

I will not be making a 3-tiered fruitcake thing with fondant icing for a few simple reasons:

1. I do not like fondant icing;
2. I am not sure that anyone else likes fondant icing;
3. I do not like eating things that have to be fiddled with and 'manipulated';
4. I do not like eating things that also double up as a decoration. (Chocolate Christmas tree decorations aside.)

Instead, I shall be making many different bundt cakes (so pretty, and found less often in the UK than in the North America, I think). They do not need to be fussed with much and are pretty as they are, perhaps with a little icing sugar dusted across their soft receiving mounds, or, at most, a perky little glaze.

We are doing a scientific experiment, overseen by the pathologist, in which I bake a cake; part of it is wrapped and stored in the fridge for a week, part of it frozen, and the other part eaten by anyone who crosses our path. If they pass all the tests (freezes/keeps well, tastes like mouthporn), then they are IN.

So far, we have a lemon and lavender cake, a chocolate cake and a magnificent orange, carrot and ginger cake (the recipe is originally from Cooks Illustrated but this is the same recipe), and need two more - any ideas gratefully suggested, as long as they contain neither shortening nor margarine.

And yet - this is a wedding. Surely something must come rising out of the most attractive of the bundt cakes, indicating to all those gathered present that they in fact at a wedding, at not at a Women's Institute coffee morning. But what's it to be? The choices are endless.


Bridal Arch

A classic.
















Dance of Love

For only $149, the pathologist and I can (metaphorically) dance into the sunset forever and ever.
















Magic Hands

How do our tiny white hands function if they are cut off from the rest of our body? Are they powered by our love alone?



















Dirty Seahorses

Why are seahorses so odd? They are the favourite living creature of the pathologist (along with bats), and yet I find them strange, like something made up in an underwater sci-fi comic book.












The Lionel Ritchie

Hello. Is it me you're looking for?














Strange Children

























Pigs on a Harley

I make no comment about Harley drivers being pigs. No, I lie: I will. Harley drivers - particularly the ones that roar up and down our (otherwise quiet) country road at the weekends, starting at 8am, are inconsiderate wankers, and a damn sight less sympathetic, useful and attractive than real pigs. (Interesting fact: the average age of a Harley owner is 62).






Moptop dream of love

Sindy, crossed with Ringo Starr (early years), crossed with a Playperson.



(By the way, if you haven't seen Cake Wrecks, go there now and kiss goodbye to at least a quarter of an hour.)

I need a little sit down in the car park

I don't care if this is a hoax. In fact, if it is a hoax, I will definitely always buy Haribo's products forever (which is probably the result they wanted: if so, well done Haribo! You have snared me with your cunning social media strategy marketing plan communications efforts type strategy!).

You will like it. Do click on the link, even if it does increase traffic to the Daily "Fucking" Mail.