I guess I’m probably more stressed about the wedding (now less than two weeks away) than I let on, even to myself.

That could explain the sudden, unexpected hot pricking of tears in the hairdressers this afternoon when, after two hours of mindless chatter and pungent chemicals the blowdryer revealed a whole different shade than had previously been discussed over the colour-charts.

Cue one soothing cup of tea, one salon manager’s intervention, one and a half more hours of chemicals and Hello and one head of not-so-tangoed (and actually quite excellent) hair. Thank goodness.

For someone who’s supposed to be quite laid-back about the whole wedding thing, who’s being unrepentently insistent that’s it’s all very informal and matter-of-fact and easy and so on, things like picking up the rings (as I did this afternoon) still have the power to shake me, somewhat: more than I confess.

Not in a bad way, though.

On the one hand, I’m really looking forward to it, and want the days between then and now to rush away on fast forward. I never was much good at waiting.

On the other hand, I’m still having a little trouble getting my head around the whole “…and in two weeks time I’ll be married: I’ll be a wife; I’ll have a husband” thing.

It doesn’t sound unappealing - quite the contrary, in fact - but it does sound a little strange, a bit un-me. Like talking with someone else’s false teeth in. Do they mean me? Wifey? Me? And P, my husband?

It feels strange to think that we’ll gain these new cognomens. What if I just want my P to just be P, not (my husband) P? Will he look different? Will I? Will we act the same? We’ve just bought a car - is there a dog on the horizon? And a holiday in a Gite? And a toddler caller Tabitha? Isn’t marred life something that happens to other, older, more responsible people? Or is that us now, too? How bizarre.

This too shall pass: I have no doubt (in this, or about anything).

Blame it on the noxious chemicals. Or, indeed, the boogie.