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When people agree to share a flat with people, they think that they'll end up doing favours like picking up chocolate on the way home or lending a tenner for cab fare every once in a while and... utilising transport ninja skills to get one another to far flung hospitals on time, or maybe that really is just me and a reason why I shouldn't have told people what my last job was.

Anyway, they don't think that they'll have to spend an afternoon on the phone with a wedding planner.

So, Flatmate has gone home for the weekend. And when she borrowed my phone last night, neither of us were quite thinking straight, so her taxi callback came through to my mobile at 5am on a Saturday, and I was very proud of myself for not throwing stuff at the wall to get her attention, but that's a different thing. She was going home for a family thing but had planned to go and see the wedding planner at a potential wedding venue while she's down there. No, it is still not figured out but at least she is making actual progress now. Of course, she forgot about that until she was on the phone to me an hour before the appointment and the venue is two counties over and she doesn't have their number or a functioning computer. I will call, I said. I said that I was her. I didn't want to go through the rigmarole of explaing who I am and why I am calling. I figured it would be easy enough, hi, I am Sefkhet's Flatmate, I need to cancel that appointment we had for this evening and I will call to reschedule once I've spoken to my fiance, sorry for the inconvenience and have a good weekend. God, no. If a wedding planner thinks that they're talking to the bride, they want to talk.

Never did I think that I would say to a wedding planner...

Wait. Never did I think that I would have to talk to a wedding planner.

But if we leave that part aside, never did I think that I would spend twenty minutes frantically trying to get out of a conversation about mandaps and chair covers and agni puja and auspicious dates and five hundred guests. Or for that matter have any kind of conversation in which I had to refer to "my fiance" as "he".

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( 2 comments — Leave a comment )
finding_helena
Feb. 5th, 2011 11:55 pm (UTC)
That's pretty darn funny. I'm slightly confused as to why you couldn't have looked up the number for her and she could have called? But oh well. Having been the bride, everybody does want to talk your ear off about the wedding. Ergh.
sefkhet
Feb. 6th, 2011 12:15 am (UTC)
Oh, that would definitely have made more sense. Usually, she uses my phone to do wedding stuff -- my mobile contract includes unlimited calls to landlines, so it doesn't cost anything -- and we're both just so used to it by now that that didn't occur to either of us until he was asking three million questions.
( 2 comments — Leave a comment )
It is difficult to know what to do with so much happiness.
With sadness there is something to rub against,
a wound to tend with lotion and cloth.
When the world falls in around you, you have pieces to pick up, something to hold in your hands, like ticket stubs or change.

But happiness floats.
It doesn't need you to hold it down.
It doesn't need anything.
Happiness lands on the roof of the next house, singing, and disappears when it wants to.
You are happy either way.
Even the fact that you once lived in a peaceful tree house and now live over a quarry of noise and dust cannot make you unhappy.
Everything has a life of its own.,
it too could wake up filled with possibilities of coffee cake and ripe peaches,
and love even the floor which needs to be swept,
the soiled linens and scratched records.

Since there is no place large enough to contain so much happiness,
you shrug, you raise your hands, and it flows out of you into everything you touch. You are not responsible.

You take no credit, as the night sky takes no credit for the moon, but continues to hold it, and share it, and in that way, be known.

- Naomi Shihab Nye

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