It was a perfect Sunday morning in Valencia, the sky so obnoxiously bright and blue that I could finally understand why those moaning Brits on reality shows always migrate without job prospects or knowledge of basic Spanish. We were crammed on a train platform with thousands of locals, all headed to the track for the Motorcycle Grand Prix.

It's a whole other entry altogether to explain how my ridiculous obsession with MotoGP began, but after seeing Dead Lenin on Red Square there obviously was a void to fill. I began watching the races with Gareth out of pure politeness, but within a few weeks I became Miss Tragic Bike Geek and convinced him that we HAD to go to Spain to see a race FOR REAL, otherwise I would become very difficult to live with.

"Well, if you became a filthy rich author then you too could work from home!"

"Ha! Only JK Rowling gets to do that."

"Hmmm. You could write legal blockbusters like John Grisham!"

"But I'm not a lawyer! I'm a lowly administrator. I'd have to write A Time To File and The Coffeemaker. Or The Runaway Stapler.

"Or maybe you could churn out Barbara Cartland-style romance novels with an administration theme."

"How?"

"Like, Algernon took Stacey into the stationery cupboard and gave it to her from behind!"

"Just the way she likes it!"

"Then she couldnae walk proper for a week!"

"Classy!"

"See, this writing lark is totally easy."

Help! There are bazillions of folks dropping in from the Bloggies site and here I am without Quality Entries to woo the voting public. All I can offer is Mild Hysteria since it's just five weeks today until me and the Kilted One get hitched.

I bought some bridal magazines. I still don't know why I did this. Perhaps I wanted a two-hundred page reminder that I have no money, time or style.

Wedding Day magazine had a story on how to plan a wedding on four different budgets: £1000, £10 000, £100 000 or ONE MILLION POUNDS! For £1m they suggested buying your own Mediterranean island and icing your wedding cake with solid gold. I was more interested in the £1000 job. They told me to save money by purchasing a vintage dress. Who actually finds decent vintage clothing unless they're a titless size 2 or work in the costume department of a happening TV show? Vintage for me will involve going to the Romanian Orphans Charity Shop in Tollcross and asking, "Has there been any donations in white polyester? Puffed sleeves? Pit-stains not too prominent?"

You and Your Wedding sounded like a friendly enough title, making the event sound comfy and managable. They probably also do You and Your Cocker Spaniel and You and Your Tracksuit. I pondered the article, Are You A Summer Bride or Winter Bride? Pollen-choked daisies or whiskey shots by a roaring fire? I don't bloody know. Where is the option for Threat of Deportation Bride? Surely that's a niche market, I can't be the only Scot-loving Antipodean who likes to leave things to the last minute.

There's no scope in these magazines for people in a hurry. They just publish bossy little Wedding Countdowns that start at least a year in advance, so you'd best take advantage of their subscription offer! Apparently twelve months ago we should have met with our priest or rabbi and finalised the guest list. We should have picked the rings at Christmas and the Going Away Outfit should have been rotting in my wardrobe since November. What the hell is a Going Away Outfit?!

Most damning of all I was supposed to start a "skin, hair and nails regime" eleven months ago. My skin regime consists of me glaring at the alarm clock at midnight thinking, "I should get up and wash that mascara off. I should moisturise. I shouldn't sleep in stinky gym clothes". Furthermore, the bags under my eyes are so dark and fat that it looks like I've glued on a pair of slugs from the garden. My sleep has been rubbish since Engagement Day coz I keep waking up middle of the night going "Hee hee hee!", still euphoric and unable to believe he wants to marry me. Sucker!

As for the nail regime, I've never had a manicure in my life, unless you count pushing my cuticles back with the front door key.

They also tell me that beautiful bride needs to use a body brush and exfoliate regularly. The only time I exfoliate is when I have a bath at Gareth's place and have to use his Towels of Torture. He reckons fabric conditioner is environmentally-unfriendly, so the towels are so stiff you can snap them in half like a Salada biscuit. I admire your eco-warrior streak, but when I move in THIS IS GOING TO CHANGE, BUDDY! I may as well towel off with a cheese grater.

Without Rhiannon in the house it's become painfully aware that I have nothing in common with my roomies. Especially not Morph who gave me a Christmas card that said, Santa isn't real, but Jesus is!

There's suddenly a vast expanse of time in the evening that I used to spend ranting and raving to Rhi about the latest pile of unwashed dishes or Mysterious Pubic Hair, because a pube shared is pube halved. But now we speak on the phone a few times a week and I'm reminded how alarming fast things are changing at the moment, our lives branching off in all sorts of crazy directions.

I'm getting the hang of Solo Shopping. If I plan ahead and put my debit card in my coat pocket I can whip it out quickly, avoiding purse-rummaging and cashier eye-rolling. It occurred to me tonight when I noticed that I'd once again filled the trolley with yogurt and ingredients for vegie chilli, that I could get even more efficient with the grocery shop if I just bought the same thing every week. Then I could just cook the same thing every week. I could live off the motherload of chilli for days on end! And with well-timed dashes to the microwave, I'd be able to avoid getting trapped in dreary kitchen conversations.

Tonight's shop was slowed down a little by the Rhiannon Memorial Coat. She didn't want it anymore so I snaffled it, even thought it's a size too small, particularly snug in the arms. It's white with a fluffy collar, so imagine a furry, partially immobile marshmellow. It's very warm though, and as long as I have a good approach it's not overly hard for me to sit down while wearing it. I didn't take it off while shopping, coz then I'd have to waste time wrestling back into it. So I just had to make sure not to buy anything on a high shelf.

As I was shuffling out with my shopping I passed a harrassed looking mother with two little boys. One of them had just learned a new word and was determined to say it as much as possible even though he didn't know what it meant.

"You've got SEX!" he cackled to his brother. "SEX!"

He tugged his mothers hand, "You've got SEX!". He said it gleefully like it was a terrible disease.

He stopped right in front and peered up at me, "YOU'VE got SEX!"

"Ha! Fat chance in this coat."

On the bus home a bunch of students got on at the university campus, looking very young and serious. Why do university students look so serious? I guess it's so you use up all your seriousness quota then, so in later years when you wind up doing apparently serious things like getting married, all you're able to do is laugh hysterically.

My ponderings were interrupted when the bus driver suddenly slammed on the brakes, sending one of my shopping bags flying off the seat. I was powerless to stop it, bereft of movable arms in the Rhiannon Memorial Coat. A pot of yogurt landed SPLAT in the middle of the aisle and exploded everywhere.

"WHOA!" I said very loudly, just like Keanu Reeves.

The students all stared at me as I slowly slid off my seat and tried to manoeuver myself low enough to pick up the pot with robot arms. What possessed me to say WHOA? Was it to convince these kids I was just as cool as them? What would their generation know about Keanu anyway? As I kneeled in the aisle and swatted at the mess with tissues, I couldn't move my hand quick enough to stop the word popping out again, "WHOA!".

It's time to start buying groceries online.

Mothership, Mothership. That's all I ever hear from you people. I told her about all the comments and emails I got asking for her response to the engagement, and she was delighted to know she is still famous. She released this official statement:

"The Mothership knew it would happen! She started making the official Wedding Quilt as soon as she came back from her trip to Scotland last April! Motherships know these things. Hee hee!"

Yes, she now refers to herself as The Mothership and often talks in third person. She's also a mad keen patchworker.

Everyone has been happy for us, and here on WNP the old Comment Count Record has been smashed! You all rule the school, thanks for your kind words.

Here's a few more reactions to the good news.

SISTER RHI:  Woohoo! I knew he'd come through!

GARETH'S DAD:  Well done son! We're so happy for you! I was hoping you wouldn't screw it up!

GARETH'S MA:  [dabbing tears of joy] Married by the end of March? That's not much time for me to go on a diet!

SISTER HOLLIE:  [in email with subject: oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god!]  CONGRATULATIONS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AAAAAAAAARRGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!! I can wear my formal dress! LOL!

AUNTIE BARB:  [one of The Aunts] So is this Gareth a nice boy? Because if he's not The Aunts can come over and bail him up. We can be very formidable, you know!

MY FORMER BOSS:  Will you consider wearing a tartan bridal gown... like the famous one designed by Vivienne Westwood and modeled by Kate Moss? Now there's something for you to ponder (from memory she had her left breast hanging out - so may not be quite you).

And there we were in the fancy restaurant, poised to celebrate. I chose the chair that gave me the best view of the other diners, leaving Gareth with only myself or the specials board to gaze upon.

"Soooo," I said as we waited for the entrees. "How ya feeling about this marriage stuff? Nervous? Nauseous? Totally shitscared?"

Just as the words left my mouth, a Very Old Man behind us leaned forward over his dinner plate and threw up all over the table.

It was silent, discreet, almost dignified. The poor fella was pushing 90, he had on those baggy Old Man Trousers that come up near the armpits and are held up with braces. He was dining with a dour middle-aged woman dressed in black, who was patting her mouth with a napkin like she'd seen it all before. There was a younger blonde woman too, who stood up and shuffled from foot to foot as waitresses appeared with teatowels and dabbed at the deluge.

He sat back in his chair with a faint smile, hooking his gnarled fingers around his braces.

Pause. Pause.

Lean over.

Spew.

And so on, a dozen times over. It was orange and vile but hypnotic. His motion was so quiet and steady that the entire room, except Gareth with his fortunate choice of seat, had our forks hovering mid-air, unable to tear our eyes from the man and the steady stream he produced.

"What are you looking at?"

"The old guy behind you is spewing on the table."

"Behind me?"

"Oh, yep, here he goes again!"

One waitress arrived with empty ice cream tub for the old fella as another deposited Gareth's entree in front of him. He went a little grey as he looked down at the half dozen barbecued shrimp, sprawled around a chunky puddle of pink dipping sauce.

At that the point the old guy didn't have much left in the tank. Even the direness of the Dido on the stereo was drowned out by the steady BLURRRK BLUUUURK BLUUURK of the last of his dinner returning to the table.

I rearranged my entree on the plate and decided the staff were handling the spectacle pretty well. I mean, if someone started hurling in your crowded dining room, you might be tempted to chuck them into the street. But this particular creature was not built for speed. Who knows how many customers he'd anoint during his long journey to the door? It's important with biological disasters to CONTAIN the danger.

Finally he seemed done and asked for the bill. He plucked a wrinkled envelope from his back pocket and counted out some notes. His strangely silent companions got to their feet as the waitress appeared with their coats.

"You forgot my stick, hen, my stick!" he trilled, "And my umbrella. It's the tartan one."

He stood very gingerly. The whole room gave him nervous but sympathetic smiles.

"I hadn't eaten in 24 hours, you know!" he explained to the crowd. "And I ate everything tonight! Everything! Entree, main, dessert! AND wine! It was very very rich!"

It took him ten minutes to walk to the door, but of course Gareth couldn't see anything, only hearing the slow shuffle of sensible shoes riiiiight behind him. It wasn't most romantic evening, but definitely worth it just to watch Gareth hunched over our table in fear, praying the spewnami would spare him.

I suddenly woke up at 2.02 AM today to find him peering at me in the half-dark. I reached out and patted the furry face and said, "Are you STILL bloody awake?"

To which he replied, "Will you marry me Shauna?"

I said, "Are you SERIOUS!?"

(Which really annoyed me because, if/when the moment ever happened, I had planned to respond with something witty and memorable like, "Depends... will you wear a kilt?". But instead I said, "Are you SERIOUS!?" in a broad, booming Aussie accent, like I was Steve Irwin and I'd just spotted a rare saber-toothed kookaburra or something.)

Gareth said that he was serious.

So I said, "Am I awake?"

He said that I was indeed awake.

So I said, "Yes! Of course!".

Fourteen hours later I still feel too excited and stunned and grinny and teary and lucky and so freakin happy to articulate properly, so for now it's just... WOOHOO!

Rhiannon was treated to High Tea with The Four Great Aunts on her recent visit to Australia. They're still funny and fiesty and smell like roses. They gave their Great Niece the red carpet treatment, cooking up a feast of scones with jam and cream, fruit cake, sponge cake, Anzac biscuits and a genteel plate of sandwiches with the crusts cut off. There was even a distant cousin aged eight or nine who recited two bush ballads then belted out the National Anthem before one of The Aunts told him kindly, "Righto, that'll do."

After the floorshow the conversation inevitably turned to the Royal Family. The Aunts are all staunch monarchists, and when we told them two years ago we were off to the UK their first words were, "You MUST visit The Queen!". So naturally the opening question to Rhiannon at High Tea was, "Did you see her?"

"As a matter of fact, we did."

"Oh marvellous! Did you see her Christmas Message the other night?"

"Sadly no!"

"Oh you really missed out. Gee her hair looked beautiful! The way she turns it up at the ends like that! How does she do it? I wish mine would do that."

The Aunts all clucked in agreement.

"She's always had that beautiful hair. That silvery colour. Remember her hair on her Royal Visit to our town all those years ago?"

"Oh yes, she was wearing a purple frock. Gee I like her in purple."

"She looks marvellous in purple, I wish she'd wear it more often."

"When she came out of our church, I remember thinking, gee she has the most beautiful complexion."

"And she still does! I suppose she doesn't get much sun over there."

"Oh yes." The Aunts all patted their cheeks with their fingertips to emphasise the sheer beauty of the Royal epidermis.

"Rhiannon, I hear you also saw Our Princess Mary in Copenhagen?"

"Yes we did! And we saw her wedding dress in the palace too."

"Marvellous! And hasn't she done well over there in Denmark!"

More murmurs of agreement. "Oh yes, she's settled in so nicely!"

"Yes, yes."

"But what about Prince Harry? Gee they give him a hard time..."

Perhaps you've been admiring the Breakfast Pack and thinking, "Why yes that does look delicious, but how can I experience Scottish Cuisine if I'm not much of a cook?"

Thankfully there's an abundance of outlets in Scotland offering deep-fried delights. One of my favourites is Serena, located in the Takeaway Quarter of Dunfermline, Fife. It's two blocks of pure temptation with Chinese, Indian, Mexican and traditional Fish And Chips establishments all competing for your pound. Strolling past is an assault of the senses, the air thick with heady aromas of lard, spice and MSG. But Serena, touting itself as a purveyor of "Exotic and Indian Cuisine", is a standout least not for the sheer ambitiousness of its menu. Where else can you get tandoori AND baked potatoes?

On one particular evening I fancied something Italian. According to the Serena's menu, the Mixed Calzone came "Highly Recommended". You can't get a much better endorsement than that! I've had calzone before, you know, the folded-over pizza. But this turned out to be The Mother of All Calzones, a horrifying moment where Scottish and Italian cuisines collided!

It began with a giant circle of pizza dough. Then on one half of the circle went a groundcover of Scottish cheddar. Next comes a heavy scattering of tandoori chicken pieces, followed by hulking handfuls of greasy doner kebab meat and great globs of onions marinated in a mysterious radioactive-red sauce. Finally, the empty half of the dough circle is stretched over the festering pile of diced animals, sealed tight and topped with yet more cheese before being popped into the oven.

When we finally dragged the hulking thing home, all we could do was saw it in half and just stand in awe, gawking at the horror within. I thought I'd seen it all after that Breakfast Pack, but this was a whole new level. I did manage to eat a few mouthfuls purely as an experiment. But even though four inches of solid protein might be okay with Doctor Atkins, the tightening in the chest area told me it was time to stop!

As always, you can see the greasy goodness for yourself over at Flickr.