The space afforded by the skiing holiday is contracting, like the tide coming in. In the Alps my brain was so busy trying to not fall over or persuade my tired legs into yet another blo0dy snow plough that all thoughts of the wedding/job/house situation were relegated to the far corner. Now thoughts creep back like small waves, the expanse of clear sand shrinking gradually. But the defences I built whilst on the chair lifts high above the pistes hold fast, for now.
We return to my parents house this weekend for the leaving do of another family member: this time it is one of my cousins who departs, to travel round the world, to post interesting photographs of him posing in countries whose currencies I do not know to his facebook account. To return older and wiser some time later in the year in time for university.
The following weekend we travel to the wedding venue, to meet the Chaplain, the DJ and possibly some other vendors. The invitations lie unblemished in their boxes, the stamp and calligraphy pen and inks in peacock and metallic colours lie untouched on my desk. I see them when I enter the house and they look at me, reproachful. I turn my back, pretending that I haven't seen.
My wedding dress hangs in it's bag on the back of the bedroom door, pressed up against my boy's potential suit. The veil material lies discarded on an arm chair, watched by a white board which indicates clearly, 'wedding: to do'. Only we haven't. Not yet.
While snow lies over London, summer seems so far away. Yet my wedding counter boldly states 4 months, 10 days. Time is ticking. My single life slides away. I make chocolate cake and joke with my boy about practising my wifely duties. We see friends and watch American television shows, huddling together under a blanket, a borrowed cat sat on our laps.
Into the silence afforded by our holiday a whispering has begun, soon perhaps it will be a shout. A triumphant proclamation that we are getting married. But not yet, so we enjoy winter and our rest a little longer...