One week to go and I have a rotten cold. I caught it deliberately, so when I say "I do" I will rasp like Bonnie Tyler and Gareth will say, "I DO TOO! I cannae resist a voice so sultry!".

I seemed to have caused blogging confusion again. I didn't make it clear that I was just moving to Chez Gareth -- the hitchin' doesn't happen until 3rd March. So that's a whole week of living in sin. Woo!

Last night I was doing some laundry and was strangely mesmerised by my socks thrashing around in the washing machine. I'd visited Gareth's flat a million times before but now this was meant to be my flat too. Our flat. And this was the washing machine that I'd be using until death do us part. I'm so used to living with six other people and Soviet-style queues that I'd waited politely until Gareth had washed all his stuff instead of chucking mine in too. But the thought of having both our clothes jumping around in there together felt so bizarre. His manly boxers and my PURPLES struggling together in this crazy modern world. What a great metaphor for marriage!

So! I'll let you in on our wedding plans.

Moving house would have been quick and easy if I wasn't so sentimental. I came here with just two wee suitcases, but now I have those same two wee suitcases plus eleven boxes chock full of "mementos". I like to sift through this magpies nest and let random objects trigger memories, rather than having to remember things with my actual brain. So in lieu of packing, I spent Saturday sniffling and blubbering over two years of Scottish detritus. The wrapper from my first Tunnocks Tea Cake. A tiny lump of Icelandic volcano. Twenty-two boarding passes from our travels. A Durex wrapper from a Particularly Good Shag. A handwritten sign, SHAUNA AND RHIANNON'S FOOD CUPBOARD: KEEP OUT!

And what a crying shame to be parting company with my treasured flatmates, what with their radioactive cheese in the fridge, penchant for playing The Best of Elton John at midnight; their rainbow of pubes on the bathroom floor. I haven't bothered to actually tell them I'm leaving, but maybe I'll reminisce as I waltz out the door, "Remember when you brought that guy home from the pub and your fake orgasm sounded like a cow being slaughtered?". Or, "Remember the time I peed on your bra?".

Yesterday I woke up and thought, This is the last day on my own. Tomorrow it's off to the marital home. What would you if you had just 24 hours left as a single person? Take yourself out for lunch? Go clubbing? Bungee jump? Furiously masturbate, all day long? Well I chose to go the gym, scramble some eggs then arrange my boarding pass collection in chronological order. I was a thrillseeker right to the end!

I was desperate to give Desperate Housewives another chance after scoffing at the pilot episode. I tuned in last week for Episode 4, but I still couldn't get past the horrible, horrible voiceover of the dead lady. Her saccharine, schmaltzy tones felt like piranhas were attacking my eardrums. But even more infuriating was how she just burst in and explained the hell out of Every Freaking Scene, when it was really completely unnecessary. There are actors on the screen; they are armed with dialogue and facial expressions and props! Why can't she just shut up?

It didn't take long for me to lose it. The voiceover came a-wafting, "While everyone else on Hysteria Lane was fast asleep, Lynette was up all night frantically sewing costumes for the school play!". I lunged for the telly and scratched my nails at the screen, "Well DERR! Do you think we are blind!? We KNOW she is up all night sewing costumes while everyone else is asleep, because you just gave us a shot of the stupid street with the full moon squatting over it! And all the houses are dark! And what do you know -- the woman is sitting in front of a SEWING MACHINE, surrounded by fabric and looking mighty vexed!"

Then there was the whole storyline about the visiting mother-in-law trying to figure out if the Foxy One was having an affair. There's a shot of her on the porch, creaking away in a rocking chair, pretending to knit as she eyes the adulterous strumpet. To me this pretty much established the air of suspicion. But noooo!

"Juanita was confident her daughter-in-law was having an affair. But with whom? She was just about to find out!"

Foxy One walks past Gardener Boy and fails to act natural. Mother-in-law narrows eyes and starts knitting with karate-chop ferociousness.

"Who are these idiots?" I cried. "Why are they doing this? Do they not know the first rule of writing... SHOW, DON'T TELL!"

"There's rules of writing?" asked Gareth.

"Well, I dunno. Serving suggestions, maybe. BUT, STILL!"

When it was over, Gareth declared, "That was pish". He also said the voiceover reminded him of Legolas in the Lord of the Rings movies -- always hovering around with nothing to do but state the bleeding obvious in breathy tones. Maybe in the deleted scenes he served a higher purpose, like the Fellowship using his cheekbones to sharpen their weapons, but for the most part Orlando does little but look pretty and make the audience scream, "No shit, mate!".

For example, there's a dramatic scene where that smouldering sexpot Aragorn describes his plan to distract The Eye so Frodo can safely scuttle across Mordor and destroy the ring. Legolas pipes up helpfully, "A diversion!".

Let's face it, the boy Bloom hasn't done anything too exciting since the Rings. So why not fire the Annoying Voiceover Lady and give him the Housewives gig? He is equally gifted at stating the obvious, and his elfin presence would be extra eye candy. He could float about helping the stay-at-home Mum with her tribe of boys, defrosting the fridge for the Crazy Redhead, or popping over to the Hatcher residence and whispering softly, "The Daily Planet needs you, Lois". And he'd be dead handy for the Gardener Shagging Vixen -- he could gaze out the window and murmur mysteriously, "Danger approaches" if the husband comes home early from work.

Cheers to the anonymous eagle-eyed commenter who pointed out the logistical flaw in the last entry. How could the bodysuit possibly have pinned my arms over my head if I still had the crotch snaps done up? Good point!

I can only blame that inaccuracy on hurried blogging close to midnight with a bellyful of champagne. I actually tried on two evil bodysuits. The first one got stuck on the hips and then we discovered the snaps. The second one saw me undo the snaps but still getting stuck when I tried to pull it over my head. Obviously the chronology of events became blurred by Veuve Clicquot. My apologies for any confusion, but one reassuring thing is that the bodysuit is definitely in the Warm Autumn Palette, as is the wedding frock.

. . .

I'm having sporadic Freak Outs about getting hitched. I was whining down the phone to The Mothership that I was genetically predisposed to being crap at marriage. For example, The Fathership is on his third wife. The Mothership told me that you don't have to let your genes dictate your path in life. Which is true. Joe Stalin had kids, and as far as I know they're not genocidal tyrants. There's no reports of Apple Paltrow-Martin writing boring but heartfelt songs. YET.

So is life all about Nature or Nurture? Or is it the Nature of the Nurturing? An example. The Mothership always sends me Sensible Cotton Undies in the post, because she doesn't want me wasting money on British Knickers when Aussie ones are so much cheaper. Parents seem to like buying smalls for their kids no matter how old they get, it's a way of keeping their hooks in; a machine-washable reminder that no matter how cool you may think you are now, there is still this lady that used to wipe your arse.

The Mothership once sent a six-pack of Bonds briefs. Two white, two grey marle and two lilac. The lilac ones had the word PURPLE printed all over them in giant white letters. PURPLE! All scrawly and cursive, like the Plat du Jour on a restaurant menu. PURPLE! Just in case you were colourblind and couldn't see for yourself. PURPLE!

"She hates me," I brooded. "She is trying to sabotage my love life. She never wants me to find a man. These aren't even in the Warm Autumn palette. Who will love me with PURPLE undies?"

When my birthday rolled round Mum asked did I need another shipment. "Sure," I said, "But can I have them sans-graffiti?"

"What's wrong with the Purples?"

"Every time I wear them Gareth cackles, 'PURPLE! Woohoo!' and it's bloody embarassing."

Anyway, my point is: I managed to convince someone to marry me IN SPITE of the off-putting undies, thus overcoming both Nature AND Nurture. Therefore there is a chance I can outwit the divorce gene. Hurrah!

The very first dress in the very first shop. Surely this was a Guinness Book of Bridal Records moment! But not if you're working with the Grand High Priestess of Shopping, my trusty sister Rhiannon.

Would you expect anything less from the organisational mastermind behind the Plastic Bag Luggage System and the Maximum Efficiency Grocery Run? She'd spent the last two Sundays trawling Oxford Street on what she called The Pre-Shop. She knew that my usual technique -- stomping reluctantly into a store, glancing round once, and if nothing comes dancing off the rack singing PICK ME within thirty seconds I'll just say, "Nothing to see here," then break for lunch -- would be particularly unsuitable for finding a wedding dress on a murderously crowded London Saturday.

The girl thinks of everything. She'd sussed out the perfect frock in a big department store, but tracked it down in a small boutique in the suburbs. We arrived just as it opened so there were no crowds for me to freak out about. No hovering salesladies or queues for dressing rooms or abandoned husbands cluttering up the aisles. She simply strolled in, plucked a dress from a rack and declared, "Here it is!"

Twenty minutes later we were back out on the street with my wedding dress. I ran up the block bellowing, "WOOHOO!". Rhi grinned modestly like the cat who'd swallowed a thousand canaries. She had delivered the project ahead of schedule and within budget. Two hours later I also had shoes and jewellery.

All we needed then were the Squishy Undies.

There's two types of women in this world. There's chicks who can toss any scrap of fabric over their head and waltz out onto the street without the need for serious hydraulics under the surface. Then there are those who require smoothing and shaping and lifting and flattening. Rhi walked into the Shapewear section of Marks and Spencer Lingerie department and says, "Looks like we have choice of Light Control or Firm Control."

"Are they the only levels? What if your flesh is Out of Control? We need like, HEY You're Not Going Anywhere Little Lady Control-Freak Control."

I picked up the dubiously named Variable Modulus Body, a garment so hideous and smothering that it made Bridget Jones' mumsy knickers look like the tiniest whisper of a thong. I didn't really look at it closely before putting it on, I assumed you just stepped into it like a swimsuit. But things got dicey around mid-thigh when I couldn't pull the bra bit up any higher. My knees were fused together by the crippling power of lycra. All I could do was sort of helplessly slide to the floor. I poked my head beneath the curtain and bleated, "Rhiannon. Please. Help!"

It was such a pretty picture. I was bent over, hands braced against the wall, Rhiannon positioned behind me trying to haul the fabric over my hips, me wheezing away, "It won't FIT! It's just too TIGHT!" and Rhiannon huffing and puffing, "Just stay STILL!"

Finally it was on. All was well. I tried it on with the wedding frock, everything looked under control. Now all I had to do was get the damn thing off.

"Okay, I'm going to turn around while you undress," said Rhi. "Don't worry, I won't look."

"Good, good."

Five minutes pass.

"Ummm, Rhiannon I think I might need you to turn around."

"Jesus christ!"

My arms were over my head, pinned to my ears by the evil forces of lycra. My fingers were turning purple from lack of circulation. One underwire was still holding a boob while the other provided firm support for my chin. It took ten minutes of grunting and groaning to remove it, and only afterwards did I discovered that the crotch has little snaps on it that you're supposed to undo first, then put the garment on over your head! Instead of trying to wrestle it over your prime-for-childbearing hips!

Aside from that, it was a great weekend. Tonight we said our goodbyes as I headed for Heathrow. The two of us suddenly started bawling like babies, really sobbing. We said it was because weddings bring out the emotions. But it's possible she was crying from the sheer trauma of seeing me tangled up in a lycra bodysuit. And perhaps I was crying coz instead of Wedding Night Action™, I will be too busy having the damn thing surgically removed.

Three weeks til our wedding and Gareth is all smugly sorted with his kilt. Meanwhile I'm sitting around like Cinderella, waiting for the fairy godmother to show up with a frock for the ball so I don't have to go to the shops.

At least when I do go, I'll know what to look for. About five years ago when I was lounging in my life of trackpants, depression and unemployment, The Mothership decided to cheer me up by Getting My Colours Done. She dragged me along to the Women's Weekly Craft Fair at Canberra's Exhibition Park. Amidst the cross stitch, teddybear and decoupage stalls lurked a lady with prim lips and clanky bracelets. She peered at me under the fluroscent lights then wafted a rainbow of scarves around my face to determine which shades suited me best.

"Right darling," she purred. "With your orange hair, brown eyes and pale, on-the-brink-of-death complexion, you are definitely a Warm Autumn."

I gave her a Cold Winter glare.

She flicked her wrist like a magician and produced a little fan of plastic strips, in graduated colours like Dulux paint samples. "These are the colours you must stick to when out buying shoes or lipsticks or suits for your non-existent job interviews. This," she paused dramatically, "Is the Warm Autumn palette."

At one end of the spectrum we had dirt brown, which wandered along into cack brown, cack green, khaki, diluted mud and so on to BEIGE. The message was clear: You look good in poo!

I am starting to get worried that I'm not that worried about not having a wedding dress. I'm also worried that other people are worried that I'm not worrying. Example: Gareth's lovely Mum's innocent enquiry:

"Do you know what you're going to wear?"

"Ahh, not yet."

"Oh. Do you think you'll wear a dress? Have I ever seen you in a skirt before?"

"Hey, I HAVE skirts." My paranoid translation: She thinks I'm a lesbian just using her son for the visa.

Anyway, if anyone knows the best place for poo-hued frocks, please let me know.

"Right people, listen up! Our next stop isn't on the itinerary. We're going to a black market shop which is highly illegal! So we have to be QUIET and NOT DRAW ATTENTION TO OURSELVES!"

Our tour guide was perched on top of a seat, bellowing into a microphone. We were cruising through the outer suburbs of St Petersburg, past crumbling buildings and abandoned Ladas with missing tyres. In a giant white bus with CONTIKI shrieking down the side in bright orange letters.

"Now my friend Serge is very kind to let us drop by", he went on as the bus pulled up. "So just make your selections quickly and act NORMAL."

As normal as 45 tourists with cameras round their necks and fat wads of cash in their pockets could be. We trailled after our guide in single file, like 45 ducklings following their particularly prolific mother.

We went down an alley, jumping over grimy puddles and stray car parts. The guide knocked on a heavy door. I don't know if it was some sort of secret black market knock, but let's just say it was because that would be more interesting. A heavyset guy in a sheepskin jacket peered out and nodded, "Ahh. Come in, come in."

It wasn't so much a shop as a tiny room crammed to the ceiling with all manner of pirated CDs. Once our whole group was inside the smell of sweat and plastic was suffocating.

"Right. CDs are three euros, they're arranged in alphabetical order," explained the guide.

My tour-mates lunged at the goods with a great clatter of jewel cases. I was completely useless, overcome with Music Store Amnesia. You know, where you wander from A-Z wailing, "Shit. Shit! SHIIIT!" because your giant mental list of Must-Have Albums immediately deserts your brain when presented with a smorgasbord of sound.

Finally I scooped up Franz Ferdinand, because if I was going to buy 2004's most hyped band, I wanted it with a photocopied cover and the copyright warning written in Russian. I also got the new Stereolab album, where they didn't even attempt to copy the original cover, they just got out their trusty spirograph and went to town.

To add to the shadyness, the inside sleeve had a photo of the band with Mary Hansen in the lineup. Mary Hansen who actually died two years ago. Classy!

Next we were herded into another room packed to the gills DVDs - classic films, live music, Russian porn and new movies that had barely made it to the cinemas back home. Serge also had a great range of Truly Shithouse Russian Souvenirs - Matroushka dolls, furry hats, Authentic Soviet War Medals, and 750ml bottles of Smirnoff (only 2.50 euro) so potent they could strip the tar from a chain smokers' lung. You may recall I am powerless to resist such tat, so I snapped up this retrolicious hammer and sickle t-shirt! Despite the near-transparency of the fabric, it made a top quality pyjama top - if you don't mind waking up with red skin.

Buying dodgy music in a dark alley is no more glamourous than stealing it sitting in your undies in front of a computer. But it's certainly more fun and surreal with a frowning guy muttering, "Cash only, cash only", then dashing back to the bus so you won't be late for the ballet.

There's some big issues to consider with all this marriage palaver. Like what do you call the husband when writing about him? Some blogging types refer to theirs as "DH", as in Dear Husband. I first saw this term in the mid-90s in sentences like, "Took DH to Safeway and we argued about papayas" or "My DH is fine with it as long as I wear the crotchless undies".

For two whole years I thought that DH actually stood for Dick Head. A lot of people heap shit on their spouses online, so Dick Head seemed a reasonable translation. Plus my grandfather used to call my grandmother DH. He claimed it was coz her name was Daphne Hazel, but the evil grin every time he said it suggested otherwise.

The DH abbreviation always reminded me of "MM", as in "Mere Male" -- Australians may be familiar this infuriating column in New Idea magazine. You could win $10 by writing in about some wacky thing your MM - husband, partner, casual shag - has done, usually relating to a toilet seat or DIY. Ten bucks for a dull, patronising little paragraph like, "I sent MM to the shops for skim milk and he came back with WHOLE! Oh how we laughed!". Or, "On Sunday MM was laying carpet and he accidentally stapled the cat's tail to the floor! Oh how we laughed!". And the women reading the column all sit back with a knowing chuckle, safe and smug in the knowledge that they are the superior species. Why don't they just call it, My Husband, He's Such A Dick!

I shouldn't scoff though, I might get desperate for cash and have to write in. "Last month MM couldn't find the ironing board so he ironed his shirt on the floor and it stuck to the carpet. MM now has a shirt-shaped burn on his bedroom floor! Oh how we laughed!". True story.